Ideas swim around in my unconscious mind. Occasionally, they come up to the surface and I notice them. If they’re big enough to be caught, I grab ‘em.
The possibility that I might do something in response to the general trend in modern Western culture toward shaming women for having bodies that don’t perfectly match impossible standards has been swimming around for a while. I’ve occasionally done some things – posted links to articles, mentioned it here, a couple visual art pieces. Then, t’other day, I was laying in bed and the My Goddess Has A Crazy Bush V/A compilation jumped out of the water into my lap.
I was born in 1969. The images of naked women I saw in my adolescence were pictures in magazines that my friends and I swiped from our fathers’ closets, mostly Playboy and Penthouse from the ‘70s. Back in them days, women had pubic hair. When I started getting a little south of the border action, my girlfriends had pubic hair. Occasionally, a woman I was involved with would shave her pubes, which seemed like a big deal – ooo, check out what I did, we’re getting’ all perverted up in here. I was in a relationship for a few years with a trichotilomaniac who mostly confined her compulsive hair-pulling to areas that were not in public view, so I got used to hardwood floor, but I understood it to be one specific woman with one specific disorder.
In 2007, I was working in a restaurant where it was normal to talk about sex. That isn’t unusual in restaurants, but in this one particular place the conversations got more honest. It was then that I learned that shaving most or all of the pubes had become a normal thing for women.
I wrote the above a few months back, shortly after I received the inspiration for the V/A compilation My Goddess Has A Crazy Bush. Then the little thingy that plugs into the back of this laptop fell apart and – no surprise – they don’t make that one anymore. So the battery went dead and I couldn’t get back to any of the files here. I shoved this computer under the bed, got another one from my mom – a.k.a. Nana – and went on about my merry way until a label guy asked me to resend a track for a split cassette because he lost it and then I got motivated enough to actually do something toward getting this laptop powered up so I could get the files I wanted which started off with me asking around, finding out that a coworker had a sack of old, busted laptops and asking her if I could look through it for something that would allow me to jerry-rig a power supply. The first thing I took out of the sack was a power cord that had the right thingy on the end. Bam. We’re in business. I sent “Astralopithecus” to Ingrown Records, our side of a cassette split with Medicine Calf, which will be released if/when the Med Calves finish their side. I gazed lovingly at four-and-a-half-years’ worth of photos of my rotten kid and then I opened this and ya know what – who cares fuck-all about my own personal history of interacting with hairy pussies. Really, though, of what interest is that?
Anyway. The “Crazy Bush” comp is plodding along, as they do. A half-dozen tracks have come in. There are a few more bands/artists who claim they’re going to send something, all male. I went all out trying to get some chicks on this one – pitched the idea to possibly a hundred all-female or female-fronted acts. Not one replied. It’s going to be a sausage fest for feminism.
I talked about the project with this performance artist from New York who did a few performances in town, a twenty-something lesbian who had some feministy-looking art on the walls in the space where she was performing. Her response was a blank stare. (I love performance art, by the way, especially when it consists of a lesbian from NYC getting naked and being absurd. Actually, that’s almost redundant: all performance art is homosexuals from NYC getting naked and being absurd.) (Full body hair on that one, by the way.) I dunno why I told her about it. I guess because she had some bush-related art up.
The concept behind the comp has expanded a little. It started off being feminist, then I realized that it was really as much about the environment as about women’s body hair. Women correspond with nature in all religious/mythological systems. Women are Nature. Men are associated with society. This is the paradigm everywhere and everywhen. Our society is anti-(woman/nature). Women’s bodies are treated like commodities to be exploited, just like nature. What this comp is about then is rejecting that idea. Women and nature are fine as they are. There is no need to “fix them up”.
