Sunday, September 30, 2007
6 billion people believe lies over truths. Stupid statement to us; what are truths?, we ask. Truths are rewritten lies. Truths are what can be scrounged as facts from the wrecks caused on the highway of lies we faithfully speed down as we race towards the Kingdom of Chaos.
Hindus. Muslims. Christians. Buddhists. Most of us believe the bullshit frothed forth from these 4 groups of the insane. We all believe there is a BIG DADDY God. Well, we don't believe in NADA here at The Daily Growler. We do however believe in mosquitoes. But ask most morons if there is a god and no matter their ethnicity they'll probably say "Oh, yes indeedy there is a Big Daddy up there in the sky, Lard."
There is no BIG MAMA God in Muslim or Christian babblings. At least the Greeks gave Hera equal power with Zeus, and Hera was quite a bitch; who else could stand being married to Zeus? There's a statue of Zeus in the UN lobby. Zeus is the world's god? Is that what that means? Maybe the Hindus have some BIG MAMA gods, we are not that hip to Hindu, though we know some of those multi-armed anthropomorphic cuties on the Hindu worship shelf must be female, like Shiva, is she a he or a she, or does it matter to anthropomorphic made-up gods?--we especially love the big fat Elephant god--Knish? No, that not it's name...Gamoosh? F Hindu gods. We defy them. We defy BIG DADDY Jehovah, too. Come on, Mohammad, give us your best--and by the bye, how was your sister, pretty hot huh?
Irreligiousness is fun. God how we hate gods.
Say It Ain't So Omar and Willie
We have forever harped on the fact that general managers in baseball are the least people aware of the game itself. Besides, aren't we tired of so many Latino and Japanese imports clogging up our Amurican game? No prejudice intended, but come on, what happened to black players? Are they all playing football and basketball now? See how stupid racism is? Still, the Latinos on the Mets let 'em down, but also the white supreme pitcher Tom Glavine let 'em down, too. Old age just can't win you ballgames, Omar and Willie. Pedro--over the hill; why'd you buy him?; he hasn't contributed one god-damn thing to the Mets since he's been there. We exaggerate, of course. Bitchers love to exaggerate. And the boyz couldn't hit their ways out of paper sacks today, even if you hosed those sacks down and made them wet and flimsy. They beat the Marlins yesterday 13-0--Maines, a black pitcher, almost pitched a no-hitter. The next day, the same idiot team, and the Mets go Hollywood and choke and look like the worst team in baseball and not the team that should have won the World Series last year and should have been in the World Series this year. It's all about pitching, but these general managers who are in love with homerun hitters to the ignorance of knowing pitchers blow all their big bucks on hitters when they should be developing pitchers within their farm system or else shoveling out some big bucks for the ones coming up for grabs this year, like Mariano Rivera of the Yankees. Now the Mets are stuck with a hoard of bum pitchers, Glavine, Martinez, El Puque, Perez, Joe Schmit (who? you ask)...and Philadelphia's gift to the Mets, Billy "Did He Hit a Walk-off Homerun Off'a Me?" Wagner. I mean, come on, folks; the bum was worthless to the Mets in their last 18 games--he blew so many saves during that time, he'll be lucky if he isn't closing for Tampa Bay next year.
The Phillies look good, but we know that doesn't mean the Phillies are going to win the World Series. I can't see them beating the Yankees, the BoSox, or the Angels. Maybe Cleveland, though Cleveland has some g-d great pitchers, though they're not reliable. Of the teams who won the American League divisions, all have fairly good pitching staffs--the BoSox and the Yankees have the most unreliable pitchers but still when they're on they're good; when they're off, they pitch like the bums we sometimes feel they really are. It's amazing to us that there was only 1 20-game winner this year in baseball, Josh Beckett of the BoSox, and he only won 20; Wang and Lackey won 19. Lackey's from Abilene, Texas, and he's the cream of the Angels staff; but he is like Mussina, he wins big one year and then even-stevens it up the next year.
So, goodbye, Mr. Met. ["F you, The Daily Growler; I'll shoot tightly rolled up teeshirts up your asses next year, you Yankee b-b-b-bastards. I'm puttin' my Mister Met salary on the BoSox this year. Then we'll wait'll next year!"] Again, we sadly say good-bye to Mr. Met. [Mr. Met used to cover the Mets games for The Daily Growler but we didn't renew his contract after he shot rolled-up teeshirts at us while we were scouting the Mets at Shea one afternoon.]
Willie, we still love ya, kid, and we know you're a great manager, but here's some advice: get a new pitching coach! And tell Omar to go screw himself when he comes charging into your office demanding to know why you blew a seven-game lead with 15 games to play. Tell him to go after Ken Griffey, Jr., or Gary Sheffield even--get some black players on that team. What happened to great black pitchers, too; like Bob Gibson, one of the greatest pitchers we ever saw pitch?; F Sandy Koufax.
Yeah, we'd be ashamed, too, you little dick.
You Think Our Stock-Buying Advice Is Truth?
It is whether you believe it or not. We know Capitalism. We know Fascism. We know that Nazi giant corporations like Krupp Steel, Eberhart-Faber, Bausch & Lomb, Leica, General Aniline (a chemical company), Siemens, Daimler-Benz--weren't ruined by WWII. Hell no, they came out of that WAR smelling like roses. How 'bout those Japanese companies who suffered through WWII, let's see there's Mitsubishi, Nissan and Datsun (they changed their names when their cars started taking over the Amurican automobile industry and market), Sony, Panasonic, Canon (probably originally an Amurican company, anybody know?), Toyota. Just think, these two losing countries, Germany and Japan, survived the WAR in great shape; why, their economies went sky high while ours started tanking under Ronnie Raygun, our Alzheimer's president who depended on the likes of nutjob-egomaniac Jean Dixon for astrological advice, ignorant movie stars, Nancy and Ronnie, running this country--can you believe it's possible? It is true and don't think it's gonna get any better with our next "president."
