I have this huge novel I’ve been working on for a couple of years now that is a fictional account in the life of a fictional writer who is also the main character of a novel he is writing as he writes this novel within a novel—it’s autobiographical as hell. An though it be “autobiographical as hell,” it is still full of so many lies. As Hemingway said once when he was called a lyin’ son of a bitch by a critic: “After all, I am a fiction writer.” I philosophically deduce—therefore—that since a fiction writer is a liar I am therefore a liar because I, too, am a fiction writer pretending to be a mild-mannered blogger who’s half-man and half-wolf and who walks this earth with a full moon sailing over his hirsute head in constant growl—a growl to a wolf a threat! a howl a celebration of victory in terms of satisfying the three needs of existence, the quenching of thirst, the contentment of hunger, and then the need for pleasure. With the growl a wolf is thirsty and hungry and looking for a quenching of that thirst and a contentment of that hunger.
All of this confessional crap because I got caught in a fiction so much bigger than the reality of the happening as to be the makings of a novel about what if this had happened instead of what really happened--and I’m referring to a fistful of slamming comments I got on a post I posted a few miles back I called “Baseball Talk,” about what a thrill I had gotten going back down memory lane when I unearthed (dusted off) an old video tape of a taping I had made of Game 6 of the 1952 World Series, a subway series between the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Yankees. I wrote about that video from “off the top of my head.” as I rewatched it for the first time since the 80s. My facts were straight on most of what I remembered about what I was watching as I typed a post about it. It was Game 6, yes, for sure, and it was played at Ebbetts Field, and the Bums were up 3 games to 2 as this game began, and if they won this game, they would win the World Series right then and there in Ebbetts Field in 1952. My facts were correct as to the Yankees winning Game 6. But where my facts strayed off course to skid into a ditch of lies had to do with Game 7, the video of which I did not recover. I bravely stated, in true wolfish growling fashion, that Brooklyn went on to win Game 7 for their first World Series in several efforts. Bang that gong! I lost. My statement was WRONG. And boy howdy was I blasted from all four sides for it—comments I dare not publish because they’re absolutely correct though I get frustrated and start mule-kicking myself in the ass for so stupid a mistake, especially when the Internet with the correct answer was only a couple’a clicks away. One commenter said that I was simply being a typical Yankee rewriter of baseball history with a swipe at the Bums in a backhanded way. OK, I’m not guilty of that, dammit, though I am guilty of never being a Brooklyn Dodger fan and I have a Freudian reason for that and that has to do with me playing on a Pony League baseball team when I was 14 under a manager (whose daughter by the way I craved she was so saintly beautiful) who named us all after the Brooklyn Dodgers, his favorite team; I played first base, so he tagged me “Gil Hodges.” Gil Hodges wasn’t my model first baseman; that year it was big John Mize of the New York Yankees—and I hated being called Gil Hodges—I hated the Dodgers dammit then and I still do now though my venom has absolutely nothing to do with BROOKLYN—or not even truly the Brooklyn Dodgers who on watching that ’52 game surprised me as to how great a team they were that year, with Campy and Peewee and Jackie [I loved a song popular at the time, “See Jackie Robinson hit that ball/See Jackie Robinson hit the wall….”], Duke Snider [I thought the Albuquerque Dukes were named after Duke Snider] and Carl Furillo—oh what a centerfielder. So I apologize to Brooklyn Trolley Dodger fans for saying they won the World Series over theYankees in ’52. I retract my erroneous statement and say, the Brooklyn Dodgers lost the 1952 World Series to the New York Yankees in 7 games.
Damn, now I’m all hopped up ready for another baseball season, especially the one coming up that will be here before you know it by the middle of February and is going to be even more exciting than last year’s exciting season, and that’s no lie!
At least the lambasting I took for my Baseball Talk post showed me someone is reading this blather. I admit I write blather; afterall, I am a fiction writer; a fictional fiction writer at that; a fictional fiction writer who thinks of life as total fiction, including the gods we worship on up to the present-time reality, which by now is fiction. A news event becomes fiction the minute it is in the can and several different observational opinions as to what really happened are spun forth from the point of what really happened on—everything after a fact is fiction.
Wow, I’m groveling in my stupendous syrupy logic. This is already fiction.
History, by the bye, is some of our best fiction. Everything in our minds is fiction; all of our thinking is fiction, for we are thinking ahead most of the time and everything in the future is fiction.
“I made a mistake.” No, I didn’t. Not at the time I was writing it, you know, as I was making the mistake; somewhere in that day’s mind I got it that the Dodgers won that seventh game so you see, they did win that seventh game in my mind at that time, really, but, of course, they didn’t—and that’s “just the facts, ma’am” and a part of being a fiction writer/historian.
Another Great Purveyor of Fiction
Georgie Porgie, our “president,” is in Estonia and Latvia today at a NATO meeting—Wow, for a guy who’d never been out of the USA before in his life suddenly he’s staying in the air most of the time now—just back from being a fool throughout Asia; now he’s being a fool over in Latvia in front of NATO, the commanding general of whose forces has already said in a speech that he wants a certain “president” and country to not tell him and NATO how to go about keeping the peace in Afghanistan now that Bush has shuffled that mistake of his off on NATO forces—to keep their noses out of his business. Bush is still trumpeting, like the swan he is, that we are doing OK in Iraq and that IT’S NOT A CIVIL WAR AT ALL and that he has all the confidence in the world in the Iraqi government and their president or prime minister or whatever the hell he is, that guy I call Al-Maliki McCort, though I know it’s not the lucky NYC Irish bartender turned actor, author, wit, and genius—I’m making a joke, son, I say, a joke, son.
