Dumbocrats Wimp Down and Allow Bush More Killing Money
Boy, there must be some kind of weird intrigue involved with how this weasel of a poor little spoiled-brat rich boy has taken over this country and bent it to his imposed will (imposed on him by his father and Unka Dick and KKK Rove and that off-the-wall Neo-Con plan to rule the world developed under the first actor we elected president, and a grade B actor at that--I mean, come on, a monkey out-acted Ronnie in his most famous movie), a will intent on selling the world to the Royal Families of Saudi Arabia and Dubai, now the new home of the fine good-minded folks at Halliburton. What's amazin' is what these scumbags must have on every member of Congress. I mean the Dumbocrats even with a mandate from the Amurican voters are too afraid of this "president" to act against him, to block his insane projects, all which lead to the destruction of the United States in favor of the Royal Families of Saudi Arabia and Dubai. The Bush family will soon be moving into their new digs in Dubai, just wait.
The US is doomed. I can say that. Bush has already F-ed my life up by taking away all my rights to any kind of privacy, individuality, freedom to cross state lines, right of habeas corpus, ruining the true value of the dollar, messin' with my Social Security (of course, we know he's already blown our Social Security reserves by using them to pay interest on our bonds and shit the Commie Chinese (they have a trillion bucks in surplus in their budget this year--now ain't that grand?), the Saudis, the Brits, the Japanese, and the Dubai folks) etc. Yeah, I suppose he could really F me up if he wanted to--and that same fear must buzz through the minds of Congress--the Repugnicans seem to have it etched on their brains--the Repugs still control the Senate and they ain't budging off the dead-end policies of this worthless, demogogic, little spoiled rich boy defending the wimpiness of his old Daddy, a "love me Daddy" boy, a momma's boy, wantin' the approval of his old sagging-ass, easy-fainting Pappy, who's gonna die one day--the good life don't let you live forever--though you do get to live longer than us taxpaying, working-0ur-asses-off to make you rich, fools. They take our hard-earned money and don't return it. That's a great way to feather the old nest egg. Or say you lose 40 billion or so--I mean it just disappears off the face of the earth! Or let's say you blow a budget surplus your predecessor had stolen for us from somewhere, god knows where, but at least he had us with a surplus. Now we, ironically compared to Commie China, are a trillion in the hole. Makes perfect sense to me. The boy's a genius. Plus, all that stolen Iraq oil. Wow, everybody hand-in-glove with the Bushes--yeah, they may have to do a little jail time--is getting very filthy rich. Wow, only in America, as Don King used to crow.
I got a big check today from the estate of a rich relative of mine and I went out and bought me a DVD recorder and tonight I'm putting VHS's onto DVDs--it's easy, it's fun, the pictures are coming out McBeth-light-looking color crisp--I'm putting an old tape of Red Norvo and Tal Farlow playing back in 1981 down at the Smithsonian. I mean, if you don't know Red's music, and you've never seen Tal Farlow play the guitar, then I feel sorry for you; you've missed some very creative music now long laying back in the dusty files of history. Old Red looks good. Has one of the ugliest men I ever saw playing bass with him, Steve Novosel; sorry, Steve, if you're still alive and able to read The Daily Growler (a thrill for old musicians; I know Red's dead, though he lived to be like 92 or so--I saw Red make a comeback in 1972 at Michael's Pub in New York City; I sat at the bar with Marian McPartland and heard him that night--with the wonderfully great Slam Stewart on bass--Slam had played with Red way back in the 40s when he was hot with the "Flim Flam Floozy With a Floy-Floy...floy-doy, floy-doy...." Slim Galliard was Slam's partner in Slim & Slam, and I could write a whole post on Slim Galliard, "Pass me a bowl of that avocada-seed soup." Quite a night; and I had fun with Marian McPartland, too, and I told her one of my little stories, about my drummer friend that worked with me when I lived and played the piano out in Santa Fe, New Mexico. This dude, an ex-Marine--he'd been on Iwo Jima--didn't talk about it at all--the government kept him on thorazine--he was shell-shocked, you see; I don't know if today's volunteer soldiers get shell-shock, though I don't see why not; you ever had shells explode right in your face--hey, trooper, you get shell-shocked from that--you never get rid of that fright, you know, that holy fright you get when a shell goes off in your F-ing face...or up your ass...or blows the brains of your buddy all over your front from head to toes. It's hard to beat shell-shock; it drives you mad and you want to destroy when you get an attack, unless you've taken your thorazine or drinking a fifth of Scotch a night.
This dude told me a damn good story one night while we were listening to Miles Davis albums while smoking Mexican handrolled mezz. I mentioned Marian McPartland, you know, did he like her, blah-blah-blah, what'd he think about her, like ever met her, etc., etc.
"My oldest son played bass with her on 42nd Street." "Whaaa!" I said. "Yeah, he was my son by my first wife. He was a great bass player. Yeah, he worked with Marian McPartland...even when Joe Morello started playing with her." "So, damn, what happened to him; I'm surprised you've never mentioned him?" "He killed himself...oh, it's been 10 years now." "Jeez, man, sorry. What happened?" He didn't answer that one, instead he said, "I was driving back to Ohio one fall, I was going back to the Ohio State-Michigan game--that's a big one, you know..." He'd graduated from Ohio State and like most guys I know who went to Ohio State he was a fanatic football fan and he hated anything with Michigan in its name, especially the University of or Michigan State. "...I got just outside Louisville when I saw a guy hitchhiking. I stopped. He said he was lookin' for a ride to Columbus and so I said, you know, hell, get in, that's where I'm going, and he got in and we drove along and started talking music and shit...you know, man, there was something familiar about him but nothing hit me until he told me he was a bass player down from New York City to visit his mother in Columbus. It was my son. I hadn't seen him since the divorce and he was a kid. He killed himself a few weeks later; he never got back to New York."
I told Marian that story and she looked at me and said, "It's a great story, but I never had a bass player by that name."
I wondered. You ever had a friend who told you a fabulous story like that and then you happen to--just happen to one night after deciding to go see Red Norvo make his comeback decide to sit at the bar and to be sitting there and then finally asking, 'You're Marian McPartland aren't you.' 'Yes, I am.' And we got to talkin' and drinkin' and I was checkin' her out--she was in her forties then, but she was wearing jeans and a silk blouse and looked pretty damn good, especially to a young man trying to make it as a jazz pianist in NYC. I asked her about my friend's son after we were very well acquainted and very goodly bombed--it wasn't after I were home and falling asleep that her ruining that great story made me pissed off at my old friend, though, hell, if I'd never happened to have met Marian McPartland that night, I'd still be telling it with verve and flair.
for The Daily Growler