Defense stocks, folks, that's our advice. F the kids's college fund; have a blast at Charles Schwab and go all out on defense stocks. What have you got to lose if you create as much buying power as you can and sink the farm into defense stocks? What, you gotta guilty conscience about making money off our suffering stupid troops or the innocent Iraqi men, women, children, babies getting their guts blown all over the countryside over there? Forget about it. It doesn't bother Hillary. She's well-stocked with defense stocks, including Wall-Mart (and we consider Wall-Mart a WAR stock) where she once sat on the board--plus she and Big Willie Jeff had to sell off their HMO stocks when it was found that National Healthcare for everyone Hillary was making big juicy bucks off her HMO stocks, especially Bill Frist's family's big HMO in Louisville, Kentucky. "Ah shucks, Hill, just put those stocks in Chelsea's name; those babies are making us a shit load of money, Hill."
Don't you want to be as rich as Hill and Bill? Once nothing but po'ass hillbillies from the great state of Arkansas, formerly our 51st state until Mississippi came along and knocked 'em out of last place, now the Slick Couple are multimillionaires--and after this election, they'll pocket millions'a more big election bucks--say Hill cops 40 million for her campaign--don't you think she's gonna pocket at least 10 million of that for her and Slick Willie's personal expenses (and you might see Chelsea's name on the payroll, too)? You bet she is. Even Obama's eyes are brightening up these days now that he's an F-ing millionaire. Who isn't filthy rich running for President this year?--probably Dennis Kocinich, though we don't trust his weird ass either. He is kind'a weird if you watch him long enough.
How embarrassing and insulting to Amuricans is it for Rudi "Mussolini" Guiliani to now be the leading Repugnican vote getter? You think Georgie Porgie with Unka Dick's hand up his ass is the worst-"president" ever, wait'll the rightwing Yahoos elect Mussolini Guiliani--oh God, here come the storm troopers, the black shirts, goosestepping their way down to Ground Zero for the installing of the 40-story statue of Rudi "Mussolini" Guiliani, the real hero of 9/11. Holy shit, is all this real?
That's the question; is this stupid shit going on all over the world really happening, or is it fiction like Jesus Christ, Mohammed, the Little Monkey God, or the big fat Buddha (Burger King should use Buddha in its commercials--"the Buddha Burger"--"Wanna look like a God, eat at Booger King." You know those young bitter jerks that work at Burger Kings blow boogers into burgers day-in-day-out. Next time you pass by a Burger King, give a look inside at all the dumb fools eating those fatty, killer booger burgers. Oh what fools we mortals be and still be and gonna keep on bein'.
Go on, eat hearty; he didn't blow it on your burger.
Please Don't Believe Everything You Eat or Read or See
The latest photo of Rudi Guiliani
Whoops, we made a mistake, that's an old photo.
Here's Rudi's latest photo:
Have a good day,
for The Daily Growler
Question of the Day
Did Colon's Pal Powell lie about Iraq having weapons of mass destruction?
Did Colon's Pal Powell lie about our overthrowing the democratically elected government of Haiti?
Is Colon's Pal Powell a natural-born liar?
Yep, here he is just naturally lyin' like the big lyin' dog he's been since birth. And look at those two honest-as-the-day-is-long creatures behind him there. Boy ain't we lucky to have human gems like this leading us to hell in a handbasket?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Don't you guys want to be filthy rich so you can live like Bill and Hillary; like Newtie Gingrich; like Brother Pat Robertson; like old Robert Byrd; like the Kennedy kids; like Rudi "I Stole Millions While Amurica's Mayor" Guiliani; like Bernie Keric; like Little Man Billionaire Mayor Michael Bloomberg; like Fitty Cent; like Puffed-up Bo Diddy? Rich as holy shit! All you have to do is follow the stock-buying advice you get here in The Daily Growler. Here's some good readin' for you SERIOUS investors who'd like to rip some of that pie in the sky off and into your pockets or had you rather keep working your ass off at low friggin' wages while this administration and Congress steal this country's wealth and are flushing it right down those gold-plated crappers all these rich bastards have in their master bathrooms--they used to shit in two-holers when they were second-rate whatevers before they became politicians--none of the above, except for the Kennedy kids were born rich. Like Bill and Hillary, for instance; you bet Hillary is highly invested in defense stocks.
The following link shows you a list of all the companies involved in the Military Industrial Complex--and hey, it's a long list, folks, so you've got a lot of winners to choose from:
Whoooo boy!! Get in line behind Justice Clarence "I Wuz Electronically Lynched" Thomas; get behind Governor Arnie Schwarzennegger, his father was a Nazi policeman--doesn't matter in the old land of the free--and he lucked out and got a Kennedy girl--the Jews don't seem to mind Schwarzy's Nazi-goose-stepping-Jew-killing father--Yahoo, at least Schwarzy loves Israel--Nazi money and Kennedy money have gone hand and hand for along time--check out old Joe Kennedy's checkered past when he was Ambassador to England. Hey, come on, Unka Dick's in this line, too. Come on, folks, put all your money in WAR stocks. WAR is here to stay. The stock market is being rigged to go back up over 14,000 again; the boyz in back room counting the billions of shares being traded all over the globe are keeping the shilling going--I mean, stock brokers make money coming and going like auctioneers, which is really all bourses are, auction blocks for stocks, bonds, junk bonds, etc.
Who's Gettin' Rich Off WAR?
While policymakers in Washington wrangle over how much progress we've made in Iraq, one thing is clear: The war on terror is making some people rich.
President Bush's military buildup has caused defense-contractor revenue to double, triple and even more during the past five years, and their executives have reaped huge bonuses and stock windfalls as the companies' share prices have jumped.
Take a look:
- CEOs at top defense contractors have reaped annual pay gains of 200% to 688% in the years since the Sept. 11, 2001, terror attacks.
- The chief executives at the seven defense contractors whose bosses made the most pocketed nearly a half-billion dollars from 2002 through last year.
From an AP article.
MORE, MORE, MORE
One criticism of unionism in this country is "all these workers want is MORE...." This comes from a speech given by Samuel Gompers back in the beginning of unions in this country--back when the big corporations became citizens of the USA to protect themselves--when Samuel Gompers did say unions wanted MORE, the more he was talking about was MORE rights for workers on the job, more safety standards, and more proper wages and more health benefits and more relaxation time with the 5-day work week--the workers of the US didn't get any of this without paying for it with their jobs, their families, their lives--and now the Neo-Cons have come along and brought back Industrial Revolution principles and ideals--the robber barons taking this country back--giving us yet another Jazz Age--the Jazz Age that led up to the Great Depression--in 1929, with the Harvard Business School charlatans saying no way the stock market can crash!
