From The Daily Growler City Room

Discussing Curiosities
[The Daily Growler City Room: 4 rather adorable people are sitting around a Danish modern table, burnt orange Formica top supported by four stainless steel legs. 2 of the four are women; one harried appearing, rather reminding one of White House press babe Helen Thomas, except prettier, much prettier, with a camera slung over one shoulder; the other a quiet unobtrusive yet visibly interfering woman in her mid-forties. The two men are dippy looking; both have way too much hair, one an exaggerated pony tail that hangs almost to his jeaned ass; the other dreadlocks, I mean thick-as-ropes dreadlocks--this guy never speaks, just nods occasionally, except when he does speak, then it's hell trying to shut him up. There is the blatant rattling sound coming from a large electric fan running as though it were meant to run forever. There is a computer in front of each of them, the women with laptops, the men at Power Macs, one an old but very hot running iMac G3 and the other a grey, grain-elevator towered/flat screen Power Mac G4. It's the one running OSX so it's the one that does the heavy duty stuff. The room is not very large but with high ceilings and one wall of a bay window with a triptych of windows running from 2 feet above the floor up to a foot or so from the ceiling. There is a strong sunlight burning into the room, its beams sweeping like the minute and second hands of an hourless sundial as they sweep across the room from just after noon until around 4:30, when the sun pockets itself on the horizon and begins pulling in its beams readying for the trip across the southern skies. There are 4 digital clocks on the tops of each of 4 stacks of 4 boxes each and each clock sports the same LED'd time, none even a fraction of a second off the time of the others, the 4 performing time like a jazz quartet performs its feelings according to a set of set times. In one corner of this room is an electronic keyboard set up next to a Panasonic video palmcorder on a tripod with a small strobe by its side. From off-stage left comes a hellish growling snore as if a wild animal is sleeping.]

The Harried Woman w/ the Camera: We film our interviews over there while Exortay wows 'em with a little background doodling on the keyboard.

The Other Woman: It's a kind'a shoddy looking set up. Is that a palmcorder on that tripod? Who the hell would sit for an interview in that chair? It looks like a child's chair...damn, it isn't even a chair, what the hell is that, a big bird cage? You make your interviewees sit on a bird cage? And, oh Jesus, it's still dirty, bird shit and piss--birds do piss don't they? My God, that thing is emitting a sulphury smell it's so foul.

THWw/the Camera: I think you mean "so fowl" don't you?

The Other Woman: I can't imagine who in the hell would come in here, sit on a filthy bird cage, be filmed by a camcorder, and be interviewed by one of us pseudo-clowns while that drunken jerk, Exortay, wiles away his scatologically rejected "doodlings," as you so tenderly call that crap. How many people have you interviewed so far?

THW w/the Camera: No one yet, but we have the facility should we need it. I approached that guy Lean Lem, you know the guy that farts a chorus from Handel's Water Music.

The Other Woman: That should be pissed not farted, shouldn't it? Except how the hell do you use pissing as a musical instrument or voice? Hmmmm, might make an interesting study.

Pony Tail Hey, ladies, we got a blog to clog. How 'bout some ideas.

The Other Woman: What for? Nobody reads this blog. You're wasting your time. That's what I say, when you're not making a living at what you're doing, you're wasting your time.

The Man w/Dreadlocks: Sheeeeeeee-IT.

THWw/the Camera: Wouldn't you think people would find it curious that the money being made off the Iraqi oil fields is said to be nowhere in sight-- and Bush's boys have no figures on it? So don't people wonder what's happening to that oil and the money it's generating? I mean, DUH, and Exxon-Mobil is raking in the biggest profits ever for a Capitalist-based corporation. Where is all of that profit coming from over and above what they're making selling 20 buck a barrel oil for 70 bucks a barrel and then saying, hell, they're a Capitalist company and are simply doing what they're supposed to do according to the rules of the Wealth of a Nation, MAKING PROFITS. And Exxon-Mobil ain't the only ones rakin' in the spoils, all the other oil companies, too, are making gigantic profits...who was that pipsqueak CEO who is getting a 400 million buck bonus for retiring? And the new CEO is the peckerhead who said EXXON-MOBIL is justified through the court of Capitalist law to make as much profits as they can squeeze out of the Amurikan people and screw us if we go broke and can't afford anything but the gas that comes out of our asses, they'll just move their operations to China and grab those easily shook-down peasant hardworkers...goddammit, it's the workers who are getting screwed, white collar workers, too, whatever; God Dammit!" [She picked up a Rand-McNally out-of-date World Atlas off the Danish modern city room desk and flung it to the linoleumed floor.]

