indian chiefs

Friends don’t let friends wear redface.

Spook Hill, located in Lake Wales, Florida, is said to be a haunted hill which defies gravity. Cars are reported to roll up the hill, when in neutral. Legend says that an Indian chief had an almighty battle with an alligator that had been terrorising the area. Both the alligator and Indian chief were said to have died at the top of the hill and now haunt the area. However, in reality, it’s just an optical illusion.


Trumpeter Christian Scott aTunde Adjuah was born in New Orleans’s Upper Ninth Ward, and grew up involved with Mardi Gras Indian culture, a family tradition. Early on he toured with his cousin, saxophonist and Indian chief Donald Harrison. Scott aTunde Adjuah also melds jazz and hip-hop beats. Critic Kevin Whitehead says, his new EP, Ruler Rebel, ties all those threads together.

Ruler Rebel is inflected with the looping rhythms and drum samples of contemporary hip-hop. But where some danceable bands get so deep in the groove they neglect the solos, Scott serves up a lot of trumpet. He has what you want in a soloist: a commanding personal voice, and a sense of direction. He can play a line to pull you along.”

High Story:

So I’ve been high as fuck on a number of occasions. This is the story of the first time i got dumb high. 

I was a senior in HS. I cannot remember the day but it was a weekend. I didn’t have a thing to do. Around this time i wasn’t a heavy smoker. If I did smoke it was usually an invite from friends. This time it was the next door neighbors who requested my company. They always called me “Little King.”

I’m chillin on my balcony as they come home. They look and say, “Aye Little King you tryna burn one?” “Shit yeah!!”, I reply. I walk into their humble abode and I am immediately distracted by all the various new art they have on the wall. My fav is a wall size painting of an Indian Chief in full head dress amd warrior paint. Homie see me enjoying the painting. He then tells me, “Today you shall become a chief cuz we finna be chiefin.”

So they bring out all the fixing for a smoke session. Grape rillos, zig zags, a cool ass pipe, a big ass scary bong, and a plethora of weed. Thy inquire about my rolling skills. “I pretty below average but solo solo I can make it work. Right now there is to much pressure for me to do a good job.” Okay is all they say.  Their fine ass sister comes out the back and surprised me when she knew my name. She sits down next to me and passes me the first blunt to be lit.

I hit that hoe a few times and pass it along. Then it comes back hella fast but I hit it again a few times and I pass it again. This time the blunt came back even faster. It was only us four but the rotation was fast at. I continue talking and playing Madden. We smoked thru two games b4 I noticed it wasn’t just one blunt in rotation. We smoked at least 8 blunts, I think. 

Now I am higher than a giraffes vagina. Out of nowhere the sister starts suggesting swinging. I’m all the way down. But alas I’m hella high. We walk outside and it’s nighttime. As her and I make our way to the pool, I’m literally floating. The pool is warmer than expected so it was pleasant at. The water feels like the best thing ever. The waves from the breeze are just everything to my high ass. So I’m in the corner watching ole girl swimming n shit. Tying not to seem like a creep. I look up and lean my head back and watch the night sky. I end up falling asleep from the extra relaxation of the pool and weed combo.

I wake up choking on water. I almost drowned in less than a foot of water. On the damn steps smh. I guess she heard me coughing an she pulls me up a bit. She looks me in my face and says, “You good My King?” I reply with a smirk and a nod. “I'ma make it boo.” We walk back to the crib. Showered together and smoked again. She held me while me smoked too. I ate her out on the couch and we took a nap afterwards. 


Chief John Smith (died February 6, 1922), also known as Gaa-binagwiiyaas (which the flesh peels off)—recorded variously as Kahbe nagwi wens, Ka-be-na-gwe-wes, Ka-be-nah-gwey-wence, Kay-bah-nung-we-way, Kay-bah-nung-we-way or Ga-Be-Nah-Gewn-Wonce—translated into English as “Sloughing Flesh”, “Wrinkle Meat”, or Old “Wrinkled Meat”. He was a Chippewa Indian who lived in the Cass Lake (Minnesota) area and is reputed to have died at the age of 137. He was known as “The Old Indian” to the white people. He had eight wives and no children, but an adopted son Tom Smith.

The exact age of John Smith at the time of his death has been a subject of controversy. Federal Commissioner of Indian Enrollment Ransom J. Powell argued that “it was disease and not age that made him look the way he did" and remarked that according to records he was only 88 years old. Paul Buffalo who, when a small boy, had met John Smith, said he had repeatedly heard the old man state that he was "seven or eight”, “eight or nine” and “ten years old” when the “stars fell”. The stars falling refers to the Leonid meteor shower of November 13, 1833, about which Carl Zapffe writes: “Birthdates of Indians of the 19th Century had generally been determined by the Government in relation to the awe-inspiring shower of meteorites that burned through the American skies just before dawn on 13 November 1833, scaring the daylights out of civilized and uncivilized [sic] peoples alike. Obviously it was the end of the world… .”. This puts the age of John Smith at just under 100 years old at the time of his death.