Don't get caught poor in the coming world!!! Check out the following:
Defense contractor CEOs are enjoying these big rewards partly because much of the war effort is being outsourced by an administration that believes private companies do things better than the public sector, say researchers at the Institute for Policy Studies and United for a Fair Economy.
"In the most privatized war in history, lucrative opportunities abound for chief executives of defense contractors," says Sarah Anderson of the Institute for Policy Studies. $19.5 million a year
General Dynamics CEO Nicholas Chabraja tops the list of defense-contractor chiefs who have made the most money during the 2002-2006 defense buildup. Between 2002 and 2006, he pocketed $97.9 million, or an average of $19.6 million a year.
Sales at General Dynamics increased 76% from 2002 to 2006, with significant help from Department of Defense spending. Overall sales increased to $24.1 billion from $13.6 billion, and at least a third of that increase came from higher Department of Defense spending.
Yahoooooo! So, folks, forget what you think is self-satisfaction with your lives; get in the bread line for the rich. All you need to do is max out all your credit cards, remortgage your house, car, wife, husband, dogs, children (you can now sell your children on eBay), take out a big loan, get together about 50 grand, buy a ton of defense stocks on margin and soon, you'll be looking at that stretch limo, the list of illegal immigrant nannies (just think, you'll be rich enough to afford an immigrant nanny!!! Now that's class, folks), penthouses in midtown Manhattan, summer homes out in the Hamptons--or just think if you live in say Indianapolis and you get filthy rich--WOW, you can shoot the finger to the whole damn city! And you'll just keep getting richer and richer after Georgie Porgie with Unka Dick's arm up his ass declares war on IRAN. I mean, how many billions of dollars can our Treasury Department print? Money's easy, folks; there's tons of it out there. Do you realize that even the independent contractors in Iraq who are crooked Iraqis are getting billionaire rich, too, off that war.
So get in line, folks, get in there behind Bill Cosby there; get in behind the Juice (can OJ play the stock market?); Ron Goldman's father; J Lo's mother (remember, she hit the jackpot down in Atlantic City--got her own fortune, screw her fake-street daughter)...BUY WAR STOCKS--screw War Bonds--WAR STOCKS are the Amurican Way!!!
Remember: Martin-Marietta; Gruman Industries; Halliburton of Dubai; KBR; the Carlyle Group; Bechtel; Exxon-Mobil...lordy, lordy, lordy, soon you'll be running down your street naked and shouting "I'm F-ing RICH...Praise the Lard and pass those stupid soldiers some more ammunition! WAR is good; Make WAR NOT LOVE. F Love; if you're rich, you can buy plenty of love.
Buy WAR STOCKS--get rich quick.
for The Daily Growler
Around The Daily Growler high-glam designer offices high atop Mount Scott, the highest mountain in Oklahoma, watch out for those beer cans and drunken soldiers, we're going out partying. thegrowlingwolf has once again flown the coop to recoop so he can continue his continuing palaver he calls One Spring Morning Off Spring Street Monday. He is smoking foul-smelling cigars and bragging about his new leather-tooled briefcase he's carrying around with him though there's nothing in it; he doesn't want to ruin it by carrying things in it. It's old see. From his precious Mexico, which he hasn't seen in what--40 years. Plus he's wearing his Mexican Jefe hat, his chic sombrero and his 100-dollar Medici trendy sneakers--they're made of kangaroo skin; that's why he likes them--they're blue leather with red trim.
The Mets won today--13-0; the Phillies got beat by the Washington Nats; so they're even-steven in the Nat League East. Tomorrow's game will decide if the Mets make it; they have to win and Philly has to lose--or San Diego has to lose, they lost tonight, so the Mets or Phillies are one game behind San Diego for the Wild Card--Colorado is also one game behind SD for the Wild Card--how's that for excitement coming in baseball tomorrow!!!...it's hard to believe baseball regular season is almost over--one more game--and then the playoffs begin. A fast season; but a thrilling one. More people went to baseball games this year than ever in the history of baseball. The Yankees drew an average of 52,000 a game; over 4 million plus for the second year in a row; so let's don't hear any baseball owners bitching about not making any money. Bastards! Baseball is a very corrupt business, same as all sports that involve billions of bucks a year.
The President of Bolivia, the first indigenous Bolivian to become president, Evo Morales, is a cool dude; and man the cat thinks with a rational mind. He says the UN must respect the rights of indigenous people and their nation's natural resources, which in Bolivia includes oil, mining, and coca-leaf production--Bolivians chew coca-leaves as a matter of routine--it helps give you energy in high-altitude countries, and Bolivia is a high-altitude country, I mean, La Paz is like 7 or 8 thousand feet above sea level, maybe higher. He says the UN must defend the indigenous people of the world against the plundering of their natural resources by global corporations. He says since the UN is in the US and the US gives leaders like him visa bullshit and threatening to not let them in the country to attend the UN, why not move the UN to another country--it began in Switzerland, though it was founded in San Francisco during Hairy Ass Truman's mass destructive administration--Harry with a gleam in his eye ordered Nagasaki and Hiroshima nuked to the tune of 300,000 innocent "Japs" (that's what we called them in WWII--or there was the more courteous word "Nips" used a lot) being fried alive. Hey, Harry excused it, we'd a lost 2 million Amurican boys if we'd had to attack the Japs on their own soil--I mean these little buggers just wouldn't give up, you know, suicide being their most sacred way of avoiding losing. Never give up! When you hear that kind'a bullshit being spouted, you know we'll have wars for the rest of human existence--and there's not much of human existence left if we the predictors here at The Daily Growler are anywhere near correct.
for The Daily Growler
The National League Wild Card Race
About Evo Morales
BOLIVIA: Who is Evo Morales?
