If I'm a loser, therefore, the way to become a winner is to do the opposite of what I do. If I'm already a winner, then I have to understand that if I reverse the way I am winning, then I will become a loser.
What if I am a natural-born loser? Aha. Now you're talking confusion and I love that. Goobledygook is my true way of speaking. Remember, I was in advertising for a long time; if it can be gobbled and gooked, then I'm your wolf. Doublespeak? Yeah, I hear it seems like every second of every day, especially the way noise affects you in this huge town I live in. Somerset Maugham would chastise me for ending that sentence in that horrible dangling word "in" and Somerset Maugham was a splendid writer; an elegant writer; but, Somerset, that I ain't, to which old wily Somerset winked an eye at me, knowing the real worth of pretension ("before the tension"). It's easy as long as you, like the eyes of royalty are taught to do, live over the heads of those you are confronting. Once you focus "over their heads," you can pretend all you want and therefore be anybody you want. Only when you want love or hate do you look one of your subjects directly in the eye. Damn, it's a cold world when you have to view it so pretentiously--I mean, when you have to be pretentious all the damn time. You become an ACTOR. An actor will never look you in the eye. Even when you are doing a love scene, you shouldn't make direct eye contact with the person you're fixing to kiss or dry hump in today's loose shoe movies.
"Mind your manners," an in-law of mine used to warn me. "Manners? We don't need no stinkin' manners." Georgie Porgie, our "president," has manners up his saggy ass. Oh he and Pickles are so mannered. But you can tell neither Georgie nor Pickles are good actors. Even a bad actor could be a better "president" than the clown we have. But, Georgie Porgie gets his manners from a book of protocol. This pencil-necked geek [Classy Freddie Blasse] "president" has been trained and groomed by White House protocol fops, otherwise, like his dad threw up on the Chinese commie premier that time, Georgie Porgie would go around faux pas-ing with the best of them. Georgie Porgie is trained to PRETEND he's president, which he really isn't and he really is "pretending to be president." Wow, don't you love logic? You can drive it fast or make it stop and do a little dance like the Mexicans do their cars in East L.A. You can turn it upsidedown or back upon itself. You can make it lie or you can have it bawling out its sincerity.
There used to be an old Polish man on Fifth Avenue, up around the trip 6 building, 666 Fifth Avenue, called the Devil Building by its occupants, and all he did was stand on the sidewalk just before the corner and the crosswalk pretending to be in such desperate need, his face was screwed into a horrible grimace, his eyes bleeding pleading, his whole body trembling, and as he walked up to you, with his smooth old unworked Polish hands held out to you, all he said was "Please, please, please, please..." with a whining Polish accent, over and over, "...please, please, please, please..." and he would pick certain people out and follow them a few steps, asking his pleases. What a great street actor. I once tried to hand him my own "Street Actor of the Year Award" I had hastily made with a Magic Marker while watching him working out my Rockefeller Center office window and then ran down to present it to him. He ignored me, chasing after a snooty woman wearing furs in the summertime, headed toward Saks to conspicuously spend her trust fund monies..."Please, please, please, please." I pulled reverse logic on him and went up to him with my Award and held it out to him and said, "Please, please, please, please, please..." I chased him a block and a half before he finally turned around and said, staying in his thick Polish accent, "Why don't you leave me alone? I don't bother you? Why you bother me? I make honest living." I left him alone. Shit, I had looked him in the eye and found out I was the crazy one, not him.
for The Daily Growler
The Daily Growler is short today. The staff is at the Gringo Cantino wolfing down Superior beers and eating salsa and chips by the barrelsful while watching Mexico playing Argentina in futbol. It's in Leipzig; I don't suppose they had soccer in Bach's day. No golf either. Bowling? What the hell did Bach do for sport? Bow and arrow hunting? Having a growler at a local pub? That's probably more like it. [We notice Argentina's national anthem is more boring than the "Stars Strangler Banner..." It does improve at the end when it gets a little Wagnerian tangoish. And Mexico's national anthem sounds so unMexican as to be for Estonia or some place like that. We notice, however, all the Mexican players seem to know the words to it and it's a long son of a bitch, too. We have never understood nor have any of us ever stood for any national anthems.] Since one of us for sure once resided in Mexico (Cuidad Mexico) we will be supporting the Mexicans, though we probably know down deep that they don't have a chance.
thegrowlingwolf cannot be found. He turned in his post and split. Cognac at the Heater Club perhaps. And away we go.