This is it! One year we've been blogging. We started April 6, 2006. thegrowlingwolf was a part of the start, so was Franny and Zoe our two-headed girl reporter; Marv Backbiter, our chief of sports, though he really only really knows baseball and then he's a diehard Yankee fan so you can easily get a base hit by him when it comes to other MLB teams (he is slowly becoming a Mets fan now that ex-Yankee Willie Randolph is doing such a splendid job over there); thetexaninnewyork we can't find on the payroll though the Wolf Man said yesterday we did know this guy--thegrowlingwolf, by the bye, has flown the coop. His last words were, "Blogging sucks totally" and out the door he went, walkin' but feelin' like runnin'. He was in a totally pissed mood since he wrote a huge post yesterday but accidentally deleted it--Toshiba laptops have that problem: there's a delete key right down by the arrow keys and where fast typers poking for the period key accidentally hit that delete key and WHAMMO! you've lost your post. But it pissed the Wolf Man off enough to send him to Davenport, Iowa, or wherever the hell he goes. Remember, we once accused him of having a private island in the South Pacific where a Cargo Cult group worshipped him as their Cargo Potentate by giving him a cozy cabin, naked native girls, and a confiscated cargo palette of Armangac
 Armangac |
| The 'klein krokodil' of brandies, but still a krokodil. It is produced in Armangac, to the South of Bordeaux |
"Drop
The word drops
As if it were not spoken
I can't remember tomorrow
What I said tonight
(To describe the real world.
Even in a poem
One forgets the real world.)
Fuzzy heads of fuzzy people
Like the trees Williams saw. Drop
The words drop
Like leaves from a fuzzy tree
I can't remember tomorrow
I (alone in the real world with their fuzzy heads nodding at me)
Can't
Remember."
[From Fifteen False Propositions Against God, #VI, The Collected Books of Jack Spicer, The Black Sparrow Press, Los Angeles, 1975.]
Has This Been a Successful Blog?
Who the hell knows?
Will It Continue for Another Year?
Who the hell knows?
Is thegrowlingwolf Ever Coming Back ?
Who the hell knows?
Will the Yankees Win the Eastern Division of the American League This Year?
Who the hell knows?
Will the World End Tomorrow?
Who the hell knows?
Whether This Blog Continues
We don't have any idea. It's up to thegrowlingwolf. He's our guru. He's our drivin' wheel. He's our guiding light; our Mazda. But we don't really need him. We have a bevy of geniuses chomping at the bit ready to take this blog over.
Would they be Growlers--who the hell knows?
Well, we see one thing is clear, we have a lot of unanswered questions.
Did we do good this year? We'll tell you one thing, a lot of other blogs got credit for some predictions The Daily Growler has been making since that get-go post back in April 2006. In fact, here it is:
Introducing: thegrowlingwolf
I am maniacal. It is easy to be maniacal these days. Hell, look around you. What do you see?--I don't care where you are, in a crowded bus, subway car, your own gas-guzzling-ozone-knifing SUV, at the diner table of your brand-new-old, mortgaged-to-the-hilt castle in a superboring gated community, or at your desk at your high-paying, high-devotion-demanding flex-timed job on the old corporate plantation, in the big house or out in the fields...wherever you are, look around you. What do you see? Let me guess: stupid dumbass fellow human beings, right? Even if it's your charming spouse, the person you've given up one half of your life's worth to. Even if it's your gaggle of perfect curtain climbers. Check 'em out. Little smartass brats probably, right? I'm sorry, I growl at kids. I growl at everybody. I growl because the world as it is turning is turning me into a maniac. And it's all due to how utterly, bamboozlingly stupid most people are--and I certainly point my hairiest finger at those people who come before us as "know it alls." Have you noticed how all these "celebrities" know every god-damn thing there is, no matter the question, no matter the problem, no matter their goofy, off-the-wall answers. Like that idiot Richard Gere and his following the Dallying Lama, who, I see, is giving up his "throne" (what my grandmother called the toilet) to a 3-year-old child fool, and the Dallying One's convolutedly pious prattling. Didn't the followers of the Dalai Lama used to follow him around and not let his shit hit the ground? Am I misinformed by old, old, long-gone Christian missionaries to Tibet?
Howard Stern once said, he figured out as a kid listening to New York City talk radio, that the way to success in that medium was to act like the greatest asshole know-it-all that ever blabbed over the airwaves--whether you know the answer or not, blab like you do, and if you get a heckler, hang up on 'em while calling them assholes. Of course, a true know-it-all is a modest person. They are like imps, they are docile until they hear something that is an error--then they ferociously correct that error.
