Yo soy cansaro
I am dreaming of being on some dreamy Tijuana merry-go-round that I'm transfixed by from off in the distance of one of my most distant dreams, one I've been searching for since I started dreaming, which ironically, I never really really do in reality. That's my trouble. I've been living too fully in reality these days. I'm getting too involved with this country's inanities and insanities, including the politicians it lets get away with absurd reasoning and vindicative pronouncements and Achtung-type orders...see, there I go, off on a cynical wild-goose formation of rhetorical flying-south baloney again. That's what I mean by "my trouble." The wolf in me is totally taking over; I'd rather be a "human/animal hybrid" than face the harsh reality of being a human being at this point in time in this world's history. I'm balmy because of this spinning circus of a world.
First of all, I commented on a blog called The Grit and I ran off the track in it by saying, "Canadian authorities admitted they profiled Arabs..." WRONG. I should have said, "Muslims," because most of these latest Al Quedans-- and you notice that's what they're definitely calling them, these Canadian kids who don't even know how to find Iraq on a map and who are mostly related to Bangladesh and India more than they are the normal countries associated with Al Queda that are Arab, like Saudi-Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, thus my mistake is understandable. Isn't it? Just like everybody after the Okie City bombing thought surely it was an Arab who did that. At least someone like Sirhan Sirhan. A white guy from Buffalo, New York! Never! A white guy from Buffalo who had just gotten discharge from the U.S. Army. Yeah, such baloney. However, should some better article reader than myself and our "president" find I was correct that the Canucks did say they profiled "Arabs," then please let me know. I've always said I don't believe there is an Al Queda and if it exists like they say it does on the Internet, then it has to be a sham, a shadow site set up by GUESS WHO? And you see, I don't trust anybody anymore and that's a part of my trouble. "Trouble in mind," as the old song said, "am I blue...but I won't be blue always..." And here's where HOPE comes into it..."...'cause the sun's gonna shine in my back door some day." That's what you start singing when you're entering the hallowed halls of desperation. When you're down and out in Paris, London, Istanbul, Prague, St. Petersburg, New Orleans, Baghdad, or Podunk, you surprisingly get HOPE even when that's all you have. You know, there's always escape through song, or poetry, or novels, or a piece of art.
For Direct-from-Canada Info on This Here's a Blog for You:
Yesterday I was thinking about having one time read a French-written book called in English translation, A History of Art, by a man Henry Miller introduced me to in I suppose The Rosy Crucifixion the first of his books I ever read--a French physician named Elie (accent over the "e") Faure (pronounced El-ay For). It's a book that lets you soar through the whole world of art from world-ancient times up until Elie dies in 1940--he definitely gets to Picasso and Braque and Matisse, all those beautifully minded French (I know, Picasso was an immigrant) artists. Paris. Saying it lets me dream. Wow. Will we ever have another Paris like it was back during the days of Gertrude Stein's Lost Generation? Except, of course, one trouble with art and reading novels and biographies of artists and poets is THEY LIVE IN THE FICTIONAL WORLD OF THEIR ART. We don't have time anymore for Goya to paint his paintings showing how horrible war is or Picasso to paint an updated Guernica--which I used to go see all the time when it hung in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC, kind of ironic given that museum was founded by a Rockefeller wife and some of that art was from Nelson's private collection and how many wars did the Rockefellers contribute to?; Standard Oil traded with the enemy in WWI and I'm sure they did in WWII, too. See there I go, off on a romp through rantland again. Growling my damn wolf head off. The great American entertainer, much more a natural-born entertainer than you're ever gonna get off American Idol, Chester Burnett, who called himself "The Howling Wolf" used to get to rockin' so hard he'd suddenly get the "Wolf spirit" and lope howling over to and grab one of the curtains and start climbing it. And the Wolf wasn't a small man either; in fact, he was a giant of a man. And he kept on singing as he climbed as high as his mic-cord would reach. He recorded in England with some of the Brit boys who because they'd gotten filthy rich off stealin' the Wolf's and Rice Miller's and J.B. Lenoir's and Jimmy Reed's and Chuck Berry's vocal styles, guitar styles, and changes, and modulations and making a mockery of this sacred American (not Amurican you notice) art felt guilty as hell about it and brought these ORIGINAL STARS to England and recorded with them and made those albums bestsellers, though still the Wolf died poor, Rice Miller died poor, Jimmy Reed died in utter poverty. And the Wolf said after he heard that recording he made in London, "That's dog shit, man, dog shit." This is the man who wrote and put out the great "A Coon on the Moon" right in the middle of the Civil Rights Movement. I never heard a white Brit band cover that tune, have you? God I get so carried away soaring out on the wash of my heroes in music like the Howlin' Wolf. The first novel I ever tried to write I called "Hot Like Bread and Pepper" from a Wolf tune, "She's hot like bread and pepper/sweet like cherry wine/I'm so glad she loves me/she loves me all the time/she's my little baby/sweet as she can be/yes, she really loves me/she belongs to me/so if you hear me howlin'/howlin' for my darlin'/Hooooo, hoooooo, a hoooeeee." I'm howlin' for my darlin' America to come to its senses.
