Monday, September 24, 2007

One Spring Morning Off Spring Street #11

"When they finally called me up onstage to start singing my songs, I of course was in no condition, but through some transference of memory and association was seeing traumatic rooms of my childhood and came on or at least felt like this tragic stricken gloomy poetic young soul who obviously was just too sensitive to live. The whole Byronic romantic-agony shtick, with palpable overlay of skid row. Cute eh? The frats didn't care. They loved us, and why shouldn't they? We were the geek show."

Damn, that Michigan night was dark--I mean darker than dark--like blind dark except for the millions of cars zooming and blitzing and sizzling with their lights beaming unmercifully ahead at any cost, flickering, stuttering light against my tired rather drunk eyes, with Girl's hair now blowing thunderously wild and Rita-Hayworth-wild as it flapped and as she saucily jitterbugged her head back and forth between looking at the highway and looking over at her brother--her face when she turned toward him crystally nude in the carlights. I was transfixed between the darkness of this new Invicta's backseat and the carlights glittery amongst Girl's wild hair, the car smelling like that phony new-car smell you can buy in a spray can in those days to spruce up your overhauled jalopy and make the freshman chicks at college easy prey--"Hey, babes, that's my Caddy out there in the high school parkin' lot." "Ah, come on, Wolfie, that's your daddy's car." "At least my daddy has a Caddie, girls." God, what a swashbuckler I thought I was. Yep, I had tried acting, in high school. My friend the reverend talked me into it; he was a year older than I was, he was a senior and head kid in the drama department and he talked me into acting in a part as Uncle Henry with one line, "Oh, I thought you said a 'rider' was coming, not a 'writer" in a play I think the reverend had written himself, out of pieces of the other plays he'd done since he'd started in the drama department back when he was a freshman and dashing and already being prepped by his Jesus-freak father into becoming an evangelical Yahoo, a get-rich-with-Jesus-type hustling Christian, the worst kind of hustler, come on, they've always got this infernal God on their side, this vicious God. Suddenly I asked Girl, "Hey, Girl, you believe in Gawd Almighty?" "Who's askin'?" "Your God, baby, your F-ing God."

The new highway ended every now and then and Girl boogied off onto other highway systems, cars all over the place, but then why shouldn't there be cars, the Rouge Plant was still burning alive making cars, it was the Motor City, they were still rioting in Detroit over the least little thing, especially things having to do with the UAW and old Walter Reuther or having to do with Detroit going BLACK and scaring the Hell Night hell out of white Detroiters, especially the Jews and the Greeks who lived on east side with the blacks, all those Deep South blacks, those escaped blacks, those blacks that had ridin' the trains up to Chicago and Gary and Michigan City and South Bend and Grand Rapids and Flint and Pontiac and Detroit, headin' for Maxwell Street in Chicago and Hastings Street in Detroit and I knew John Lee Hooker had ended up in Detroit, down in Paradise Valley, but when I suddenly said I wanted to go down into Paradise Valley to hear John Lee Hooker or Blind Gary Davis Big Bad John informed me that Paradise Valley was no more; Hastings Street had been flown over by a huge freeway system and all the juke joints and nightclubs had closed. "We're going to the Roostertail...we're going to the Roostertail...." "What the hell's the roostertail!" "Oh, you'll love it, Wolf Man, you can dance with me...I might even let you grind with me." I blew up. "Come on, BBJ, make your sister stop being so fucking charming...." "Pay her no mind. Hold your breath til you see these Detroit women." "I won't see them 'cause I can't take my eyes off your fuckin' sister...." "Please, Mister Wolf, " Girl cut in, "I'm not his fuckin' sister." She mocked my Texas accent badly. Shit, I shook my haggard head; Michigan reminds me of Texas; shit, that's what it was, Michigan reminded me of between Dallas and Fort Worth coming into Dallas on the Turnpike, comin' in over a river, too, Dallas on the Trinity River, Detroit on the Detroit River--there in the blackness ahead of us. But...dammit, she mocked my Texas accent--and badly--nobody did that to me. "I don't care who you're fuckin', Girl, I just want to dig you, the perfect god-damn charming swishy woman." "I'm still just a little girl, sweetie." "You see that, BBJ! You see that! You see! Can't you stop that?" "Hell, she's a naive little college gal, Wolfie, she'd be a cheerleader except she can't stand to think of one of those N-word male cheerleaders sticking his big strong N-word arm into her crotch...." "That's not true, BBJ; I'm not prejudice, like you and fact, he said to tell you you were missing a N word rib tonight at the house...." These Michiganders were tossing the N word around like it was second nature; shit, I'd never been able to use the N word with good conscience since I was a little kid--my mom and her mom would wash my mouth out with Lava soap should I have dropped the N word around them; better I use the F word. Already the First Sergeant back at Leonard Wood had told us to be careful when we went home on our first furlough--at the end of our basic training--and not say at the dinner table, "Mom, would you please pass the fuckin' butter." We laughed about it but I was serious about it; I had two personalities way back as a kid and on into life because of this; at school and among my peers I was foul mouthed as a sailor's kid, but when I got home, hell, I was Sweet Little Tommy Tucker--remember Tommy Tucker? "I'm tuckin' her as fast as I can now, ma."