Think of a Japanese garden. Very nice, very lovely. Everything arranged just so. Now compare that with an actual, natural space. They’re very different, aren’t they? Maybe you like the Japanese garden better; I prefer the natural, even if it is sometimes untidy. I’m not opposed to Japanese gardens – actually, I think they’re quite beautiful – but I prefer National Forests. I’m not opposed to women shaving. I’ve definitely enjoyed some bald eagles, but I am very much opposed to women being shamed into shaving by a misogynistic, materialistic culture like ours. Fuck that noise. I wouldn’t shave my pits/legs/crotch for all the tea in China, for fuck’s sake. Actually, I’ll go it a step further – I won’t even deodorize. Ask any of my coworkers and they will confirm that I am an unabashedly smelly fella and whenever anybody mentions that, I will use it as a launching pad for a free-form, maniacal rant about corporate body-shaming in capitalist America and I’ll hammer it into the ground until people decide they’d rather learn to live with my funk than hear me yammer on and on about it. And I rejoice with great rejoicing whenever I see or hear about any form of re-wilding, whether it’s the recent reintroduction of wild horses to the Iberian Peninsula or weeds growing through the cracks in the parking lots of empty big-box stores. That which we call “civilization” will collapse one day and Nature, great and terrible Terra Mater, will reclaim every inch and grow all over it. Hallelujah.
So, My Goddess Has A Crazy Bush has an environmental as well as feminist message, which I guess makes it ecofeminist. There is still no requirement that tracks contain lyrics about crazy bushes. Some of the tracks that have come in refer to the subject, others don’t. Either way is okay. You can send your cover of “Louie, Louie”, if ya wanna. I am trying to expand the sonic palette on this one – trying hard to get some musical styles that are not weirdonoise, for a change. I really want to have a wide and wooly range of genres, if not genders, represented.
Really, if you know any hairy females who make any kind of music or read poetry or any fuckin’ thing, try to get them interested in this.
It seems likely that there will be more than one of these. I am quite invested in gender equality and in saving this planet and expect to continue to be so. I can easily see an ongoing series of “Crazy Bush” compilations. Let’s just go ahead and assume that there will be a bunch of them. That doesn’t mean that anyone should put off sending something because they can always get in on volume IV. If you got it, send it. Then send more for future comps. Also, form your own ELF cell and refuse to eat any peaches that ain’t fuzzy.
So, I haven't posted in a while because I've been busy and because the word program I was using was actually a temporary thing that my mom had on this computer and it ran out or stopped working or some such and I'm trying to figure out how to get another one without, ya know, paying for it.
And I been busy. All good stuff - work, daughter, art, music, snow, good things. I set up a BDSR Bandcamp and put up a bunch of songs. But I haven't been doing this thing, which I don't feel good about because I usually do three or four a month and I feel like I should put something up once in a while at least. So, enjoy some photos of my mom's back yard which she also left on this computer.
Oh yeah, uh, religion is the best thing people ever came up with. I haven't been depressed or dropped acid. I rode my skateboard to the mailbox and back t'other day. I'm reading The Gateless Gate again - it's awesome. My daughter turns five next month! Holy Shite, seems like just yesterday she was in diapers. Not Noise, meditation, look both ways, smell the coffee.
I am not now, nor have I ever been, a ladies' man, rake or playa. Nevertheless, I have had some experience with women and I've encountered a variety of pubic hairstyles. The majority of the females I've known had the standard triangle. Some were shaved, some were thickly furred. I had one long-termer who shaved occasionally for variety and one who was a compulsive hair-plucker, a trichotillomaniac. I never really thought about women's pubic hair much.
A few years back, I was working in a different restaurant and the subject came up in conversation. I don't know how pubic hair came up in conversation. Restaurants are like that. There you are dicing onions and then you're having a conversation with the nineteen-year-old server about pubic hair. A bartender came back to the kitchen and put her two cents in. By the end of the shift, I had learned that bare-down-there had become normal, that natural pubic hair was "disgusting" and that electrolysis of the pubes was a thing people did. I haven't conducted any surveys since then - questioning women regarding their pubic hair seems a mite awkward - but I have no reason to suspect that my former coworkers were anomalies. The women who I'm close enough with to discuss such matters assure me that total defibulation is the norm.
I was watching E. Elias Merhige's Begotten with a female friend, a smart,competent, confident young woman who has many accomplishments to her credit. She found the disturbing imagery disturbing, appropriately, but was especially critical of the female characters' bush. I explained that the woman in the movie represented Mother Nature. She replied that "Mother Nature needs to trim that shit". We've had plenty of discussions about feminist issues - and I've tried to get her to pose naked for cover art with no success - and she knows better, but her "vagina shame" is still there and still strong.
