Now it is getting irritating. This noise. This god-damn dove that's just outside my window. It's desperately trying to make contact with a similar species but to no avail, but then what the hell do I know?
The dove is the bird of peace, right? Why? Let me guess, a legend from the Christian Holy Heaven/Hell Book. The dove coming to No-eee on the Ark (how unbelievable is the story of the flood and Noah and the Ark in the Christian Boogeyman Book? The original Mesopotamian legend is much more believable. Was there a dove in the original Mesopotamian legend? There must have been).
When I was a kid out on the plains of West Texas, hearing a dove was an everyday (mourning, noon, and night) occurrence; doves were everywhere, all kinds of doves, most of them greyish in color--that's right, I only remember seeing white doves on magician shows or being released during football games--what the hell was that all about? Certainly not peace.
This dove outside my window may have been born white but he ain't white no more, not after flying around in all the damn soot and residue-shit that's weevilly alive in our sweet Manhattan skies. Like my solid white painted window sill--right now it sits there pearlish grey since I haven't yet taken the Clorox to it today.
I thought these damn computers were supposed to adjust to Daylight Savings Time--except in Arizoney, of course, where they use God's natural time--holy shit, you believe that crap? Man invented time, you stupid Arizona idiots--how come Native Americans don't run Arizona anyway, it's their territory? The Native Americans out there are not as stupid as these scared-to-death white men who run Arizona, especially Arizona politics. Arizona's given us such great champions of human rights as Barry "dress up like a Native American and then dancing around warwhooping like an idiot" Goldwater, William "Where's my morphene?" Remquist, and the late great Byron "Whizzer" White. Which reminds me how I remember watching The Whizzer play for Arizona in the old late great Border Conference, an NCAA football conference composed of Arizona, Arizona State, New Mexico, New Mexico State, Hardin-Simmons (Texas), Texas Tech, West Texas A&M (now West Texas State), and Texas Western (originally Texas School of Mines and now Univ. of Texas-El Paso). It was a great football conference for a kid to grow up with. Hardin-Simmons was a hometown college and they played big-time football with several big stars, like John "Model T" Ford, a fine quarterback when I was a little imitating kid, though I liked 'crosstown ACC quarterback Vernon "Vitamin T" Smith better, except ACC was in the Southwestern Conference, which was lower ranked in the NCAA than the Border Conference.
And I do, I swear, remember a Hardin-Simmons game, they were playing Texas Tech, both were tough teams that year, and at half-time they released a dozen or so white doves. It probably had something to do with soldiers and sailors and WWII vets--you know, thanking Jehovah for this new peace--so it was about peace maybe--and, by God, right, those were damn peaceful times right after that stupid WWII--at least for white folks--I can't say so much for the black and Mexican people who I grew up with in those days--though I did have both a Mexican and a black friend as a kid--and then later in high school I dated a Mexican girl--oh what a deliciously beautiful young woman she was, too--then later I married a Mexican-Choctaw-Welsh girl who was born in both Texas and Arkansas at the same time, though when I met her she lived in right-wing-rabid Anaheim, Orange County, California. My first date with her in Anaheim we went to Sunset Beach but when we thought we were safely alone--you know, we had some lovin' to get to, we soon discovered we had traipsed off too far and had actually trespassed onto a damn Navy base and not only were we humiliated by some Shore Patrol gung-hoers but they almost arrested us--we were both nonconformists and fought back against military or police harrassment--they finally blew us off as hippies--though the incident scared me away from Anaheim forever--I have not been back since, though I have been to L.A. since.
Spring Is Here
Just watched the Mets's David Wright hit his first springtime homerun as I type on this--that's why I subtitled this "Spring Is Here," which I remember as a tune I once learned to play on a flute. But, hell, today, outside, here on yesterday-shivering Manhattan Isle, today, it's beautiful, though windy, though the sun is shining brightly and the air smells sweet whether it is or not. It rained last night and sometimes especially on weekends that clears the air enough you can get a couple'a whiffs of sort-of fresh-cleaned air, enough to give you the courage to face the reentering foul hours of tomorrow.
Full house down in Port Saint Lucie for this Mets's game with the lowly Marlins--the bastards had the nerve to fire Joe Gerardi because he wanted to make them a winning team--the owner of the Marlins doesn't like winning, though every five years or so they seem to just win.
