From the "Keep on Truckin'" Days 'til NOW--and It Is Always NOW
This blog is running upon the end of its first year of being--April 6th will be our one-year anniversary. The intentions of this blog were strictly athletic in the sense it was done on the spur of the moment by persons who call themselves "Improvisationalists," the most ardent and thereby talented of whom has become me, thegrowlingwolf, America's greatest living and breathing pure-dee human-animal hybrid and BLOGGER; a thinking talking wolfman, yes, in the tradition of Lawrence Talbott, but with class beyond Larry Talbott's hirsute dreams. Yes, we were both born under the full moon and, yes, the full moon is my halo, it floats over me day and night, full, bright, and loving, keeping me cool when I get hot and angry and keeping me like ice at night, when a wolf needs cold to keep him warm while he howls on the mountaintops of life, those closer to his darling moon. It is the wolf in me that gives the warning signal; when the wolf in me starts to growl, then the human in me starts to put symbols to it, words to it--the warning develops out of the legends that are my instincts--the wolf instincts--then it's the human instincts that lead me to how to deal with whatever it is, like maybe a quest to satisfy my hunger, my thirst, and then enjoy my satiated situation with some pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. See, it's what stands in the way of that that causes the wolf in me to take heed, to go on the alert, to growl as a sign that contention is right ahead somewhere hidden there in the mysterious full moonlit night when the wolf is at his best and when the human in me does its best, writing and composing, collecting and evaluating, setting up a defense, and doing the howling by burning the midnight oil.
I once wrote a short story about a man whose only language was sets of cliches--it turns out he finds his niche in life by inventing cliches or reinventing archaic cliches or using cliches once demonized but now clever and cute to a generation who never heard them before and doesn't really know they're cliches.
So, anyway, this blog started off as a growling place and remains a growling place (and, believe me, howling is for satisfaction, growling is for protection and this blog has never been intended as a howling place--there already is a The Daily Howler--he's a school teacher obsessed with education--The Daily Growler gives little or no shit about education--all American public education is based on fallacies; fallacies in terms of how best to teach children the necessities of life (something left to home schooling in other primates--like Monkey Public School is in the mothers's arms or lap or vicinity); then, also, a lot of what is taught in public schools is based on falacies, too; certainly historic fallacies, like that Columbus discovered America or that George Washington was a righteous human being who could never tell a lie. Yeah sure! Or that Abe "Send 'Em Back to Africa" Lincoln was the man who freed the slaves--hell no, he wasn't the man who freed the slaves--he was forced to free the slaves by the thousands of truthseekers who saw slavery as the abomination that it was and how could a nation claim all men were equal within its Constitution and Bill of Rights and yet kowtow to the big-bucks-profits of using slave labor to make your nest egg, your fortune--how many families still going today are living well off the backs of the slaves that made their family wealthy, whether off of cotton, tobacky, Florida oranges, Jawjah peaches, sugar, peanut products, lumber, coal mining, steel production (Birmingham, Alabama, named for Birmingham, England, was once a huge steel mill town; right outside of Birmingham is a town named Bessamer--named after the Bessamer way of processing steel). That's one of the problems of Capitalism and one of the problems with Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations--it's from a colonial point of view and the British Empire depended on slave labor to make Capitalism work--Captialism all over the world is dependent on slave labor and if not slave labor at least Third World labor (and I include Indonesia, India, Malaysia as Third World labor markets) and illegal immigrant labor. Here in the United States today, all of the street-level jobs in construction, building maintenance, cooks, busboys, waitresses, bartenders, limo drivers, ditchdiggers, house and apartment painters--they are all mostly illegal immigrant laborers doing that work--I can guarantee you the maintenance of New York City's superstructure is all done now by illegal immigrant labor--wanna bet? Why pay a chucklehead American citizen with only a high school education 15 bucks an hour to lay the carpet in your cheaply built overpriced dream home when they can get an illegal bunch of Russian dudes to do it for $7.00 an hour? This nation was build on the backs of illegal immigrants--even my family, if you go back far enough, like deep into the backgrounds of those Wolves who came ashore at Newport in the Baptist Colony of Rhode Island, were all illegal immigrants from the Scottish highlands or the greens of Kent and Coventry down in merry old England, or the bitter streets of Belfast up at the British end of Erin's emerald isle--and god-damn, Ireland is a beautiful country--and so are Irish lassies a bit on the beautiful side, too--at least the ones I know are--especially a fiddler named Marie--but then I'm getting too close and personal for wolfie comfort here. My den is steaming up. But then, I love all women. Remember, in a wolfpack, a female can be dominant.
Money corrupts. That suddenly came to my mind while watching teevee. "Money corrupts." That's a pretty simple statement. Though, another simple statement is that "money makes the world go around," which is the legend that comes from our deep-seated instincts that propel us to never be satisfied with whatever we've accumulated. There's never enough, just like writing these blogs: There's just never enough space to spew out the growling words I love to spend conspicuously--and that I've done for almost a year--1 F-ing year; 365 posts--so far, I've missed maybe 5 days of posting, so I'll be happy when I hit my 360th post.
Bloggin' is a god-damn job; I'll tell ya that. Google gets filthy rich off blogging; Google knows egos and instincts--Google knows blogging is the greatest form of ego-bleating ever conceived--hundreds of millions of bloggers babbling their bullshit daily from all around the world. You say, but blogspot and those other blog places are free. Yeah, they're free, but look at the enormous amounts of information those Google robotic data searches are gleaning from these sites--goofy girls and boys mentioning the celebrities they idolize, the movies they adore, the kinds of lipstick they love--think of that marketing information that Google sells--you bet they do.
Most blogs are pathetic; even some of the famous blogs are pathetic. And, of course, soon we'll have corporate types taking over the blog world. In the meantime, this human-animal-hybrid is shooting for blogging for 1 year. And it's been fun; it's been instructional; it's been educational; and I've been introduced to some interesting people.
The only blog besides The Daily Growler that has truly impressed me is wood s lot and yes hats off to www.languagehat.com--but then I'm acquainted with l hat and he knows he amazes me, but this wood s lot dude I know only that he's Canadian and maybe his name is Wood--I like not knowing the guy; it keeps me going to his blog without any prejudices--but, man, the work he puts into that exciting blog.
Will I continue blogging after April 6th? I don't know. Who the hell knows? I am a writer of books; I am a player of keyboards; I am a singer of blues and my own ditties; I am a self-taught composer; and I am a collector of Americana--I live among thousands of items, baseballs, old photographs, Rockwell Kent lithographs, and Clyde Tombaugh autographed cards--Clyde, in case you don't know, discovered the planet Pluto--and I still call Pluto a planet because Clyde said it was. The last autographed card I have from Clyde, says, "Sorry, I'm just to busy to send you my autograph," signed "Clyde W. Tombaugh." I love that. That's Clyde Tombaugh, a planet of a man.
for The Daily Growler