24 July 2002
BY ALEJANDRO RODRIGUEZ
In April 2000, Aguas de Tanari, a large multinational corporation, was due to take over the privatised water works in Cochabamba. Water prices were to increase and laws were passed to make it illegal to catch and use rain water. Water would be out of the reach of the majority of residents, 65% of whom live below the poverty line. Mass demonstrations erupted, roads were blocked and running battles where fought with the police and the army until the government gave in. The sell-off was defeated.
Evo Morales, of the Movement to Socialism (MAS), was one of the leaders of this battle. Morales has also led the peasants' struggle against the US-sponsored forced eradication of coca and is a prominent leader of the indigenous Quechua people. Morales won a surprise second place in the June 30 presidential election.
Long before coca was used to make cocaine, the indigenous people of the Andean region, the Aymara and Quechua, chewed coca leaves as a dietary supplement. The consumption of coca leaves and tea is part of daily life for Bolivia's peasants, miners and workers. The US-led “Plan Dignidad” (dignity plan), which seeks to reduce coca production to zero, is seen by them as an attack on the peasant's livelihoods and the indigenous people's way of life.
This US-financed plan involves US military advisers on the ground ordering Bolivian soldiers to attack, kill and displace peasants with US-made weapons. This has led to resistance among the peasants, with several self-defence groups being formed. In 2001, for the first time since coca eradication began, more police and soldiers were killed than peasants.
Morales has publicly declared that he not only supports the peasants' right to self-defence but is participating in the organisation of these popular self-defence groups with the aim of forming a people's army.
Since early 2001, Morales and the MAS have campaigned across Bolivia for the June 30 presidential election. The MAS platform included: the nationalisation of strategic industries; price reductions and a price freeze on household goods; the provision of basic services for all; defence of free public health and education; increased taxes for the rich; an end to corruption; the redistribution of land to those that work it; a new political apparatus; an end to neo-liberal economic policies; and opposition to a “flexible” work force.
In early August, Bolivia's congress will choose either Morales or front-runner Gonzalo Sanchez de Lozada of the Nationalist Revolutionary Movement to be the country's new president.
Friday, September 28, 2007
In our haste of editing thegrowlingwolf's episodic self-adventures we failed to note that the Wolf Man had failed to mention Sidney Bechet's book Treat It Gentle--we know he's read it because he's always touting Sidney Bechet as the first jazz man to do this and we've heard him growling about how "Sidney Bechet was there when Armstrong was there; he heard the same Buddy Bolden as Louis did, plus this m-f-er was doing recording dubbing when Les Paul was still playing high-plains hillbilly guitar and a racked harmonica up in the wilds of South or North Dakota, blah, blah, blah." So we apologize and humbly bow before the eagle eyes of languagehat [www.languagehat.com] who brought this lack of thorough research to our attention. Sidney Bechet was a great storyteller; if he had help writing the book, isn't that probably a given?
We tried to download the introduction to Treat It Gentle here but the page blotted out the blog so to hell with it. You can download some of this book from the Internet. There is quite a bit of Bechet information on the Internet--a lot of wide-eyed white respect of him on the Internet, along with a lot of white dumb statements and questions like 'where do I find this guy's recordings, he's great,' though we doubt with the exception of the whole Marsalis family that anyone in jazz today is really that familiar with the likes of Sidney, Jelly Roll, Omar Simeon, Tommy Ladnier, Art Hodes, Pops Foster, Zutty Singleton, the deParis's--and we could go on and on dropping names--even Max Kaminsky's name--and maybe this is a trick to get more hits on the blog--make preposterous statements about YOUNG-er than we Americans and how stupid they in general are--and totally stupid when it comes to their own music--and this includes black Americans, too; how many rappers know who Sidney Bechet was; yet Bechet's music is so prevalent even in the most stupid and monotonous and self-blinging rap recordings of today--Run DMZ might know who Sidney Bechet is--they certainly knew how important Chuck Berry was to rap, that's for sure.
thegrowlingwolf's white-man-wannabe-black-man hero, Mezz Mezzrow, knew and recorded with Sidney as a member of a Tommy Ladnier recording session. One version of Sidney's New Orleans Feetwarmers featured Sonny White on piano and Klook on drums. Bechet was a member of Jelly Roll's New Orleans Jazzmen along with Sidney De Paris, Albert Nicholas, Lawrence Lucie, Wellman Braud, and Zutty Singleton. Ernie Caceres, the Tex-Mex baritone sax player who once recorded with the Bob Wills Band in San Antonio, was in one of Sidney's bands. Unfortunately, Sidney got so pissed off at the USA and especially New Orleans (Louis Armstrong also got terribly pissed at New Orleans--to the point he made it clear before he died that he did not want to be buried in New Orleans--and he wasn't, he's buried in Queens, New York, where he spent the best years of his life) he moved to Paris in the fifties where he became a huge star and in a grand, triumphant, French kind of wedding ceremony, he married a white woman boldly and proudly and then he wrote Treat It Gentle, which was published in 1960. His funeral in Paris was one of the biggest funeral events in Paris since Victor Hugo's death and Berlioz's dies-irae-riddled funeral march that led him to Pere Lachaise--where Sidney Bechet ended up, too--along with Gertrude Stein and Jim Morrison--how's that for diversity in cemetery life?
Sidney as a young man. He gigged right up until his death in 1959.
And Charles Parker, Jr., knew Sidney, too...
for The Daily Growler
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The room was big; nothin' special really, though again my Texas put-down personality was at work here; diminish Detroit in front of the woman I was attempting to make love me back. I had her eyes, now I wanted to go behind those eyes. My sultry desires were pecking at my respectful side.
Once in the room Girl snapped on the wall radio; there was a teevee but no one turned it on--maybe it was one you had to put money in to get it to work--I don't remember, all I know is I don't recall it ever being turned on.
Immediately I hit the crapper, I was human functioning, and when I came out, BBJ said, "I got dubs on the first shower." "No problem, Cap'n J, it's all yours." "There's some duds for you in that clothes bag," he said, dashing into the bathroom--I heard him curse through the door, "Oh God-damn, son of a bitch...." Yes, I had fouled the Detroit air in there.