As an aside: I just do not understand commercials on teevee and I was in advertising in this town for many years. I know it's "disruptive" advertising--invented by a Frenchman and based on various forms of advertising then appearing all over Europe, like in Germany, a booze, I think it was Aquavit, simply showed a blue background with a pink slit blooming out of it--I mean, yes, it was definitely meant to look like a completely shaved vagina--and the ad was like "smooooth...leading to ecstasy..." or something like that--I'm making it literate--I don't think their tag was a insinuating as mine but it was in that direction--like all ads really; they all appeal to sex--even the pharmaceuticals ads I used to work on, all of them were beckoning to the patients pain and worries by assuring them that they would be like a phoenix, soon to rise out of the ashes of the disease you've just suppressed with a drug, a toxic drug--to be a new person, able to love again, dig? It's all sex because the opposite of sex is the end of life--DEATH. Even though we all carry a death wish around with us, only the ones who haven't figured life out yet are so afraid of death--hell, those people are afraid of both life and death--they're just F-ing scared of life and the insecurity of it unless you're a lucky son of a bitch like one of these young baseball players getting a chance to make it with the Mets or Marlins--and, like David Wright, go from a wide-eyed cop's son out of the sticks to a millionaire socialite--I mean, David's able to call Paris Hilton up on her private line and hit on her if he's so inclined. That's why when I was an imaginative kid with a sex drive that was ferocious and made me a scoundrel from birth I wanted to be a celebrity, like Marlon or James Dean, not particularly good actors to me, though what the hell did I know?--I could act with a telephone like a pro, you know, faking a phone call--the way they teach you to act in some studios around this town--but getting out in front of a camera and following a script--that was ridiculous to me and I would blow a line and then break into incontrollable laughter that resulted in my being booted out of the acting class. But, man, I could see how cool it would be to be James Dean and, damn, I could, like, hit on Natalie Wood and probably score, man, and that would have driven me off the edge--to have ended up with a chance to bang sweet little innocent-looking Natalie--that movie Daisy something--oh shit, I can't talk about movies; I'm not a Rex Reed--what a fop! I'm not fop enough to criticize movies.
Commercials are sordid; sleazy; bent on being so happy they're pathetic; actors and actresses are so obvious in commercials--no real people look or act like any of the actors or actresses and graphic artists who make our commercials. Sometimes I think commercials are mostly aimed at babies, children, teenagers, and adult women--the adult men on most commercials are cartoon characters, like the Nazi-sounding weirdo-dude on the Optimum telephone commercials--what's the Nazi accent all about; I'm used to the Brit and Aussie accents on a lot commercials--why, for instance, does the Geico Gecko have an Aussie accent? Why do "average" Amuricans love Brits so much? I have been trying to figure that out since the Beatles came over here and eventually ruined our chance to play jazz since the Beatles killed jazz, like the Brit Rolling Stones ruined what was becoming a cool r and b sound--Ike Turner, Motown, making wonderful music--the Rolling Stones came along and insulted American blues and r and b musicians, mostly blacks, by the way, by stealing Rock and Roll, an American white invention off the American black inventions of boogie, blues, jazz, r and b, swing, the jitterbug, etc., and taking it off to the copycat nation of England.
Baseball teams? That's another matter. The Mets aren't looking good right now in this game except for David Wright's home run. The Mets lost to the Nationals yesterday and they're getting skinned by the Marlins today, though it's a close game. Whew, doggies, it looks good though, the sun shining, the stands full of fans, the boys all fresh--though, I know, it's not real baseball yet. When I was a kid we used to follow the Grapefruit League standings--the teams that had spring training in Florida; or the Cactus League, the teams that had spring training in Arizona and California (there were no California teams in the Major Leagues when I was a kid--can you imagine? There were only eight teams in each league--National League was: Saint Louis Cards, Pittsburgh Pirates, New York Giants, Chicago Cubs, Brooklyn Dodgers, Cincinnati Red Stockings, Boston Braves, and the Philadelphia Phillies. American League--New York Yankees, Boston Red Sox, Chicago White Sox, Cleveland Indians, Washington Senators, Detroit Tigers, Philadelphia Athletics, and the Saint Louis Browns/Baltimore Orioles.
Mets just tied the game on a hit by Ruben Sierra--damn, an ex-Yankee who I thought was finished--retired; damn, Willie Randolph's brought him out of mothballs. Good for Willie; he's a class act, man; baseball should be proud of Willie.
I know Marv Backbiter is cruising around Florida (please, now, Marv is a real man in spite of his sordid past) checkin' out the Yankees, his obsession. The Yankees at one time last I checked were undefeated in ST, but that was last week; I'm sure they've surely lost since.
By the bye, I'm sure old Unka Dick the Bandit Cheney has done some dove shooting in his day.
thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler
Speaking of Unka Dick; Guess Who It Seems Is Responsible for the Sorry Service Especially to Iraq Wounded at Walter Reed Hospital--Three Guesses; Two Don't Count, Remember...
The Washington Post reports that the Army was pressured by the White House to hire a Halliburton subsidiary to take over patient care at Walter Reed.
IAP is owned by Cerberus Capital Management LP, an asset-management firm chaired by former Treasury secretary John W. Snow. The company is headed by two former high-ranking executives of KBR, formerly known as Kellogg Brown & Root. Al Neffgen, IAP's chief executive, was chief operating officer for a KBR division before joining IAP in 2004. IAP's president, Dave Swindle, is a former KBR vice president. The company has worked at Walter Reed since 2003, providing housekeepers, computer analysts and clerks under a Treasury contract.
Swindle! And another name to keep in mind: Cheney, a name which has become synonymous with pressure, and Halliburton.
If you'd like to read the whole article, here ya go:
http://prairieweather.typepad.com/big_blue_stem/2007/03/walter_reed_hal.html
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