We were stopped at a red light. I started cracking up in the backseat. "Where's the cognac?" I was shouting. "You've got it back here," Girl said, leaning back over the seat looking down at the backseat floor mats searching for the bottle. I grabbed her face and kissed her again. Hard. She took it. I felt like a king. Like a Detroit lion...or a Detroit titan. My college had been in the same NCAA football conference as the University of Detroit, the Titans; and hell, my hometown friend and one of the quarterbacks of the winningest high school football team in high school football history, 49 straight wins; and this kid had gone on and been a passing whiz at Texas Western and had been drafted by the Detroit Lions and played there a couple of years--and my kid-college-football hero Doak Walker, 3 time All-American at SMU, played for the Detroit Lions--and so did Bobby Layne, a kid from Dallas who'd gone to UT in Austin and been an All-American and he'd played for the Detroit Lions--and the Detroit Tigers, though not my favorite team--I'd been a Yankees fan since I was born practically--way out in West Texas where a Yankee of any kind wasn't that well thought of yes I was a New York Yankees fan, though after WWII tons of Yankees moved to my hometown to settle down because it was a clean town and there were a lot of pretty girls there because the town boasted three colleges, two of which had world famous sports teams, one school at one time having a top-ranked football team later to be coached by Slingin' Sammy Baugh the great old Washington Redskins quarterback of the golden age of White Boy football--though Sammy played in the pros long enough to eventually play with the first NFL black players--another hometown crosstown had an Olympic record-setting track and field team, a team whose 100-yard dash man was a great world-record holder who went on to win 3 gold medals in the Melbourne, Australia, Olympics--and I liked the Tigers because they had a player named "Hoot" Evers who I loved; and they had a pitcher named Prince Hal Newhouser. And at one time they had an outfielder named Hank Greenberg, one of the greatest power hitters ever in baseball; and in '61 under Bob Sheffield, the Tigers had come in second, with Big Norm Cash on that team; Hank Aquirre; Al Kaline; Harvey Kuenn, Don Mossi (the ugliest ball player ever)-- Mossi when he was with the Tigers; he doesn't look so ugly here; wait'll he got to Kansas City, though--ohhhh, oogah-oogah

--Jim Bunning; Rocky Colavito--a pretty good team--and the '62 season was starting in a few weeks. "I wanna see Briggs Stadium." "It's called Tiger Stadium now." "I knew it when Briggs & Stratton the engine makers owned it."

I guess I dosed off 'cause soon something hit me like a baseball bat--Yow! I slurped awake--the radio was blaring and Girl was singing along with the music. "What's that?" "Detroit music, baby; the greatest, a new group called the Temptations; you ever heard these guys?" "Naw, I was lookin' forward to seein' Ramsey Lewis in Chicago or Andrew Johnson"--I was showing off; that was Ahmed Jamal's mother-and-father-given name, but he'd changed it to Ahmed Jamal because of Malcolm X and old Elijah Mohammed being big black shit in Chicago in those days and the Black Muslims were very popular, even though for me, after reading a pamphlet by Elijah Mo-Ham-Please, it affected me the same as the Book of the Mormon affected me the first time I read a snatch of it, pure-dee bullshit--and garbled bullshit at that. Besides, dammit, I never understood why black folks took to white or in Elijah's case a slave-trading Arab religion so readily. I once told my mother I reasoned black folks took easy to white Christianity because we all came from Africa originally so white is black and black is white. My mother told me to be careful "messin' with that ole evolution shit."

"When we gettin' to Doo-twah?" I started screeching. "There it is up ahead now," BBJ replied. And, damn, there is was, the night skyline of wide-spread Detroit City--there went the cut off to Flint, yo, and yep, and then I smelled Detroit. "Holy shit," I cried, "Everything's beginning to smell and sound like shit in Detroit." Girl slammed on those Invicta power brakes and turned around and slapped the dog shit out of me. "Damn you, witch! Now I've gone and fallen in love with you."
Flying solo on a beermare carpet into exploding Detroit downtown.

