The Buttercream Gang

Feeling blue? Uncertain about the future? The economy, terrorism, social injustice, poverty, racial tension, genocide, oil spills, nuclear proliferation, and iPhone Death Grip got you down? Well, do like I do, and just take a gander at these nice, sweet boys:

Don't They Just Give You Cavities?

Dear Reader, it's my pleasure to introduce you to the one and only Buttercream Gang. Standing, left to right, are Pete, Eldon, and Lanny, and that crazy kid they're struggling to hold up is Scott. They're just four fun-lovin', good deed-doin', talkin'-to-their-parents-about-daily-struggles guys, who love nothing more than devising ingenious plans to get inside the Widow Jenkin's home after she fell down and couldn't get up and jumping rope with the neighborhood kids (Eldon reluctantly performs his patented "Earthquake" show that involves him skipping rope and then falling on his ass—a skill which proves quite useful when the Gang is faced with subduing a home invader). 

At any rate, their story opens with eldest member and gang president Pete moving from Elk Ridge to Chicago to live with his aunt. He nominates Scott for president, who is easily voted in by the other two chubby and thereby regarded with less respect and considered incapable of leading Buttercreamers. In the course of three minutes we see that Pete has fallen in with an (all white) street gang called "The Blades," and is getting into trouble at school and with the law. He has begun dressing like some sort of scrawny Chicano/Italian mobster hybrid and throws the "shaka" sign to his homies, who basically look like a moronic hillbilly version of West Side Story. 

It's pretty awesome.   

Hang Loose, Vato

Long story short, Pete gets 86ed from his Aunt Maria's place in Chicago ("I thought you'd be a good influence on my kids!") and returns to Elk Ridge, where he promptly recruits a new gang and teaches them all the tricks and nuances of being a vicious street gang, like how to steal Twinkies and throw rocks at bottles out by the railroad track. It's chilling. After Pete really crosses the line by tossing a firecracker through the window during the school dance, Scott confronts him, setting off a series of unfortunate events that result in Scott getting his ass whipped. However, love rules the day as Scott, Eldon, Lanny, and the rest of the good citizens of Elk Ridge never give up on Pete, no matter how hard he tries to get them to leave him alone. Scott never stops following him around, asking things like, "Why aren't we friends anymore? Don't you still enjoy having tickle fights with guys two or three years younger than you? Don't you know your street gang terrifies the old people when you ride your BMX bikes around and dump cans of Pringles on each other's heads? DON'T YOU KNOW YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE YOUR SMALL-TOWN LIFE BEHIND?!?"

This shit starts to get truly spellbinding when Mr. Graff, owner of Graff's Market, tries to give Pete money out of his cash register so he won't technically be "stealing" it, and Scott just lets him have his sweet ten-speed when Pete decides he wants it for his own.


Screw that. That's right about the time Pete would be picking up his teeth with broken fingers on my planet. But I digress. 

"I'm gonna get in your face so hard I'll have to change my name from 'Pete' to 
'Captain Sinus Cavity Dweller Man'!!!"

The Buttercream Gang, though not officially an LDS production, is teeming with the kind of family values one would expect from Mormon writers, directors, actors, and caterers (I heard the jams and jellies on set were simply Celestial-Level-of-Heavenly). 


Family Values:

• You can't leave your past behind. 
• You should never let someone else try to leave their past behind. 
• You should never beat the crap out of someone who refuses to stop being a total dick (especially when they're being a total dick because you won't let them leave their past behind). 
• The women are always watching (see: Buttercreamettes).

"I just overheard Scott say Pete stole treats from Graff's. Eavesdropping leaves me feeling cold and empty. I am finally ready to wear the holy Pull-Ups®."

Ah yes, the Buttercreamettes. The girls of the town who decide the Gang needs their help keeping an eye on Pete and the Elk Ridge chapter of The Blades. Our wisdom-bomb-dropper of a film makes no apologies for, nay, even encourages spying on people. The Buttercreamettes, most of whom are about four years old, sit and gaze coldly upon Pete at all turns, relaying later what they discover to Scott and his two cherubic pals. To what end, you ask? Oh you know, just to be sure that Pete has fully gone to the Dark Side and is truly in need of their redemptive outreach. 

In the end, Pete splits for the mean streets of Chicago once again and Scott comes home one day to what looks like an intervention; after several tense and suspense-filled moments which culminate in Scott's father telling the town pastor that he should tell Scott the news, considering he has "more experience with things of this matter," we discover that Pete has shaped up and is now in a good-boy gang (still dressed like a cholo/mobster/hillbilly) that reaches out to bad-boy gangs. Scott's love prevailed! 

Seriously, I thought they were going to tell Scott that Pete had offed himself as a result of his emotional downward spiral brought on by wearing bandanas and high-wasted baggy pants. Those filmmakers really know how to throw a twist! Whew!


Yes, I own this movie. Yes, it's on VHS, and yes, I paid a quarter for it at the Mennonite thrift store. Come on over, we'll get Buttercreamed together!

Seriously, What Do You Do?!?!?!?

 

Cherokee Nation?

Here's a little game for you to play. Next time you're in a bar and you meet someone new, when the question of ethnicity comes up (which it always does), count how many times you hear the word "Cherokee."

I guarantee you'll hear it every time.

"Oh, I'm part English, French, Irish, and Cherokee."

"My mom is Scottish and Belgian, and my dad is Welsh, Greek, and Cherokee."

"Me? I'm Tahitian, Laotian, Lithuanian, and a little Native American."
"Native American? What kind?"
"Cherokee!"