The Pony Tail: Wow, you look like Lizzie Grubman when you get rageful like that. By the way, did you see where a new nightclub in Manhattan is boasting on their Website that Lizzie Grubman is their PR person? God-damn fug-ugly privileged bitch. What do you think, camera bug, would have happened to you had you backed your Mercedes SUV over fourteen people? I mean, the scraggly looking airhead is lucky she didn't kill one of those clubby goofs, but F- her royally, at the time it happened the bitch knew she might kill somebody by hitting them with that large a vehicle. Amazing!"

The Other Woman: You sound like one of those Air America creeps. Why is it comedians have control of Air America? How can you make jokes about so serious a thing as this world headed into a black hole, maybe even the end of mankind's existence, which wouldn't bother me, I'd just pretend to be an f-in' chimpanzee or a governor of Cal-ee-forn-knee-ah and make monkey growls as mankind is swallowed by the toilet of the world's getting rid of its shit.

The Man w/Dreadlocks: You sound like fools. You ain't gotta a chance'a surviving that Katrina when it comes. Same as New Orleanian blacks, hell, man, who'd wanna go back to that shitty place? They know those white uptowners are gonna let the 9th Ward rot, except I'm sure the Irish will get plenty of rehab money from FEMA...whoa, I forgot, FEMA gave up, didn't they? They closed their doors and said, "Hell, you bastards figure out your own salvation, we're cowarding out." It was shitty to begin with, that damn 9th Ward. I've been down there; son of a bitchin' Irish bastards. You know blacks at one time ran the docks on the river down there; they owned the docks, they bossed the docks, they hired their own labor. You couldn't get nothin' in or out the Port of New Orleans without dealin' with black folks. And the dirty Irish came to the docks ready to gang up against the blacks, and that's what they did in New Orleans back before the f-ing Civil War, they ganged up on the blacks, beat, bludgeoned, hacked, the hell out of the blacks and took over the docks. They forced their lousy asses into jobs that blacks had gained control of. That Irish immigration was sparked by the British Fops and Irish Yellowbellies when they stole all those foolish Irish dumbass farmers's lands for zero after that spud famine and left the peasant Irish to stay in Ireland and starve to death or hit the road in a diaspora, which is what these Irish did, and a whole bunch of them rushed over here to this country and look what the fuck happened when they hit town, first in New York City. They burned the god-damn town down just because the blacks were getting privileges the Irish thought they should get just because they were white and they hated blacks, even though you never hear of the red Irish, whole groups of shanty Irish who were enslaved by the Brits and sent to the Caribbean where they were put in slavery on the cane plantations right alongside black slaves. They ended up marrying blacks. Why do you think there are so many black O'Reillys and Manleys and names like that in Jamaica, in Barbados...even Grenada? And how about Grenada, who the hell remembers Grenada and Raygun distracting us from what his dumbass economics--it wasn't "voodoo" economics like Pappy Bush said because voodoo is smarter than that; voodoo ain't dumb, dumb is the Bushes, they're the definition of "d-u-m-b. [He reached over and took a small bottle of Poland Springs "spring" (make that "tap") water and sipped it gently as if cooling off his overheated pistons and valves , his vocal motor talking back and refusing to shut down.]

THW w/ the Camera: Ok, your point is it's black versus white. I could be snide and say "What's new?"

Man w/Dreadlocks: I don't take it as snideness. There is nothin' new anywhere at anytime, including slavery. DuBois said there are 3 classes of people in this country, the rich class, the white serf class, and the black slave class...we ran that quote, didn't we?

Pony Tail: Yeah, jeez, it's been 6 or 7 posts ago. Do you realize we've put up 21 posts since we started in April?

The Other Woman: Oooh and all those comments! How many have we had, 2?

Pony Tail: Come on now, let's stay optimistic. You've all been doing great, great stuff, good writing...

The Other Woman: You consider thegrowlingwolf a good writer?

Pony Tail: Please, he's in the next room sleeping off a bout he had with his wolfishness last night; he ate a whole ham by himself, the pig. I think I'll talk to him about changing his moniker to thegrowlingpig.

The Man w/Dreadlocks: Shit, pigs are cops, and the wolf man's not a cop, though I didn't know wolves ate ham. By the way, I bark a fact at you, Barry Bonds is only one homerun away from passing the old honky Bambino in total homeruns; put an asterisk by that in your white record books and let that asterisk say "Two black baseball players, Hank Aaron and Barry Bonds, have passed old "Negro lips" hunky Babe Ruth in the total home run department--and screw the steroid charges, Babe Ruth played most of his games drunk. You need some kind of drug to get through any kind of striving life. Did ya see, Uncle Teddy's boy, Patrick, had a Chappaquiddock-like deja vu experience. He said, listen to this, he woke up in the middle of the night and believed he was late for an important meeting at the White House, well named, right?, but anyway, this fool said he thought he was driving to the White House when he ran his Beamer into a pole. The cops said he was drunk as his mother or father used to be when they were the toast of the party-side of town and the drunk-driving courts of wherever they were partying. What a flock of foolish privileged shanty god-damn Irish. We should force Cousin Patrick to go to New Orleans and do some community service down in the 9th Ward, except that kind of work might kill him, little spoiled son of a bitch.

