Thursday, April 20, 2006

I Was Going to Write About War, but....

Lead Story on All Networks Yesterday, April 19th
I was going to write about war today, but yesterday when I woke up, my teevee is running all the time, the first thing I heard being preciously reported on the early show newscasts, sugarized by the toehead repetitive clowns both women and men (oh those guys! and oh those hot babes! It's all sex, folks, even teevee chowder heads who read the wire reports to you as actual investigative reporting (BULLSHIT!))...the first thing they reported was: that Katie (airhead, always screwable) Holmes and Tom (the Scientologist) Cruise had had a baby! Oh my piles of cow shit! Then, by God, they went on: Brooke "Posing Nude When She Was 11" Shields had also had a baby. Oh my Goodness Gracious, how precious is that? I didn't even know that Brooke had screwed yet. Who's the father?; they didn't say! It really could have been the any number of men who have ravaged Brooke--she lost her virginity (of course, I was goofing on her when I said I didn't know she had screwed yet) to Dean "Superboy" Cain while attending Princeton. Then Brookie married Andre Aggrevatingly Boring Agassiz (the only star besides this Michelle Wie (pure-dee sex promotion in her sweet case) to ever be lauded as a great champion before they could ever win a major tournement in their sports)--I suppose Andre screwed Miss Shields, but I guess the gism in his "risen" wasn't shooting enough willing-to-struggle little dudes to win her hot-item egg. So Andre lost 40-Love to Brookie and they finally met at the net and divorced (a very common word in Holywood). Andre, bless his Christian heart, went on to find good-old, ja vol, horny Stefi "Fine Ass" Graff out there (Sieg Heil) laying half naked on some pump-up beach and, shit, it was a marriage made in Tennis Heaven.

I feel unclean writing about these people. They are dunces, yet we give them huge chunks of air time to let them spew their advertisements for themselves (like people on talk radio are always giving their resumes to us) and we soak up their total bullshit as inspirations for us all to become millionaire tiptoers through the phony tulips [I need an ode to Tiny Tim here, but I can't find one in poetry literature], an achievement most of us will never experience. There are tons of bimbos and peterheads out there lining up to be discovered. Pick an actor or an actress...all you have to do in New York City or Los Angeles is spit out a window and more than likely your spit will land on the head of a budding actress or actor. That goofy broad that serves you your overpriced coffee every morning is probably an actress or an actor, either blooming or fading, depending on how long they've been in the rose garden.

I once dated an actress. She was on The Guiding Light. She played a nurse. She was a damn fine looking female and "Yikes Zabees!" [a Bugs Bunny chisto] could she perform in bed. And she would take me to these soap opera star parties and shit, I was like a mudcat out of water at those things, usually held in fabulous West Side apartments in NYC or out in Brentwood or Malibu in L.A., mostly given by an associate producer or the head writer or perhaps just the actors themselves. What a silly bunch of shit those parties were. First of all, the men all hung together in one corner. The women all hung together in another corner. The music was loud and current and popular, though no one there really understood or appreciated music as music, just as background noise. There was dancing, but mostly it was women dancing with women and some of the boys actually danced with each other, too. The drift I caught there was that most of the men preferred men--with the exception of one guy who I came to know and rather like though he was killed a few months later when his motorcycle skidded out of control and crashed through a guard railing on a high looping freeway cluster in L.A.; and he and his bike fell 30 feet onto another level and a truck hit both he and the motorcycle and that wasn't a play he was performing but it was great drama, though it never made the obits in the Los Angeles papers, nor was he even worthy of an obit in the trade papers. It's understandable, he was a nobody who they had killed on a soap right before he died. I guess like Lawrence of Arabia, he got angry and went out on his motorcycle and challenged death and lost.