Women's bodies are not their own. Women - in this culture - grow up in the spotlight, constantly examined, critiqued, criticized and dictated to. Entire industries depend on women hating their bodies and being willing to spend billions of dollars "correcting' their "flaws". The body-shaming never ends. Men are subjected to some body-shaming, but that's nothing compared to what women endure. The majority of it is directed at parts of womens' bodies that anyone can see: their faces, legs, hair. A woman doesn't have to be naked for anyone to know how her body is shaped. Pubic hair, conversely, is private, which is why it's even more disturbing that the shaming has gotten there. Sex workers might have professional reasons to shave, but the average woman's pubis is only seen by herself and her lover(s). The fact that total hair removal has become the norm indictates that our culture's degradation of women has reached into their most intimate places. I'm not going to go into labiaplasty or anal bleaching.
Symbolically, women are linked with nature and the Earth. Mother Nature is a mother for a reason. Men are related to society, to laws and organization.Our society has abdicated all authority over nature. We have collectively given our planet to corporations, to do with as they please. Corporations have no symbolic standing because they're too recent. Myth offers no examples of heroes or heroines venturing forth to slay corporations. Myth does provide many stories of individuals fighting evil tyrants who seek total dominion over the land and everyone on it, which I would suggest is what corporations are.
Begotten, by the way, is a phenomenal piece of work. I got my copy from a friend who was really into fucked-up films and went into thinking that's what it was. I figured out what was happening halfway through. If it had ended differently, I would've been pissed, but Merhige got it right. It's brutal, disturbing and 100% spot on. It tells the story exactly right and Mother Nature's pussy is hairy for the right reasons. Kudos, Mr. Merhige.
So I decided to organize a various artists compilation, to be titled My Goddess Has A Crazy Bush. The whole point of the comp is not not not to promote a fetish for hairy pussy. I spent hours searching the web for the right picture to go with this thing, a search which paid off rather delightfully, I might add, but which entailed looking at a lot of images of hairy pussies. Fetishizing pubic hair is just the flip side of fetishizing no pubic hair and not what I'm after. I've gotten some responses from musicians who are really into the fur and I'm totally okay with that, but the end goal is that pubic hair is natural and fine. There's nothing wrong with trimming it if you don't want it curling out of your bathing suit or shaving it if that seems fun, but allowing some massive corporation to shame you into believing that your body, in it's natural state, is disgusting or dirty or unsightly is giving up too much. Our bodies belong to us. We should decide what to do with them and if our prospective sexual partners don't like our pubic 'dos, let 'em find some other lover.
My contact list consists mostly of experimental, noise, weird punk and drone musicians. Most of them are male. I think there is some value in males saying they're happy with women's natural bodies - many women do care what the men in their lives think about their bodies. For us to say "Hey, you don't have to shave to make us happy" is a positive thing, but I'm not trying to organize a sausage party. I've gone pretty far out of my way to throw this thing at female musicians and haven't gotten any responses. I've also sought diverse musical forms and have no reason to think any of the old-time bands I've contacted will be sending tracks. If you know any radical, banjo-pickin' femmes who might like to get in on this, send 'em a link.
Pubic hair is just an example, of course. What this thing is really about is the unnatural and unattainable images women are presented with and told they must conform to. I'm pretty happy to have plenty of hippie chicks in my life who don't shave anything, avoid make-up like the plague and wear comfortable, functional clothes. They listen to terrible music, of course, and none of 'em wanna jam with BDSR, but I'm happy to have 'em around, reminding me of how female human beings actually look. I'll take a hairy hippie chick in jeans and workboots over a made-up college girl anyday.
Relating it back to nature, I'm all for nature. I'm all for the woman/earth symbolism. Women and our planet can look good and fun when gussied up a bit - I like Japanese gardens and I know some punks who rock the Siouxsie Sioux heavy-make-up look pretty hard - but wild, lush and untamed is always preferable.
So, send in your tracks, let your big muff roar and get out to the national forest as soon as you can. Goddess bless.
A landowner encounters a peasant walking across his estate. “Hey! Who gave you permission to walk on this land?”
“Why do I need permission?”
“I own this land and I say you can’t walk here without my leave.”
“How did you come to own this land?”
“I inherited it from my father.”
“How did your father come to own it?”
“He inherited it from his father.”
“And how did he get the land?”