There were twin beds. A painting over the beds that I don't remember at all what it was--a portrait of Henry Ford? Of Edsel Ford maybe. There was a nightstand between the beds with a telephone on it. I started dialing room service. Girl grabbed the phone out of my hand. "Come on, as soon as you guys get cleaned up we're out of here." "I'm starving." Then I caught her eyes again; this time too close for comfort. I took her face in my hands and kissed her. She kissed me back. I remembered Frank Harris in his Life and Loves of Frank Harris when he said how he knew his precious 12-year-olds were ready to screw by kissing them and feeling their lips very hot--that's how he knew (Frank admits in this book that he couldn't get it up for women over 12--and he admitted to it but not from a guilty point of view but as a simple point of fact. Banging 12-year-olds wasn't considered pederasty in those great days when the sun never sank on the Brit Empire, especially when the object of pederastic delights were the 12-year-old daughters of the loyal subjects; though Lewis Carrol had a pederasty problem right in the middle of merry old England and he came through it just fine--his photographs of his "little" angels are now considered "art"; all over India, for instance, Frank Harris found the most popular prostitutes were the 12-year-olds--even the Brit homosexuals loved 12-year-old boys)--and Girl's lips were on fire. It triggered my Id and set my wild Libido loose on this poor woman and I pulled her over onto the bed and kissed her hard, and she kissed me back, and then I went to unzip the little black dress at the back and I started unzipping it and with my other hand I was up her dress feeling for her... and she then pulled her lips off mine and whimpered, "No, please don't. Please don't...please..." I scuttled off the bed like an unrocked cockroach and stood upright against the nearest wall, arms out like Jesus on the cross.
I looked at Girl; she wasn't looking at me. She looked crushed. I had crushed her like that bridge we crossed coming into Detroit had crushed me, allowing Detroit city to kiss my lips and find my lips hot....
Suddenly the room was cold. Then BBJ came out of the bathroom looking like a god-damn duke or earl...I mean he was dressed to the nines and even further. "Zootie," I said, being old-fashioned, remembering my brother as a young man sporting a zoot suit one day--but that was worlds behind me and I rushed into the bathroom quick and left BBJ in the room with his sister in the fetal position on the bed. I wondered if she was sucking her thumb? I hoped she was. She really was just a girl but I wasn't a boy anymore.
An Interruption by the Author That Will Affect This Story
Those of you who have been trying to follow this phosphorous-glowing salvation rope through this dark cave of a novel idea I started almost a month ago must realize here that this story evolved out of me one day unexpectedly coming across a book about a character who popped into my life one day who I had totally put out of my mind--for almost 30 years. In order to recreate that character in my mind, I started writing this episodic adventure I call One Spring Morning Off Spring Street, which in turn turned out to be a reconstruction of my own life, a reconstruction that out of necessity took me back to Detroit, Michigan, one spring Saturday night around April Fool's Day, 1962. I'll make a confession here and now afore rowing my boat further into this novel cave in which I've suddenly seen a blinding light of introspection (isn't it interesting how both light and darkness can blind you?). My confession: I have reconstructed this story so really real--so damn honestly--I mean even my imagination is stunned by this recreation--this "Girl" character who just spontaneously appeared out of nowhere in this story, shit, me and Big Bad John had to get to Detroit quick--we found we could fly free to BBJ's hometown of East Lansing, Michigan (actually the Lansing, Michigan, airport, though it's close to East Lansing, too), and I'm rambling because I'm now trying to avoid writing about this--it's an embarrassing confession for a writer--and I am the writer, I won't deny that--and this is all my story, not really the story of the character who came out of my past's woodwork and inspired this story, the character whose quotes I've been using to lead in to each new episode of this reconstruction of my life in order to go back and work this character into it. I mean thinking of that past has brought back to life in my life Matty Quick, another dude I'd totally put in a dark corner of the attic of my mind, my historical corner; Jesus Christ the guitar player from Brooklyn--I haven't seen Jesus in 5 or 6 years now, though I know he's still a guitar player and is working in a well-booked band in upstate New York; Robin Rothman--my god, I had totally pushed poor old Robin way out, far out out of my mind's remembrance, but bringing her back up, and all these side characters back up, Dirty Underwear, hell the story I could write just about DU--and then that brings to mind more characters from this time--EXCEPT....
Writing Girl back into my life has challenged me as a writer. Girl is real, folks, and I had put her out of mind and Detroit was where Girl came into my line of sight, my mind, my life...and Girl brought back that first-love wonderful little bitch who jilted me for that god-damn disc jockey and this has all upset me, dear readers (I always as a writer wanted to use that hook device--"Alas, dear readers, the averted eyes of the Captain caused his demise...."), upset me to the point that One Spring Morning Off Spring Street is having to turn into a Proustian effort, an effort I'm just not wolfishly up to. I mean the true story of Girl and me can be elongated into a whole volume--but I shy away from taking the story to its perfect ending--I can't write that here--it's really not a part of this character this story is really trying to get to to make a point about music and writers and evolving music and writers and writers wanting to be musicians and musicians wanting to be writers. [Musicians are not good writers most times--I can't imagine a novel by Charles Parker, Jr.; it'd be as awesome as his jazz inventions. The best book written by a musician--I like Charles Mingus's Beneath the Underdog (not his original title), though he had a lot of help writing that book. Frank Conroy who wrote the novel Stop Time was a jazz pianist in several cafes in downtown Manhattan back in the seventies. I love a couple of Oscar Levant's books--especially the tragic Memoirs of an Amnesiac. I've heard a couple of Artie Shaw's books are good but I've never read one. I know for sure Artie Shaw considered himself a writer in his final years, "I'm working on a huge novel I've been working on for ten years" [from a typed note Artie sent to fans writing and asking him for his autograph--it's signed but it's a Xerox of the original note--so it's a joke on his fans, too]. I love Mezz Mezzrow's Really the Blues, I really like that book, but Mezz had ghost writing help with it and admits it on the cover. Babs Gonzales wrote a book back in the 70s but I'm sure it's long out of print. Hoagy Carmichael wrote his life that I'd like to read. Hoagy was an interesting cat--a genius of the same ilk as George Gershwin--that American special genius--you find it in a dude named Zez Confrey, too; and you find it way back in the never-heard-until-now works of the great Charles Ives, my Classical father--and it's easy to drift from Ives over into the blues or jazz or r and b....