The Pony Tail: A lot of good shit in there, man, except loosen up on Patrick. He was in rehab and he turned himself in...where's your altruism?

The Other Woman: I was reading about Herbert Hoover the other night. That son of a bitch was connected to the oil companies. He was a spoiled rich boy who got into minerals and became a geologist and, shit, he was already a multimillionaire but he really got rich when his oil discoveries came in. And that son of a bitch's economics wrecked the economy and his assuring everybody that a going wild stock market would never fail us and all the profits we reaped from the going wild stock market would continue on until we all went to Heaven--yes, Hoover was a big Christian. And then came the crash of '29 and the Great Depression. Sound like a broken record? Also, here's something I read the other night, that Nelson Rockefeller's son, Michael, the one the cannibals ate, or so the Rockefeller Foundation reported, not that some rival oil exploration company got his ass, was a geologist and I read, of course it came from "the left-wing" gossip hive, but I read that Michael Rockefeller had reported to his daddy that he thought there were tons of bubbly oil under the Indo-China reef, and that's why we went into VietNam, under that continental shelf....

THW w/the Camera: That's hearsay, now, let's be fair. How come no one's drilled there and found the oil?

The Man w/Dreadlocks: 'Cause the Rockefellers are a secret society, just like the Bushes, just like the bin Laudins, just like those pale, anemic sheik in Kuwait, Burundi--God and Allah and their chosen people; holy shit, what a bunch of scumbags.

[The camera pulls back, a man who sounds like Desi Arnaz Sr. is heard hollering orders over the City Room theme [a John Tesh/Yanni collaboration celebrating boredom], "Hey, chingamadre, not camera two, you tonto, camera three, this is a three camera shoot...chingollicocaroni!! And thus we've given you a little look in on the active Daily Growler City Room.]

Note: since The Daily Growler is so old-fashioned and contrary, we are currently at war with a phone company that has had half-a-dozen names over the past two decades as they have ducked and dodged the Justice Department, state public utilities commissions, and used-to-be telephone-line regulators for the people, the now-corrupt FCC because telephone lines, dear citizens, just like the airwaves, and the air rights over land sites, belong to the public; the telephone is a public utility, same as the electric power utilities. But, we sinned, we are late with our April payment, and, Jesus, Verizon is choking the line with static and just as we get up and running and start doing our business--some of us are Capitalist pigs in disguise--and BAM, Verizon slams us off with pop-ups that say we've been "timed out." Our news: these bastards are already listening in to your phone calls; they also have the power to weaken your transmissions through your telephone lines, to slow them down to a staticky crawl, so slow, your server line eventually overloads and you get this pop-up that says "Your have timed out"--Jesus; that's why we growl, and end up on our roofs howling our hairy heads off. Selah, m-fers.

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The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
"It requires more concentration [ed. Henry is writing about being drunk and trying to proofread] to detect a missing comma than to epitomize Nietzsche's philosophy." Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer, 1934 edition.
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Late-Breaking Daily Growler News:
--We just heard Randi Rhodes say that when Chairman Hu was at the White House, Bush had the national anthem of Taiwan played by the band there that day. Now thar's a man with real spunk. I guess he showed Hu. Who? Yeah, our next landlord, since we're sure Bush has sold at least half of this country to the Chinese commies. We guarantee it, like we guarantee the sons of bitches are stealing money from Social Security and Medicare and Medicaid to pay for their totally dumb and homicidal wars in Afghanistan and Iraq [don't forget Afghanistan; we're losing there, too].

--Porter Goss just resigned as CIA chief. Praise the Lard, except, try and guess who the worst person in this world Bush could pick for Goss's replacement. John Negroponte? Chalabi? Saddam Hussein? or how about putting his old pappy back in the job? "I've decided, and he don't know it yet, right Mom? Heh-heh-heh. By the way, that guy dressed like George Washington over there, that's my Mom, Babs Bush. You're doin' a heck of a job, Mommy. But anyway, Dad, where are ya Dad, back there with my brother Bandar?...yep, hell, you and Bandar are always schemin', but I ain't bitchin', I wouldn't be here today if it hadn't been for George Washington with boobs over there kickin' my old Pappy's (and Bandar Bush's, too) old offshore oil-stealin' ass into politics where he's been safe as a little lamb and well-heeled to boot, folks, your new CIA chief, my old Pappy, George Herbert Walker Bush, come on up here, Pappy. Show 'em you ain't a wimp anymore."



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