“He was a general who fought in the King’s war. He was given this land as a reward for his service.”
“So he fought for it?”
“I see. Let’s you and I fight for it now.”
This story was part of a recent talk at the Unitarian-Universalist church where I take the Spotted Opossum every other Sunday morning. The speaker was talking about the economy of Christmas, which he dubbed “Excessmas”, the nature of ownership and the value of regifting. I thought his points were well-made, but one detail of the story stood out and that was the fact that the land had been obtained in the first place because of violence. The landowner’s grandfather, a general in the King’s service, got the land as reward for fighting in the King’s war. That is how all land was once obtained. There ain’t a square foot of habitable ground on God’s green Earth that somebody didn’t kill somebody over. With the land come the resources of the land: gold, timber, oil, slaves, crops, water, trade routes and so on, all the ways land can be exploited. All tradable goods which derive from those resources have their beginning in violence.
I observed Black Friday this year, as always, by buying nothing for a day. It’s a meager protest, but tiny drops add up. And of course, I read the headlines about Black Friday shopper carnage with cynical satisfaction. The grotesque spectacle of an angry mob stampeding into a Wal-Mart, trampling each other in their crazed rush to grab up an Ipod or Xbox always makes me laugh. Laughter is a coping skill. It works and I use it, because I need it.
Black Friday’s consumerist feeding frenzy isn’t strange. It is, in fact, the exact same thing that happens every day, everywhere goods are sold, only a little more. Wal-Mart is always a hair’s breadth away from a riot. And Wal-Mart is just an example. The entire economy of America is based on violence: wars of conquest, exploitation of workers, exploitation of land, the relentless and utterly unnecessary competition which is inherent in the capitalist system, greed, status, the degradation of human beings. The wealthy have their wealth because they have taken it from the poor. The poor are exploited because the wealthy can pay the soldiers. Children toil in sweatshops because adults will trample each other to get cheap clothes. It’s a vicious and heartbreaking cycle.
Nonparticipation is impossible. Well, I guess one could follow the example set by Thích Quảng Đức and self-immolate in front of the nearest big-box retail store, but that wouldn’t really do any good. Quảng Đức’s action didn’t accomplish anything and most people think he was protesting the war in Vietnam, which he wasn’t. I’m not saying people shouldn’t burn themselves in front of Wal-Mart, but I’m not going to. I have other work that needs doing.
I participate as little as I can. Buying nothing on Black Friday is a small thing. I don’t buy much for Christmas in any case: little thing s for the children in the family, simple toys that require assembly or encourage outdoor play. I like to give kites. I buy from thriftstores, dumpster-dive and trash-pick, repair what can be repaired, pass on anything that someone else can use. Most of my daughter’s clothes and shoes came from her cousins and will be worn by another kid when she outgrows them in a few weeks. I have friends who live off the grid, collect rainwater to irrigate the garden and compost their shit. They’re doing more than I am to participate less, but they still drive and buy and enjoy the luxury of relative safety.
The reason for the season, obviously, is the birth of the baby Jesus, who became the Christ and who never had a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Prince Gautama started off rich, but became the Buddha only after leaving all that to become a wandering mendicant. Frances of Assisi was originally viewed as a threat by the Catholic establishment for his aestheticism - they decided to ignore him, thinking that no one would follow his lead and his radical ideas would soon die out. Gandhi and Mother Teresa lived in poverty, voluntarily. Crazy Horse was, in addition to being a great warrior, a respected spiritual leader who eschewed unnecessary possessions. This list could go on and on.
Conversely, I can’t think of a single individual who I would consider spiritually great who is or was rich. Okay, I’ll admit, the current Dalai Lama and the current Pope seem like pretty decent guys and ain’t neither of ‘em worried about the rent, but they’re functionaries of established religions. Their jobs are to lead their flocks in the footsteps of the dirt-poor beggars who had the visions. The fact that neither of them is dripping diamonds like Liberace means they’re good, not great.
Wealth and spiritual greatness are incompatible. Or, in the words of the Apostle Matthew, “No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon” (Matthew 6:24 KJV). True that.