The Siegheil Pope is over in the Ottoman Empire—or at least that’s how the Pope still sees it in his slanted, narrow view of world disorder—I mean, this is a dude that wears a dress and acts like he’s walking on eggshells full of demon chicks. What a total piece of bologna.
Dumb Dora Bush, the “president’s” sister, meanwhile back at the ranch has come out of the woodwork to do a vaunted book tour since she’s just published her first novel [watch out, I may be lying here], an expose about what it’s like “living with a president,” meaning she’s writing about growing up with George H. W. Bush, you know, the Wimp, her father, her ole pappy. Now don’t send me those slamming comments about Dumb Dora’s book being nonfiction; I’d rather bet it’s more fiction than fact.
Lost among the dumb. Nice novel title, don’t you think?
Or how about this for fiction: the New York City Police Department is spinning like crazy the truth about why a bunch of gung-ho SWAT-like NYPD undercover cop nuts fired 54 rounds into a car containing three black men who had just emerged from a Queens, New York, strip joint and had just gotten into their car only to suddenly look up and see they were being attacked and fired at by these wild-eyed cops not wearing identifiable police uniforms who the victims naturally thought were criminals attempting to rob them so they naturally slammed the car into drive and hit the gas trying to escape these bandits who had pulled up in an unmarked van and tried to block them from getting away. There were 5 crazy coward cops with assault weapons that jumped out of the unmarked van and starting immediately rapid firing their weapons at this car with the three black men in it trying to get the hell away from them. In a matter of seconds, these 5 crazy coward cops fired 54 rounds into that car with the three black men, hitting the driver, Sean Bell, 23 years old and due to get married that next morning, a Saturday morning, three times; hitting a dude named Guzman in the backseat 11 times; and hitting the third man, I can’t recall his name, twice in the legs. Sean Bell was DOA at the hospital; Guzman is in critical condition in the hospital, and the other dude is “stable” after getting lucky and being hit twice in his legs.
So, you’re asking now, “OK, Wolfman, three young black males coming out of a Queens strip joint and getting in their car and then ramming a police van, come on, they’re black dudes, probably were drinking and fornicating in that filthy strip club, a predominantly black strip club that the cops were already spotting since it was known as a drug den and whorehouse by the neighbors who were the reason the cops were staking the joint out in the first place. NYPD always says the neighbors complain so much about this or that that they are forced to take such drastic action. Hey, I’m glad these guys do it so I don’t have to. I say the cops had reason to blow these guys away—they were guilty of something, trust me.”
What were these three black dudes guilty of? Well, it seems Sean Bell was getting married to his high school sweetheart that next morning, a Saturday morning, and two of his friends had taken him to this strip club in Queens for a bachelor party—hey, even white dudes have bachelor parties in strip joints, so there’s nothing strange about that—except, and this is a big exception, in this predominantly black strip joint that night were two on-duty plainclothes undercover vice cops sitting at the bar “nursing drinks,” as the NYPD spin put it. And at one time as the three bachelor partying dudes were leaving the joint, one of them said something about a gun, like, joking in a braggy way since they were all hopped up on the fact they’d given their buddy a his last chance as a bachelor to check out and enjoy some strange T&A before having to get serious about life and settle down as a husband, and now they were headin’ home and one of them joked about maybe having to need a gun to get out of the joint or something stupid like that. The dumbass drink-nursing on-duty cops at the bar heard the word “gun” and they radioed out to the SWAT-ers outside who then wheeled their undercover van into the street, blocked off the gun-toting black drug dealers and whoremongers as they were trying to drive away, profiled ‘em fast and furious as threats to their safety, so hell, you come Old West blasting and asking questions later.
White strip joints, by the bye, are considered sacred; black strip joints are considered places where drugs and prostitution are the MAIN business, since to the NYPD, blacks are basically criminals by nature and whites are the law-abiding citizens who occasionally stray away from the Ten Commandments—you know, the “boys will be boys” white excuse for drunken behavior, even if it’s a drunk, stoned white person like Lizzie Grubman who backed her SUV in a rage over 14 people and got away with it without even having to apologize to her victims or even do community service. The white strip joints, too, might be packed with off-duty cops a lot of nights—off duty cops who are really dangerous when they’ve been drinking. Off-duty drunk cops shoot people of all ilks, even each other; or they run people down in their truck-like SUVs and then claim personal problems have driven them to drink and they’re sorry if such behavior has killed a few people.
thegrowlingwolffor The Daily Growler
A Daily Growler Example of One Man's Idiocy
From Bush's speech to NATO in Latvia:
Bush set the stage for the Jordan talks with a speech at the NATO summit here and at an earlier news conference in neighboring Estonia. The president said he was flexible and eager to hear al-Maliki's ideas on how to ease the violence.
"There's one thing I'm not going to do, I'm not going to pull our troops off the battlefield before the mission is complete," Bush declared in his speech. There are about 140,000 U.S. forces in Iraq.
Earlier, speaking with reporters in Tallinn during a joint news conference with Estonia's president, Bush would not debate whether Iraq had fallen into civil war and blamed the increasing bloodshed on a pattern of sectarian violence that he said was set in motion last winter by al-Qaida followers.
"I'm going to bring this subject up, of course, with Prime Minister Maliki," Bush said. "My questions to him will be: What do you need to do to succeed? What is your strategy in dealing with the sectarian violence?"
Bush said he realized that "no question it's dangerous there, and violent. And the Maliki government is going to have to deal with that violence, and we want to help them do so."
From Yahoo News
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