Anyway, I can't go on with this Detroit episode. It's important in that Detroit music is a big part of this story--remember, I've already mentioned Creem, the white rock and roll magazine that started in downtown Detroit before the Detroit blacks drove it out to an abandoned lake resort near Birmingham, Michigan--and that first time I was in Detroit I was hearing a certain music for the first time--the Temps, Little Stevie, the Supremes, all Detroiters--Harvey Fuqua who'd moved to Detroit from Philadelphia and brought a whole bunch of Philadelphians with him, and just think of the musicians and stars who started coming out of Detroit, and then there was Aretha Franklin--and I already knew who Aretha was from the broadcasts on the Mexican radio stations of her father's church services out of Detroit late, late at night, services in which young Aretha would always play the piano and sing a special song with the church gospel choir--and I loved the way gospel music swung--and I loved that modern gospel was invented by an old blues singer, Thomas Dorsey, a man whose blues lyrics were so sexually suggestive with great rhyming innuendos and he was so successful as a blues singer that he found Jesus and in reversing his songs, rinsing them clean of their many, many sinful stains, he invented gospel music--Tom was a great pianist, too. They even played Rev. Franklin's sermons on the blues shows out of Nashville and Shreveport--every record show had a "gospel" package near its end--Brother Joe May, the Thunderbolt of the Midwest and the Sallie Martin Singers--god those were great old revelation-type radio programs--white guys trying to talk black, selling record packages meant for the black market to black folks--from the record shops in Nashville (Randy's was one) and Shreveport (Stan's was the biggest and most influential record store in my neck of the woods--Stan, originally from Brooklyn, also recorded some of the now-forgotten blues greats on his Jewel label--like Buster Benton ("Spiders in My Stew") or the truly great Lowell Fulsom (Lowell's brother once booked a band I was in into a local blues festival--I made $400 that night--most I've ever made on a blues gig) "Reconsider, Baby")--
So Detroit music was about to interfere in my musical life--and soon there was Smoky...and soon there would be Don Ruffin...and then all of a sudden--there were The Wheels, MC5, holy cow, Iggy Pop, the Stooges, Ted Nugent...and yes, that's why I thought I had to go back to Detroit and remember that music back then. Instead, I remembered Girl. I don't know how to describe the hold Girl had on me. She was my Helen of Troy (also a bartender later in my New York City life at the Four Roses Bar that once was the hottest bar on Canal Street, right up from the West Side Mexican Cafe)--she was my Lilly Langtry (referring to Texan Judge Roy Bean's fallin' head over heels and greased bears for her (great Paul Newman movie))--she was my Carson McCullers, too, maybe--my Elinor Wylie--my Edna St. Vincent Millay--she was my Colette...my Natalie Wood.
What Girl looked like. That's Natalie Wood; my masturbatory dream woman as a pimple-faced kid. And Natalie was a natural true beauty 'til that Hollywood lifestyle got hold of her and she ended up marrying Robert Wagner and partying hearty those two--except one wrong night they gave a cocktail party on their yacht...and you know the rest, I assume.
And to continue on honestly with this story of Girl, of going on out to the Roostertail--and we did--and how this trip ended up is too dark, too bewildering, too depressing, too frightening; I can't relive it, dammit. It almost got me court-martialed.
So, using my licence as a poet rather than a reporter, I'm fading out of Detroit and being sucked back to another street off Spring Street in New York City, back to the couch in Mike Roddy's loft's livingroom with the shadowy Leah loping around the walls as I picked up that copy of Creem magazine off the coffee table and started thumbing through it. "Don't get pizza grease on that magazine," Leah ordered. I looked at her. For the first time since I'd first met her my eyes caught hers and I held them there...but here I go again...no more TANGENTS.... You, dear reader (and I hasten not to use the plural here), surely understand...or at least the artist in you should understand.
for The Daily Growler
We are sorry to say the Mets lost tonight to the crappy Cardinals, 3-0. A second-rate suitcase-constantly-packed bum named Joel Pinero limited the Mets to 3 hits. Pinero was once the pride and joy of Lou Pinella's Seattle Mariners but he never lived up to expectations; but, hey, tonight he was a Cy Young winner against the Mets. Philly has won already. Holy Cow, that means the Mets are now tied with the god-damn Phillies for first place.
The Yankees won tonight and Boston lost; the Yankees are 2 games out of first with 3 games to play.
The Mets and the Phillies have 3 games to play--the Mets home against the lowlife Marlins (they just swept the Cubs 3 games) and the Phillies are home against the Washington Nats who just swept 3 from the Mets. Pretty "down to the wire" and thrilling, eh, baseball lovers?
Unbelievable. You cannot predict baseball, folks; it's that simple.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
By the time we booked into the Book-Cadillac Hotel, I had totally lost track of time. It was nighttime, the right time, and I was with the one I loved, but in terms of reality and rationality I was nowhere fast, my head spinning, and after we came down off the crushing bridge, with Girl and BBJ arguing over what exit to take--"Get on Michigan, Girl, dammit." "I don't like Michigan. I like Grand River," we were engloved by the city itself and I was beginning to attach myself mentally to Girl in order to have hopes about our soon arriving at the most expensive hotel in Detroit at that time. And I thought briefly about money--I didn't think I had any left--though I should have had at least a hundred bucks left from what I'd brought with me; I was that detached from everything except the smell and sound of now downtown Detroit, Michigan. I was still catching Girl's eyes no matter how I approached her, you know what I mean? Like, I could just look at her and she was looking back to see if I was looking back to see if she was looking back at me and we were looking for each other's eyes and our eyes were meeting in flashes or in little long stares or in just plain wide-eyed anticipation, of what I knew what I wanted, but of what she wanted I knew not, except I did really, you know, instinctually.