And so what? Who cares about spiritual greatness, whatever the fuck that is? Well, I do. Spirituality matters to me and I’m aiming for greatness. What else would I aim for? Mediocrity? There are more than enough people in the world straining and striving for that. There are also more than enough people engaged in the heartbreaking struggle for wealth. They are guaranteed to fail. The idea that anyone can be rich if they work hard enough is a lie. For every rich person, there must be ten-thousand who are not. It’s a pyramid scheme and the top slots are filled.
Fuck that. There is no amount of money capable of buying the ability
“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour”
to quote William Blake, but I can do it. My four-and-a-half-year-old daughter can too.
Back to the story I started with: the peasant caught trespassing on the landowner’s estate was a clever enough fellow, but in reality that poor fucker would’ve been hanged for that shit. The wealthy have power and they don’t take too kindly to smartass trash getting uppity. We can only hope the peasant had a knife.
Embrace poverty, says me, it’s the way to Heaven. And if you’re trespassing, don’t get caught.
My early political education was 80’s punk and hardcore, which means I hated Reagan and identified as an anarchist. That’s the position I pretty much held through a dozen+ years of alcohol and drug abuse, untreated dysthemia and I dunno how many rounds of major depression. After I got straight, I tried to be a slightly-less-irresponsible citizen so I showed up to vote fairly regularly, always for the Democrat, but still tended toward anarchism.
The first incarnation of BDSR featured a gaggle of local self-proclaimed anarchists. They were mostly college kids with rich parents who were getting their kicks playing revolutionary, which meant wearing kitschy clothes, yammering about “actions” and “affinity groups” and drinking micro-brews. They were pretty annoying, but I was trying to get a band off the ground and I needed warm bodies. The anarchists were all hep about being in a band, but not so into taking on any kind of responsibility or showing up when they said they would. They sure as shit weren’t into making music that didn’t sound exactly like the music the other cool kids were into, so when they really realized that we were not going to somehow magically sound like Rage Against The Machine, they all wandered off.
Unfortunately, I got kinda caught up in some of their dumb shit and actually participated in a poorly thought out action which got several people arrested, including myself. I’m not going into it because the targets of the action issued some death-threats and the whole thing turned into a shit-storm. A show was organized to raise money for the defense, then cancelled due to threats directed at the venue. I had to deal with cops because I was charged and because I was threatened…..it was a mess. I don’t wanna stir the shit up. I ended up getting a different lawyer than the other activists, a lawyer who I knew personally. I actually knew quite a number of individuals in the local legal system personally, which may or may not have had anything to do with the fact that the felony charges were null-processed for everybody involved. That means the charges were made to just go away. Nobody was acquitted or convicted, the charges weren’t dropped. It was like it never happened.
I distanced myself from the campus anarchists after that. I’m still cordial when I see ‘em – I am a Southerner after all – but I don’t hang out. Most of ‘em drifted out of town. I assume they went to work for their parents’ corporations. I still identified as an anarchist.
The wee grrrl was born a year or so after all that. Becoming a parent changes everything. I started looking around at the things that I needed and/or wanted for my daughter and it was pretty obvious that I wasn’t going to be able to get her immunized at some anarchist commune/squat. Our little family unit was depending on WIC that first year. The grrrl’s Mommy applied for food stamps – I refused to apply, but didn’t try to stop her from doing so. Anarchists don’t build playgrounds or help you install child-safety-seats in your car correctly. I started to appreciate all the things the government was providing for us. Of course, half of the government would like to take all those appreciable services away, kick out all the brown people and continue to deny equal rights to LGBTQXP’s. I’ve encountered some delusional dopers who actually believe that the Republicans, or at least their are closer than the Democrats to Anarchism, but decriminalization of purp isn’t the only issue that matters. If we’re going to have government – and there’s no viable alternative at this juncture – a liberal one is the most compassionate option.
I voted for Obama. I always vote for the Democrat, but I liked Obama’s end-the-war policy, his no-more-spying-on-citizens policy and his health-care-for-all policy. Turns out, after getting elected, he reversed himself on two of those, but he is a politician so whaddaya expect? I voted for him the second time too. I’ll be perfectly honest here: I was hoping he’d tax the top 1% into the bowels of Hell and use the money to give free dental work and biopsies to me and all my dirt-poor friends. No shit. Does that mean I believe in class war? Damn right. Kill the rich. At this writing, the GOP’s in Congress have dug in like ticks and are holding the country hostage to avoid funding Obamacare. That’s how determined they are to maintain the USA’s position as the only developed Western nation that doesn’t ensure health care for all citizens. Fucking pigs. I wasn’t a Socialist a few years back, but I’ve been called one so many fucking times that I just adopted it. Gimme Northern European-style social-democracy anyday.
