Still Looking for The Fountain of Youth

“Fascinating,” Speaking Spock

Alice Walker has written a new book. Jesus, Alice has turned Buddhist. That’s fascinating to me. Why do intelligent human beings find solace in something as goofy as Buddhism, the philosophy of a big fat begging-by-the-side-of-the-road legendary Indian cat of long, long, even in fable measurements, long ago? I mean, Alice Walker is a cool thinking lady but there’s something odd about someone so intelligent, such a good writer, thinking in terms of spirituality rather than reality, though she claims she writes realistically. Am I just too F-ing cynical or is it jealousy? It’s not professional jealousy because it’s too late for me to ever become as famous and as well read and rich as Alice Walker. It’s just I don’t understand people like her. How can I now read Alice Walker without doubt in my mind knowing she’s into Buddhism, and she’s seriously into it, speaking about it in that holier-than-thou tone I hate in people who are not native to a religion going into it and then coming out and explaining it in bourgeoisie condescension as though her having faith in Buddhism is above my intelligence. Bullshit. I mean, come on, one of the saints of Buddhism, and Alice Walker uses this guy in her explanation of “forgiveness,” is Milarepa. Hey, check this cat out. He massacred a whole village then felt bad about it, forgave himself, declared himself a good man, and then old Buddha from the grave, I suppose, or maybe as a reincarnated cockroach—or is that Hinduism? made the dude a saint.

What the hell ever, why is the idiocy of believing in something as screwball as Buddhism all too damn clear to me, not abstract at all; the only way you can consistently trust in these religions and truly believe they are real reality is to totally immerse yourself in studying every stupid word of all these novelist-written holy texts and even then your task is futile—you can never prove unscientific matters—God, I’m howling already—I’m skipping the warning growls. I just can’t believe people who believe in such fantastic crap.

Reality is pure and simply NOW. That’s the only guarantee of life we have, what’s happening right NOW; not 2000 ignorant years ago or not 2000 years in the unknown future—believe me, the only thing ahead of us is darkness; it’s up to you, the individual you are born to be, to add light to that blank canvas of life and you do that through your imagination and you do that through characters if you are an artist of any higher worth, and by higher, I mean way above the clouds in the clear gravitationless outerspace of your individual mind where you can see clearly what’s NOW and what isn’t NOW. Sure, you become a professional predictor. Same as you can become a fairly good blackjack player. You can become an excellent interpreter of statistics and yes by using the percentages from your statistics you can play those percentages and come out with a fairly impressive win record. Playing percentages is what all of us are doing every day of our lives. Life has become, especially under Capitalism and the rule of Plutocrats, a matter of playing the way the percentages tell you to play. What kind of odds, for instance, is Metropolitan Life giving these days for living forever—understand? In other words, using percentages in terms of let’s say “faith in a religious order” is not very rewarding. For instance, one of the offerings (jackpots) to you for joining up with a Christian faith is Eternal Life. This is a tough one because that offering really means to most that you will never die if you simply put your faith in Joshua ben Joseph, who the Christians call Jesus Christ, who, to give him credence, is said to be the son of the ancient Hebrew god, Jehovah, which means as far as I know the same thing Allah means—all gods in one. Please, oh Lard, correct me if I’m wrong, but like gods, I’m never wrong, so saith thegrowlingwolf, sobeit, and Selah. But, NO, NO, NO. Eternal Life to the Jesus creeps does not mean you’ll never die, oh hell no. You see, this old fabulous character Adam—“first” “original”—I’m no l hat so I can’t give you every hair in the head of the meaning of that name, but you know Adam as Eve’s mate I guess—I don’t think they had to marry, did they? These old religious fables are so confusing to me; yet, according to my taught profession, Sociology (an empirical science), all fables are simply blossoms on the same Golden Bough and a man named Sir James Frazer devoted his life to connecting fables and customs in his masterful tome The Golden Bough.

My point: Adam and Eve, first man and first woman—they are always mud people, you know, created from mud, which conforms to the evolutionary story of man arising out of sea slime—they sinned. Ah no, you’re saying, the Garden of Eden tale. Yep. Adam and Eve sinned and the way they sinned of course was by F-ing. Adam admitted to Jehovah that he’d learned to F by watching the other animals do it. Sorry, I’m deviating from my flight plan—same as Yankee pitcher Chris Littel—oh no, I’m crashing into that luxury high-rise apartment building full of rich folks [the Upper East Side of New York City is an interesting place—I should write a post about it some times. It’s really not America over there—but then that’s what fascinates me about New York City—it’s a world unto itself—a New Yorker is not necessarily a citizen of the United States; a lot of New Yorkers are immune from the laws of the United States; some portions of New York City are legally considered foreign territory—like the embassies; the UN, on the Upper East Side, is considered its own nation. The UN diplomats are immune from any of US laws. A diplomat can murder you in cold, cold, ice cold blood and get away with it; forget it if a diplomat runs you down in his car, which he has parking space around town set aside for him and in which you can’t park. Now if you kill a diplomat! If you do, don’t do it in New York City.]