I add, what a crass piece of crap show American Idol is. Besides that the show is making Rupert "Asshole" Murdoch richer and richer and more dominant in television, it's just too god-damn vulgar for me to watch. And, anyway, how dare an F-ing white no-talent Brit, a washed up white ex-pop star nympho, and a who's he? black guy decide whether any of these kids have talent and are qualified to become American pop idols. These puppet kids all overact, overcheese it, that's for sure; even the winners are telephone-conversationally phony as hell, I don't care how sweet and innocent Kelly Clarkson poses. I always wonder, do the chick contestants have to screw the Brit and the who's he? black guy like Paula Abdul gets to work with the horny young dudes (except even that's questionable with some of the high-voiced hairless wonders--maybe the Brit takes those goofuses on for private auditions)? Funny how Paula screwing that contestant on the show was deemed not having any effect on her ability to be a fair judge. The young guy that screwed her got a CD and a book deal out of it, though he's long ago been swept under that big rug of oblivion and, if he's lucky, there may be a question about him on a card in a future Trivia game.
How gross such television is. How down in the slop with the filthiest of pigs. How could anyone watch that show; don't watch it and it'll disappear, but the Yahoos don't give a shit; they want immediate entertainment. It's OK, they'll soon end up with brain tumors they're on those damn cell phones for so much of their lives. Once they get brain dead, then they can really enjoy American Idol. My computer sitting on my lap gets as hot as a hotpad gone wild; that bothers me; is it microwaving my leg like a microwave cooks a ham?
Note to Jerry Springer (or Whatever His Real Name Is)
Jerry Springer spent his precious three hours on Air America this morning discussing whether or not there is a God and if he exists what's his religion? Wasting time arguing about a man-made fiction. The Big Daddy of an old Jewish fable built on the original writing in the famous King List of the Mesopotamians back when the Jews weren't Jews yet.
How did Jerry Springer ever get a show on Air America? Jesus he's a dumbass. He's especially dumbass when he's discussing religion. Come on, Jerry, you're a Jewish guy, henpecked by your wife or wives, always tight with your money, and able to make a living with the most puerile slop ever slopped out to the teevee pigs. Your teevee show reminds me of Hustler magazine and old Larry Flynt being a "First Amendment" defender yet pandering off poor male jack-offs who are so timid they'd rather shoot on a paper girl than into a real warm and clean and sweet and lovely sweet fleshed real woman. Either that or they have a woman who's the equivalent of a human/animal hybrid and could never live up to the airbrushed purity and the "absolutely gorgeous" plasticity of Hustler or Playboy or Penthouse hussies. I may have to take that back about Hustler babes being "absolutely gorgeous"--does Larry use an airbrush?
By the Way, The Daily Growler Jumped the Gun on the TeleComs Stealing the Internet...We'll be a monkey's uncle; this Internet tier bill is still in Congress. We misread an article we sent out as a victory for Internet freaks. The Canadian blogger linked up above, xymphora, is more cynical than The Daily Growler in this matter. He sees the Internet as lost already; that we can't beat AT&T and Verizon (who by the way are being sued out the ass by just about everybody over their turning telephone records over to the Bush Babies). That pisses us off here at The Daily Growler. The Internet is one of the greatest things the public ever had access to. This is better than public access teevee, which is being stolen out from under us by the Cable networks who want the channels for commercial reasons as I type this. [Should I say, "as I compute this"?]
The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
"Thou twittest me with my grey hairs, yet considerest not how I am of the nature of leeks, which with a white head carry a green, fresh, straight and vigorous tail." Francois Rabelais, Gargantua and Pantagruel, First Modern Library Edition, 1928.
Some more Rabelais (another writer like Goethe who only uses his last name)
PANURGE was indeed very much troubled in mind and disquieted; therefore he made his address to Friar John, in pecking at, rubbing, and scratching his own left ear, he said unto him, Keep me a little jovial and merry, my dear and sweet bully, for I find my brains altogether metagrabolized and confounded, and my spirits in a most dunsical puzzle at the bitter talk of this devilish, hellish, damned fool. Hearken, my dainty. Ibid., Chap. 26, "How Panurge Consulteth With Friar John of the Funnels"
Hasta luega, my dainties.