We truly do live in a Cherokee Nation!

These Uniforms Just Scream "Indian Sympathy"

It's comforting to know that although our country effectively stamped out an entire culture, one portion of that culture got busy with at least one member of every single family tree in the nation, ensuring that their blood would forever course through the veins of everyone from frat boys and club girls to sad-bastard singer-songwriters and love-bead-selling professional hula-hoopists.

"O Great Father Sun, Please Shine Upon Your Cherokee/Danish Earthchild in This Journey of Great Tribulation Called Burning Man"

But why just the Cherokees? Were they more prone to feel the effects of beer goggles than all other tribes? They had to have been; have you seen what your ancestors looked like after that ocean voyage and the good times they had at Ellis Island?

Seriously Tore-Up Immigrants

Why weren't any other tribes making babies with white people? No one ever says "I'm part Belorussian, Finnish, and Pokanoket," or "Spanish, French, Albanian, and Ho-Chunk." I think the answer is to be found in Linguistic Darwinism. People simply like to say "Cherokee." It sounds strong and gentle at the same time. Tough, yet poetic. Badass, yet ready to shed a solitary tear at the drop of a bag of trash. Okay, so Iron Eyes Cody was actually a Sicilian, but c'mon! That's what we're talking about here, people... Accepting each other for the Native Americans we all deep down truly believe we are. But I digress. Linguistic Darwinism holds that the human mind subconsciously predicts what words or types of words its owner's kin will enjoy repeating or at least will have no trouble repeating, and leads the person to gravitate toward people called by that word, eventually mating with them and providing a secure future of delightful and culturally with-it conversation for their hipster offspring.* When was the last time someone told you they were part Tlinget or Miwok? That's right, never.

*I am totally making this up.

"Stands With a PBR" and "Dances With Whorish Sorority Sisters"

So what I'm wondering is, where are all the free scholarship students? I can't think of a single instance when someone told me they were one of the People and then followed that up with tales about how bitchin' college was without the stressful burden of tuition. If I was part Cherokee, you'd better believe I'd be up in that Family History Library in the SLC looking to prove that shit and score my formazione libera. I'm pretty sure that's how this guy learned to speak English, solve complex equations, and order the perfect martini:

"Owl. Grey Owl."

Hey, Pierce, a truly integrous actor would have said to the casting agent, "Hey, thanks, but I don't think this role is really for me." Now, Daniel Day Lewis as Hawkeye... AWESOME. Friggin' mountains of awesome.

I would TOTALLY stay alive no matter 

what occurred for this guy.

Speaking of Hawkeye Pierce, here's a photo of a tattoo that completely reaffirms my belief that whomever coined the phrase "no regrets" should totally be given a Nobel-Super-Wise-Person Prize:

"Uh, yeah, man, your new tat is wicked awesome. You wanna borrow my power sander now?"

So seriously, play the game, have a good time, and don't forget who told you about it: Chief Laughing Bull of the Winnebagos.

I'm Chill! I'M CHILL!!!!!!!!!!!

Actually, I'm really not that chill, apparently. I used to be. I used to be super way chill. Like crazy damn chill. Mondo crazy chill. It used to be, at one time, a person sitting at dinner who suddenly quivered and trembled for no apparent reason would say, "Oh, I just got a Clucas." A couple on a date would walk into a movie theater, and the guy would increase his chances of a second date by saying, "Would you like my coat? It's awfully Clucasy in here."

"No, I insist, take my coat... Just give me about 20 minutes."

Everything changed, though in about 1995, when other dudes started getting real chill. Like, wicked mad chill. There was something about that year, something in the air that really started to mellow dudes out nationwide. The zeitgeist of the country had really begun to be shaped by the effects of a post-Cold-War, post-Desert-Storm-Mother-of-All-Ass-Whippings-Upon-Peoples-Not-Us, and dudes across the country were starting to feel safe. Not just the kind of safe you feel when you know a few karate moves or when you and bros are rolling six deep down the boulevard, but the kind of safe assured to you by the world's sickest military machine in history. The kind of safe you feel when you know that no matter what, at the end of the day, great men like Jack Ryan, Lieutenant John McClane, and Sergeant Roger Murtaugh are taking it upon themselves to personally ensure your freedom from fear by kicking as much commie, fascist, and criminally active diplomat ass as possible.

"Yeah, man, I was at Dumbo Drop. It made me the cop you now see before you."

It's that kind of safe that makes a man relax. Really relax. Chill. Chill and relax. If only someone could come up with a compound slang word to describe that sensation. But I digress. It's that kind of relaxation that produces in a man the need, the indescribable urge, to let the cuff of his jeans ride five or six inches underneath his heel to rest comfortably and raggedly between the sole of his foot and his flip-flop. The need to wear flip-flops with jeans in the first place. Without this level of chill we'd have no Smirnoff Ices, no trucker caps, no DMB. This country would collapse in a steaming pool of rage and aggression.

"YES!!! KICKING BACK!!!"

There is certainly something to be said for the man who has become so comfortable in this post-destruction-of-Ivan-Drago world that he can pick up the crappy guitar that his roommate traded to him for a couple bars of Sex Wax and a lid of pakalolo, learn two and a half chords, and become this rich-ass guy:

"Chairs are for the tense, bro. Namaste, or whatever."

I knew I shoulda learned to play the guitar like the Indigo Girls. Or all those youth pastors I went to college with.

And now for the real Jack Johnson, just to keep you smart:

Chill is Fifteen Rounds in the Blazing Nevada Sun, 
Laughing at Your White Supremest Opponent All the While