To be continued as everything is continued.

for The Daily Growler

"What Fools We Mortals Be"

You may have noticed we've been avoiding politics here lately. Politics and politicians have gotten so silly scary, we've tried to turn our backs on them, though it still amuses us to see how asskissing and buttwiping the cowardly Dumbocrats are, and that includes "Tough Balls" Hillbilly Hillary "Slick Hillary" Clinton--sorry, in spite of the makeovers, we still can't get it up for Hill--and that includes our Lesbian staffers in order to cast off the catcalls of male chauvinism coming from the ladies aid society--hey, Gwendolyn Lynndolllynn, our fashion reporter (she's not written a damn thing since we hired her), a stone Lezzie, agrees with the male staffers, "We'd rather Chelsea," even though at last sighting, Chelsea had porked up a bit. Hips like her mother. Fullback hips. Hips you have to hang a "wide load" sign on to take driving in your car.
Wellesley Class Sees ‘One of Us’ Bearing Standard
Hippy Hillary at Wellesley; not bad, right guys? What about it? Kick her out? Rumor had it Hill was naive as hell at Wellesley, definitely a virgin, but then she roomed with Elkie Atcheson, a Dean Atcheson relative, a spoiled-brat-aristocrat girl used to the good life, getting her way, and doing as she pleased and a stone-sexy-pot-smoking Lezzie--worked for John Kerry in his failed run for president as one of his Gay coordinators. Rumor also has it that even now, Hill ain't that hip to straight sex; that's why Bill cats around so much. We think we'd rather Hillary than that Paula Hooknose Arky Girl Jones or whatever her hick name was or that Gin-drinking Flowers (now wilted) babe. Vince Foster (remember him?) supposedly thought Hillary a pretty hot little mama. He may have died over Hillary.

We love the way the stupid state Dumbocrat parties are now vying to see whose state primary is going to come first. "I'm coming, I'm, first," says the Iowa Dumbos while masturbating wildly as they think of the big war bucks they're gonna drag back to Iowa should those cornshuckers out there leave the Native American gambling casinos and the riverboat casinos long enough to vote. Want some cheap real estate--go to Iowa. "No, you're not coming first if we can jack-off faster than you," saith the Florida delegation, "We're comin' first."

Idiots. Who gives a shit about primaries anyway; they don't mean a damn thing because the candidate's gonna be the candidate who Howard "Wahhhhhh!" Dean (suddenly he's quite as a mouse) and Dumbocrat fundraisers pick--and the Conventions--shit, they're just excuses to get wild-eyed drunk and fornicate with whomever's drunk and willing.

George Bush is an out and out total whacking off spoiled rich kid--even with the whole world against him and his crackerbarrel and totally cracked-up ideas and wars and shit, still he goes on robbing the Treasury, stealing trillions of dollars from us, blowing our Social Security system and fucking up Medicare, F-ing those up and wanting still to privatize them; and wanting still another 200 billion for his quaint little war with Iraq; 200 more billion to carry out his insane intentions of nuking Iran--losing in Afghanistan; losing in Iraq; losing at home, and still he's allowed to go about acting as though he's our Godfather and if we cross him he'll show us. He has to have a mighty tight squeeze on the Dumbocrats's balls (they are shrivelled balls)--Obama's a jack-off, too, folks, I don't care what color he is, and what color is he? And it makes you sick to see Joe Biden being taken seriously; or Nancy Pelosi being taken seriously and Hillary spewing out crap that piles itself in high piles around old Robin's proverbial barn--she's like a wild-eyed evangelist Christian preacher, like The Daily Growler's hot babe spiritual advisoress, Paula White--have you seen her! Big tits and she's proud of 'em. Hell, God gave her a great set of tits and an ass to boot. Though our Pastor Melissa Scott is much prettier and has a much wilder background of sin than poor male-battered Paula, the peroxide-blonde hillbilly girl who's found that Jesus is a better fuck than earthlings anyway, sobeit.
Paula "Persecuted by Men" White
Melissa Scott (Was she left unscathed by old cancerous-prostate, semen-drained Doc Gene Scott? Or perhaps one of his prize stallions took divine intervention in their sex life.)

Politics not only sucks, but it's boring. Besides, folks, this is a Fascist country now. You Jews better start looking elsewhere--these bastards hate Jews basically--does Bush have any Jews on his staff? We know for sure Bush and his family hate Jews and blacks and poor people--white trash, though the Bushes are originally white trash from Ohio (and Mammy Babs Bush (George Washington with breasts) is white trash from Missouri), same as old white trash scumbag John D. (D for the old Devil) Rockefeller was from Ohio, the 'cause of all this; the man who got us hooked on OIL. This is all about OIL, folks. And we keep right on paying willingly more and more for everything while we're losing jobs by the thousands daily; our once great factories are now demolished; our car industry sold off to Japan and Germany; our great publishing houses now controlled by a German conglomerate; our news given to us by an Aussie white trash Irish-convict-family pompous ass who wants to own the media of the world and he almost does.

Here's something to think about. We think of Darfur as a great human tragedy and we hurl heavy insults at the Sudanese for massacring 600,000 Darfurians and driving 2 million Darfurians into the desert in exile. Check out this comparison of Darfur and Iraq. Since the U.S.'s occupation of Iraq began, we've killed 1 million Iraqi civilians and have driven over 2.4 million Iraqis into exile in countries where they don't want to live. Isn't that ironic? And we here at The Daily Growler love and practically worship irony.

for The Daily Growler

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