Most of the women at those soap parties, I had already been told this by my actress girlfriend, were bisexual. At one party, I met this actress from San Francisco whose father was a famous jazz person I totally dug, and she was the most intelligent of all the actresses I met at those clambakes, so we left this party and went out to a bar around the corner and I ended up staying in her hotel room with her for a day and a half and didn't return back to my actress girlfriend for 2 days and when I did, I caught her in bed with a 72-year-old cello player, who I later found out was a member of one of the biggest and greatest US symphony orchestras. What a life though. All you need in acting is one kind a hit show, then get a pilot, and whether the pilot hits or not, you'll make damn good money, and, besides, you can always make another pilot just on the merits of you're having already made a pilot and being under maybe a two-pilot contract...blah, blah, blah, what the hell do I know; I'm out of that world now.

Oh my Gott in Himmel, the rejection in the acting game is vicious. I chortled a bit with another actress who went to 5 auditions a week for way over a year and all she got during that stretch was a job in a summer theater in Warren, Ohio, of all places, and in the chorus line of a slipshod production of that old tirebiter favorite Auntie Mamed. She got so pissed after one rejection, she flew into her apartment, bawling like a 2-year-old in a well-practiced tantrum, and she threw her headshots and postcard heads in the garbage and screamed she was going down and signing up to study for a new career in speech therapy, the union paying for her college if she signed an agreement that she would never try to be an actress ever again. I talked her out of doing that. I gave her a pep talk and did a little Freudian analysis on her. I pryed out of her deepest repressions the fact that she was crazy in love with a pretty boy who as long as he was just as unsuccessful as she was, he loved her to the bone, would have died for her, the love of his life, his babe, his woman, his squeeze, his guaranteed fuck. So while they were together, she worshipped him and believed in his love, but the second his luck changed and he got the biggest break of his life, a role in an upcoming Fran Dreischer sitcom (oh crap, don't get me started on that whiny insult to acting), he slipped out quietly early one morning and moved to Los Angeles. He left without even a "Hey, nonny-nonny" to this dear sweet girl [it was wonderful lovin' I got during her time of heartbreak, I might viciously add], and with not even a forwarding address. That was her problem; she was competing with this chump, but when he left, the competitiveness went out of her. So, Herr Doktor Me talked her into going to L.A., which she did, and once there, she became a fairly successful bit part player--yeah, I saw her on several series back in the late '80s.

That's my experience with actresses. They are great lovers; hell, they're actresses; and they don't really care who they're loving as long as the play is written well and the direction is inticing and they've studied their lines well. Sadly, all the actresses I have known acted more in bed than they ever did on a stage (though I can't vouch for "ever in front of a camera"--a palmcorder I viciously mean).

So I woke up to Katie and Tom having a baby and Brooke Shields and her latest husband having a baby and there was not one damn lick about a huge explosion in Afghanistan that had wiped out 30 or so souls; not a damn thing about that illegal war in Iraq that was still going sillily down the toilet of war at a humungous expense in both human life and moulah; not one newsworthy iota about the police in Nepal who guard the precious king--wasn't he accused of murdering his whole royal-ass family?--killed 10 protesters (those god-damn silly ass bastards who think by protesting they'll get their wishes and get rid of their sorry-ass worthless pissant king--well, I was beginning to poke a little fun at protesters, but then I remembered that the Paris students had made it work; they had simply overwhelmed the stupid Paris police and the French politicians, who are idiots the same as Amurikan politicians are idiots, and forced them to back down and get their noses out of the asses of the corporations who demand these silly offensive-to-the-workingclass laws).

I had tons of angry diatribe I wanted to hurl at Tom and Katie and Brooke and her unknown husband, but then I decided, why waste my time? So this is all I wrote about it.

A Quickie from theapeman
So these birds (Christians, Scientologists, Mormons, Holy Rollers, Catholics, actors/actresses/poor cornfed winners of that awfully Britishy dumbass American Idol (making Rupert Murdoch even richer than ever now, the bastard ("He killed Kenny!)), have gullible minds that are unsatisfied with real-time explanations of this universal collaboration of mathmatical formulae we call the cosmos. There ain't nothing mysterious about it. There is nothing mysterious about life if you understand evolution. Yes, life is mysterious if you're sensitive and gullible at the same time. Gullible people seldom read books or if they do, they don't really read them. It's like you reread a book you read a decade or so ago and how, son of a bitch, you see whole new things about it now; in fact, what you remembered before about the book isn't at all what you get out of it the second time around.