So the sin Adam and Eve committed that brought death to all future mankind according to the Christians was the sin of fornication. Having sex causes death. Philip Wylie, a great American-type thinker and writer now mostly forgotten, said in his Essay on Morals that we pay for the right to have sex—one of our innate pleasures—by dying. His reasoning, if we all never died there’d be no reason to have sex. We’d stay constant, don’t you see. Because we really and truly worship sex—that’s our religion—that’s why you supposedly choose priests who have never had sex as your religious guides or potentates—once they have sex, to hell with God and his celibacy bullshit. Under the instinctual rules of sex as a pleasure, men, women, boys, and girls are all fair game for it, consensual or otherwise.

Wolves always follow the same trails even though they make sure they leave a lot of trails to confuse their enemies, the greatest of which is that predator they call man. So, oh ye of little faith, I’m still discussing my sadness at hearing a great writer like Alice Walker say she’s finding such solace in yoga and Buddhism. Holy cow, Alice, you’re smarter than that aren’t you? She reminds me of Loraine Hansberry. She reminds me of Nikki Giovanni. Brilliant women, though lost to something—you know what I mean?

Metropolitan Life, by the way, gives no odds for Eternal Life, even though given the way science is taking technology, I can imagine one day maybe being able to give odds on a humankind living eternally—robotics taking over humankind—echo images of ourselves. Surely one day there will be virtual reality software that will allow you to reconstruct and relive your own life based on your own reconstruction of it—you know, the ability to say modify your parents, you know, make them the Rockefellers and see what that’s like, or maybe reconstruct your wives into Hollywood actresses of great beauty and availability. That’s coming soon, I would be willing to bet.

Murtha Lost

We’ll all have a God to thank one day that this nutjob Viet Nam survivor didn’t get control of the House. Nancy Pelosi, by the way, ain’t strong enough to be Speaker of the House. Chelsea Clinton could do a better job. Pelosi can’t act tough. She looks to much like actresses who play wife roles to guys like Ray Romano or Dick Van Dyke or Bob Newhart. Oh well, maybe if Georgie Porgie and Unka Dick step off an edge and disappear, we’ll get to see a woman president at last, though odds are….

Fencing Off the Filthy Messcans

Georgie Porgie’s ingenuous hi-tech fence he wants to build along La Frontera (which used to be one of my favorite places in the world, from Brownsville, Texas, all the way out to San Diego, California, or Matamoros, Mexico, all the way out to beautiful fouled up Tijuana, Mexico) originally was going to cost 2 billion dollars. Hey, that’s stupid enough but now the accountants say, nope, not 2 billion, but 30 BILLION buckaroos. My God, with that kind’a money couldn’t we rebuild the whole of Mexico? Or how about putting 30 billion into aid for immigrants from Mexico, who afterall are simply returning to land that anciently belongs to them through the Aztecs and not the invading Spanish. True Mexicans hate Spainards; Native American Mexicans; Los Indios; liberators more important to them than conquerors. I am looking right now as I type this at a catalog that offers at auction a document signed by Benito Juarez. I find it fascinating and am tempted to bid on it.

First a fence, then what, ovens?

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

What a Great Idea for a Book

How about that O.J.? Who’s his agent? We’ve been trying to think of great books to write for years, but O.J., who is already a published writer now don’t forget, has come up with a jackpot plot idea. We smell Rupert Murdoch in this—oh damn, we see, Rupert owns the publishing company, NetCorp, which owns Harper-Collins—OK, now we get it; Rupert Murdoch is the man Dennis Potter said was the man doing the most harm to the world and this is his modus operandi—a scumbag bestseller right on time for white trash Xmas—“If I killed them, here’s how I did it.” Wow. O.J. is maybe Shakespeare’s spirit being. Imagining how you killed your own wife and a little dude you thought was F-ing her—what a great story—a fine trophy white wife—and this poor waiter dude [Ron Golden] from the Mexican restaurant bringing her back her sunglasses—or maybe the kid was getting in her pants—don’t you think O.J. was stalking her and saw this whole action as a booty call ordered by her?--Oh, wait a minute, we’re giving away O.J.’s plot, sorry. Oh shit, we now smell Judith Regan in this. Bernie Keric’s whore—what-a-man Bernie boffed her in the rancid dust of the aftermath of 9/11.

o'solemio (the staff)
for The Daily Growler