Suddenly we were in the pits of Detroit. In the middle of town, going down a very main street (it was Grand River) and I was looking up at the starkly dark buildings, old buildings, turn-of-the-century buildings mixed with pre-WWII-sky-reaching-stone-and-brick-and-gargoyled rather gothic-leaning structures in admidst a scattering of post-WWII architectural experiments, though at the time I had no idea about any of the architecture that passed and whizzed around and by me out the car's window, which was wide open and letting in a cacophonous blatting of hoots, blarings, screechings, sirens, regular-car-honking, some big limo honks, and a lot of taxi honks.
The Book-Cadillac Hotel was a monster slab, like a giant accordian sitting unplayed--once the tallest hotel in the world at 33 stories--though at night it didn't reveal its height; in fact, all I remember seeing of it was long canvas-canopied entrance and a winking sign above it saying this was definitely the Book-Cadillac Hotel--I know, I stopped mid-sidewalk and looked up and read it letter for letter--"I grew up with Cadillacs," I then shouted at that sign, as if trying to get the Motor City's attention in order to impress it, "My daddy loved Caddies and during my childish life he bought three, all of which I drove, one of which I wrecked! I've wrecked three friggin' cars in my short life." I just wanted the Motor City to know about growing up with Caddies, and, damn, there was a big El Dorado parked smacked dab in front of the hotel I suddenly coincidentally noticed, letting out a babe wearing a leopard-skin coat, I assumed was real, though fake fur was big with hot chicks in those days--moutons--but the real moutons were lambie pie wool weren't they?, but the hometown girls liked the phony ones, too. Then I spotted the drugstore--it was still open--"Look at that," I yipped, "The Supphose Drugstore." "That's Sooop-rows, you silly boy goose," quipped Girl, as she jumped along, swishing her hips as if beckoning me to follow her.
Girl and I unloaded what little baggage we had from the car, me and BBJ's army bags--and Girl had nothing but that little black dress with her, and as we were pulling my diddy bag out of the car the cognac bottle slipped out from under the bag to ping down against the sidewalk and then splat out, glass shattering, to explode like glass rockets across the sidewalk's sky, glass and what was left of the cognac all over the Book-Cadillac's doorman's shoes, too. "Don't worry, ma'am, we'll clean that up." His eyes were all over Girl. She was so gosh-awful attractive. Bated your breath. Her hair was still tossing about with every frisky girl-like movement she made; she skip-to-my-lou-danced along, she didn't walk. BBJ then drove off to park the car and Girl and I bounced into the Book-Cadillac lobby--an awesome lobby that really didn't impress me the Texan from Dallas where we had the flu-flu Hotel Adolphus, built by the Budweiser Buschs in the heyday of the Jazz Age and named for the pater Busch whose name was Adolph, and the Adolphus was a gold-gilded menage-de-trois of mixed-bag styles, though more whorehouse glitzy than the Cadillac, a Motor City hotel devoted to automobiles--why look, over there, the Motor Bar. "God, that Motor Bar is calling me something 300-horsepower fast." "Cool down, Wolfie, and let's get checked in then we're headin' out to the Roostertail and you'll love it out there--it's on the river...." We reached the desk. Girl went into her cheerleadery extra-charming act and soon we were just standing waiting for BBJ to return from parking the car and I couldn't take my eyes off Girl as she stood there fidgeting, looking over at me, our eyes still meeting and talking to each other, love, I hoped. In my hazy-crazy head she was expanding, surrounding me like a hungry amoeba, taking my various brains over.
As you will note in the comment on this post, the commenter caught the Wolf Man in a lie. Of course this is not what the B-C lobby was like when he was there; if he was ever there; it is fiction, isn't it? No. It's not fiction, but it's a kind of dream-like remembrance of times pissed...the above shown lobby is from back in a time when the Wolf Man wasn't even a thought in anyone's head anywhere. Thanks to our commenter for setting us straight. THE STAFF. Perhaps, as in the old days, we should preface these episodes with the "Any resemblance to anything or person living or dead and pretending to be real is purely coincidental."
Again I noticed the drugstore, this time the lobby entrance and I just out-of-nowhere started worrying about should I buy condoms in case...how licentious was that? How pompous? But, hell, my daddy told me when I was a boy that I was gonna be a ladies's man and I might as well get used to it. I had two chicks in love with me back home though one of them was cheatin' on me, the one I liked best of course, and when I went home on my first furlough, later, I found she had gained weight and when I said something about it she started crying. You can figure it out, right? I never used a condom with her so at first I was scared--oh shit, I knocked this 16 year old up, now what? But, I was saved. She told me it was His baby. "That bastard," I cried, "I'drather you'd'a fucked any other asshole in town but not that dry-brained asshole." He was a disc jockey on the new FM station and he thought he was so hip and cool. I hated disc jockeys. Disc jockeys were dumbasses; hell, they were jocks same as athlete jocks. God I hated that bastard and had horrible hallucinations about him screwing her after she told me. Dammit!!! Even now I get fiercely aggravated thinking of that jilt...but that came later and anyway I was Army thinking in terms of condoms. Damn right I used one in East Saint Louis the week before; the cross-eyed bitch charged me 10 bucks for it. "That's a fifty-cent Shiek, dammit," I protested as she tugged it on me. "Hey, we only use the best around here." That shut me up; that made me actually love her for a few minutes when I first slid into her. Then I looked down into those crossed eyes. Girl's eyes weren't crossed. God no, Girl's eyes were eyes reflecting beauty from within coming into form without, into a black-dressed and frolicking form, a form of curves and symmetry and nerve-wracking attraction. Dammit, I felt like I was King of Detroit.
Then BBJ came in from the street and we elevatored up to our room--I don't remember what floor it was on but I remember it was a long elevator ride full of Girl's smell mixing with BBJ's and my smells, a threesome smell, hers leaping out from ours to perfume us enough we were aware of how dominant a woman can be even with her smells. Come on, I thought, surely BBJ's had the hots for his sister. I was getting so vile. But, hell, I was in Detroit, a thousand miles from my home, hundreds of miles from the Army; I was cruisin' and up ahead was a Cadillac of a woman in the Book-Cadillac, a Cadillac of hotels, and I was soon to learn where the fishtails on 50s Cadillacs came from; at least that's the story I heard after we finally got to the Roostertail down on the blackened Dee-Troit River.