On the national level, that is. On the personal level, I’m every bit as opposed to any authority as I ever was. I have deeply-felt spiritual beliefs, obviously, and I adhere to a moral code, but my beliefs and morality are the results of my own experiences and convictions. They don’t come from any church or guru. I do what I believe to be right because it is right. The only punishment I will ever suffer for my sins is the knowledge that I failed to live up to my own standards. My primary deity will never judge or condemn me. My helper spirits will never chastise or abandon me.
I believe in God’s will. It’s the same thing as dharma or Tao. It is the natural order of things. Water will seek the lowest level. Plants and animals will bear offspring of their own kind. Stars will explode, hurling their various atoms into the vastness of space where they will clump together and form planets capable of supporting life. A person with a genetic predisposition for addiction will never be able to enjoy a chilled spirits glass of straight bourbon without succumbing to the phenomenon of craving and going on a bender that might result in death. Butterflies fly all crazy. That’s God’s will. It is what it is. And God’s will is gonna get done, so it makes the most sense to be in accord with God’s will. Fighting gravity is stupid. Embracing gravity, seeking to understand gravity, seeking to understand forces related to gravity like air currents, aerodynamics and such, means you figure out how birds fly and you can build an airplane. Airplanes don’t fight gravity. I don’t fight the desire to enjoy a chilled spirits glass of straight bourbon. I do the things that I do to grow spiritually and I don’t have that desire. You can describe it anyway you like, but I love and appreciate the language of spirituality, so I attribute my complete lack of desire for bourbon – pot, acid, beer, crank, vodka, opiate painkillers, tequila, benzos &c – to the actions of my primary deity and my spirit helpers. That works for me.
Of course, the unseen forces that support me do more than just keep me off the shit. I have developed resources over the years that I wouldn’t’ve thought possible. I have had experiences in my quest for spiritual growth that I can’t articulate and don’t fully comprehend. I have met divinity. I have become Enlightened. I have been to the yonder shore.
I’m trying to figure out how to explain shamanarchy. It’s a thing that has recently been found floating on the surface of my consciousness, an ideology that combines the tenets of The Big Drum In The Sky Religion with political action. This kinda thing happens. Some nuance of what this thing is about drifts into the corner of my mind’s eye and I have to roll it around for a while to get a grasp on what it is.
Shamanarchy, which autocorrect wants to change to “sham anarchy”, certainly has to do with rejecting any authority, with acting out of one’s own moral center on all social levels. A shamanarchist seeks the greatest good for those of his/her community, whether that community be the village or the nation. The ballot box is a tool, as are the monkey wrench and the rifle. Shamanarchy must needs mean being willing to throw oneself onto a grenade or into the cosmic water at the drop of a medicine hat.
The shamanarchist must have invisible means of support as well as human and animal community. Plants, too, if their language can be grasped – I haven’t yet learnt it meself. No one can make any positive difference acting alone. We are social creatures and must have society, of the human and non-human kinds. A shamanarchist forms alliances with other entities to work for the greatest good, defers to the judgment of those allies who are more knowledgeable, but does not blindly serve anyone. A shamanarchist must be a shaman, visionary, seeker. One can concentrate on any of the paths, but a shamanarchist must recognize that all lead to truth and have some knowledge of the various ways.
No shamanarchist may engage in oppression. I don’t see any way a shamanarchist could live above the poverty line, though there is no reason a shamanarchist shouldn’t charge a small fee for performing rituals, cures or exorcisms. The laborer is worthy of his hire, after all, and money represents energy – the person or group that hires a shaman gives her/him money as a way of demonstrating their faith in the shaman’s ability and of supporting his/her work on their behalf. Passionate and compassionate participation in the political system makes sense, as does passionate and compassionate action outside it. Don’t get caught.
The Earth is where we live. No amount of social justice matters if the Earth is uninhabitable. A shamanarchist must be an environmentalist.
As this thing comes together, I’ll flesh it out.
Brown Hat the Espresso Shaman
The pun is always intended.