I could go on and on about the idiocy of celebrity worship. Look what happened when the Amurican fools elected Ronald "Raygun" Reagan, once a lefty sort of Democrat when he was head of the actors union back in the McCarthy days. I think ole Joe "Give Me a Drink" McCarthy scared Ronnie right out of his Democratic cowboy clothes and right into the ordinary garb of the anticommie, right wing, John Birch-John Wayne school of "this is re-god-damn-diculus" way of kissing the Republican big old fat Conservative ass.

Ronnie tried and tried to disrupt the Republican Party since before he was governor of California (remember the stories about Reagan's governor's staff boys and their trips to Bare Mountain?). He lost most of the time, but then Tricky Dick got the Repugs in such a quagmire of bullshit with the Watergate nonsense, they had to turn their backs on his stupid ass (a Duke graduate, by the way) and finally, after ballot after ballot, they got behind the 20-mule-team Borax faux cowboy and he got eight years to sit in the Oval Office eating jelly beans, wanting to push the red button and end life as we knew it, except Nancy kept bringing Jeanne Dixon (oh what a cow!) up there and she would predict Armegeddon and that some such shit would be likely to become so much other shit, to the point Ronnie finally went into his Alzheimer's state of his unjion and kind'a dropped out of the picture his second term in the White House, though he to this day is known as the "Great Communicator." I defy you to listen to a whole Reagan speech and tell me what he's communicating. How about the fact we can fly to Tokyo in 3 hours? Yeah, that's a great one. Pappy Bush was there during those roaring boring Raygun years (remember "voodoo economics"? Pappy Bush knew what was going on; oh how he and Babs (George Washington in drag) hated Nancy and Raygun. Pappy had his Neo-Con Texas buddies showing him how to ride into office on old Raygun's coattails. "You may have to take a bullet like Ronnie did, Pappy." "Bullshit on that. How 'bout I just start a war with Saddam Hussein? Afterall, he and I are asshole buddies; he'll cooperate by attacking Kuwait; he has our approval you know. Remember, it was me who had Noriega, my old coke cartel buddy, hide out in the Vatican embassy in Panama so I could send my Air Force down there and bomb-kill 450 or so innocent Panamanians. " Such sordidness. It is so sordid I feel sordid writing about it.

for The Daily Growler
Quote of the Day:
Freud wrote Einstein about War. In it, he wrote, "It is a general principle, then, that conflicts of interest between men are settled by the use of violence. This is true of the whole animal kingdom, from which men have no business to exclude themselves. In the case of men, no doubt, conflicts of opinion occur as well which may reach the highest pitch of abstraction and which seem to demand some other technique for their settlement." [from Warum Krieg? (Why War?) first published in Paris in 1933. See: Sigmund Freud, Character and Culture, published by Macmillan in 1963.]
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The Growler has no politics; we only have opinions. We are not Democrats; we are definitely not Republicans; nor are we Naderites, Greens, Libertarians, Fascists, Neo-Nazis, John Birchers, Timothy McVeigh fan clubbers, Neo-Cons, or Federalists; we are simply American citizens, not by our own wills, but because we were born and raised in this "land of the free damnation" and we think of the world as the only Paradise we will ever see and thus our bitter rant against wars, profitmaking, job layoffs, sending jobs overseas, lying politicians, dumbass entertainers, selling off our industries (especially our factories), poverty, taxes, inheritance, corporations as human beings (such bullshit);against a government that is not providing much of anything for us except war, debt, profiteering (piracy), and the ruining of our armed forces who are simply meant to protect our borders from invasion, thank you. We also rant against the overall hypocrisies we Amurikans treasure--religious hypocrisy is the one that will bring us to our knees before the Capitalist conversion of commie China is completed, that which will definitely send mankind to an early grave if the religious hypocrites fail to annihilate us at Armegeddon--sorry all you folks waitin' around for that train to Glory; it ain't comin', folks. Why? 'Cause there ain't no trains 'cause there ain't no Glory, only the reality of the good ole sweet planet Earth.

The Daily Growler editor-in-chief (he looks like Perry White, we swear!)
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