I am currently growling at talk radio amongst all this other medium garbage. I don't care what brand of talk radio; Air America, Rush Limpballs, Bill O'Really!, the Satellite Sisters...they all, liberal or right-wing quack, eventually will rattle your brain with their brainless babbling, their unreferenced opinions, their rather hastily put-together interpretations of subjects they obviously newcomers to, spewing out what to them is clever crap that to me is spine-shiveringly witless and faked knowledge and soon I am ripping at the radio with my claws and growling to the point I have to collar my self. "Down, you son of a bitch! Down. Relax. Don't get trapped in the hypertension rapids the meister class expects us all to fall into and swim for our poor-ass enslaved lives. As one of my drunk poet heroes screamed as they hauled his drunk ass into an emergency room and brought him back to life with the electric paddles, "You bastards, I was never so peaceful as I was when I was dead!"
I am surrounded by idiots, puffbrains, braggadocios (ias), from the "president" on down to the clown who lives across the hall from me and plays his boring techno-drivel house music hours and hours on the weekends, especially on Saturday afternoons when I am perhaps basking in a little mellow peace of my own...perhaps smoking a sweet rolled, exotic smelling panatella from my Domicano friend around the corner who inherited his cigar rolling business from his highly honored grandfather, Don Negrito. Whew. It's hard to find peace. Like watching teevee. Holy cows in Hell, how devastatingly boring, repetitive, totally sales pitched and commercialized all teevee is...PBS (Purely Boring Shit...actually Purely Boring British Shit), CBS (Consistently Boring Shit), NBC (Naggingly Boring Crap), ABC (Absolute Boring Crap), Fox Network--please, take it back to Australia--Dennis Potter, the British television dramatist -- he created the Singing Detective, didn't he?, when interviewed as he was near death--he was drinking liquid morphene out of little brown bottles all during the interview--he was dying of some horrible cancer, like pancreas cancer, though he was a chain smoking fool, but the cancer had definitely beat his ass--I think he lived another few months after this interview, but in the interview, the moderator ask Dennis since he was dying and could kill anybody he wanted to...Dennis agreed...who would he kill. Dennis replied, "Rupert Murdoch." Dennis said he believed Rupert was the evilest man alive--mainly, in Dennis's thinking, because Murdoch was ruining publishing, television, cable, journalism. That's what I think of the Fox Network, in spite of The Simpsons, their only successful show, by the way--yeah, I know, they have that piece of crap American Idol. Oh, holy cows of Mars, that show really gets me to growling, pulling out my fur, loping out to bay like a crazed LUNATIC at that big wild full moon that's always in my dark-blue sky.
thegrowlingwolf
for The "First" Daily Growler
Well, That's It, We're a Year Old; Still a Cub
So there ya go, folks. One year of blogging accomplished. We don't know if anybody gives a shit or not...probably not since we only got a little over 500 hits for a whole year. Pretty low, right? But, in terms of being on the Internet, yeah, we're hot; Google The Daily Growler and you get us all over the place. Google in thegrowlingwolf and we're all over the place as well.
We are for honesty. We are for logic. We are for scientific evidence. We are empiricists. Yes, they are watching but we are watching, too. We look for errors; that's our forte. We find errors that man never knew existed. We can't correct these errors. Only history will correct these errors and history hasn't been doing a very good job of it over the past million or so years.
Tune in tomorrow. It'll probably be reruns, you know, "Best ofs," but anyway, until thegrowlingwolf returns just keep tuning in. We'll keep the blog going and maybe even pump it up more in terms of howling it across the blogosphere.
By the bye, the Yankees are losing as we type this out--to the Baltimore Orioles. Mussina was a piece of crap tonight--6 runs off his tired old worthless ass. The Yankees are determined to be Yankees year-in year-out; they never learn about pitchers, depending on has-beens to hold 'em up so the mighty offense--which is so far a sham this year--can amass the most runs ever--in the meantime the Cleveland Indians again are leading the AL in runs scored. The Yankees should never have shelved Bernie Williams, though; that was a Steinbrenner bullshit move, man. You deflate the spirit you ruin the team. Now they gotta get rid of worthless A-Rod.
By the way, the War in Iraq is getting worse by the day. "Mission Accomplished" is being done; We the People of the United States of America are destroying a beautiful old country--all for OIL; all for ENERGY. We may be running out of energy as a planet. Bad news if we are. With no energy we're on our own. Back to beastdom. The White Man's Civilization is over. Maybe we can be the Gibbons of our falling era. Who the hell knows?
thestaff
of The Daily Growler
Support The Growler if you can. How?
Who the hell knows?
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