To be continued as is always continued as if in a floating continuing present.
for The Daily Growler
A The Daily Growler Biased Sports Report From marvelousmarvbackbiter
Well, doubters and BoSox fans, the Yankees made the playoffs for the 13th straight year tonight as they clobbered the fiesty Devil Rays 12 to 4 to tuck away the Wild Card even if they don't win the East championship, which they could if they win their next three and Boston loses their next three and then the Yankees would be tied for the championship and the Yankees would win it because they won all their series with Boston this year. But as a Yankee fan and like the BoSox fans were crowing when they thought the Yankees were gonna sweep around them and into first a few days ago now I'm sayin', who cares about the championship, no big deal, the Yankees are in the playoffs and that's all that counts--I, as a Yankee fan, am getting more baseball--at least 5 more games--probably against Cleveland, a team they consistently beat like they beat Boston. Boston will play the Angels in their first series, a team Boston handles better than the Yankees. This way they're settin' up for a Yankees-BoSox rematch for the AL Championship. Life is good tonight if you're a Yankee fan.
On the other side of the East River the story's different and really scary--I mean the god-damn Mets suddenly can't win; it's so bad, they're losing to the worst teams in the Nat'l League, the Marlins and the Nats. Holy Cow, Willie. Your pitchers suck; you gotta horsewhip 'em or something--especially Wagner; and Glavine sucks like the over-the-hill has-been he may well be; El Duque is being El Puque at the moment--is he injured?--and Wagner is totally unreliable. That leaves Oliver Perez and Pedro. Can you trust those two? Willie has to it looks like. "Come on, Willie, get those pitchers off their asses"--Jeez, if the Mets don't make the playoffs--poor Willie; and except for pitching, the Mets are a great offensive and defensive team.
The Yankees right now are the winningest, scoringest, home run hittingest team in Major League baseball. Their problem: you guessed it: PITCHING.
Whatever happens, it has been one hell of a great baseball season; one of the best yet, unless the Yankees get blown away by Cleveland and the Mets lose the rest of their games. And I wanted a Subway World Series this year. What a year for that, with the ex-Yankee Willie Randolph against ex-Met Joe Torre and ex-BoSox Clemens and ex-BoSox Pedro and El Duque the ex-Yankee--wow and A-Rod and David Wright.... I've got me rabbit's foot out and I'm rubbin' it like a crazy man. Damn, that is my rabbit's foot isn't it?
Willie Randolph as a Yankee.
for The Daily Growler
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Detroit, dark night, Detroit lights twinkling across and reflecting off a black shimmering expanse that seemed like a blackened two-way mirror showing both sides of neurotic Detroit, shimmering because it was erupting, yet still and flat like a sheet of black steel and reflecting as though a mirror, the real, the mirror image, or was it vice versa? And as we crossed over a huge bridge and were lifted up slightly above downtown Detroit, I caught Girl's face in the Invicta's rearview mirror and she was looking right into my eyes. I was melting. I was getting jittery. I needed a drink. I needed a shower. I needed to shit. But hell love makes you forget the simplest of bodily functions for the most serious of mind-fuckings, those vibes cocky gorgeous girl-like babes sent flying into your wild imagination-filled loins when you were a young male full of himself, the world, and the need of women--God-dammit!!!!!, I love that little saucy piece of ass looking back at me from that elongated mirror up there while she's driving her car head on over this crushing down-on-me black steel bridge, that black water under that bridge rushing up at me in that darkness. I looked up at that rearview mirror again. The Detroit skyline was punctuated by Girl's brown eyes, "a brown-eyed girl," and dammit this was long before that Irish ripper-offer Van Morrison spun Chuck Berry's "Brown-eyed Handsome Man" into a "Brown-eyed Girl," and this was "My Girl," speaking future Detroit music, and future Detroit music was coming blasting now at me--why hadn't I noticed the radio before? maybe it couldn't pick up the Detroit station until we were almost into Detroit; that was it, I yawned, it all having to do with radio waves and interferences, just like life--as long as you ride the waves you're safe; an interference comes, then you start caterwauling out a blues.
One of the inventors of Rock 'n Roll, and the boyz and girlz at Creem would agree (clue!!! I'm being enigmatic), Chuck Berry caught right in the sweet middle of a hot duck walk.
"Hail, hail Rock and Roll! Deliver us from the days of old! Long-live Rock and Roll!" The maestro of Rock and Roll in the pure-dee middle of an early-days duck walk. Man, dig his pedal extremeties! And check out that guitar! And check out that old Fender Twin Reverb back there--that's what it is isn't it? Nobody could match Chuck for lyrics, back beat, and nobody ever has learned to play the guitar like he did at his best--I know of only one guitar player who mastered it and I was proud to serve time in several bands with the dude; if you've been paying attention you'd know I'm talking about Jesus Christ, the guitar player from Brooklyn and not the nutjob Christians savior. And that's what Rock and Roll was supposed to do, "Deliver us from those days of old," meaning the relationship between blacks and whites in this country; that's what Chuck was delivering us from, those days of segregation, of apartheid in this country, those days of Jim Crow, that's what Rock and Roll was supposed to do--but, oh no; the music industry was determined to see that the music business was never integrated; hell no; Capitalism depends on divisions, markets they can be called, sales areas, anyway, Capitalism depends on segregation to create markets so it can sell its quantities of products it's constantly overproducing. Rather than giving our black musicians their due, credit for inventing Rock and Roll, etc., they brought these cheesy imitation black British church mode bands over here by the droves--hell, the Brits couldn't make money in England--they had a 100% tax in England on everything over 100,000 pounds--but over here, the Brit boys worked cheap because the bucks they made here they banked here and offshore--all bands are eventually controlled by crooked lawyers and accountants--SHIT, you catch my drift, I hope--and it wasn't just Chuck Berry who really invented Rock and Roll and intended for it to go in a certain direction, away from those days of old, but it was Ike Turner, too; Ike Turner played a big, big roll in inventing Rock and Roll, starting as a DeeJay in Greenville, Mississippi, the pure-dee heart of the blues nation, the Delta blues nation, where it all came from anyway, the heart nation also of Rock and Roll--and when the record industry Europeanized our music by bringing the British invasion upon us, it all had to do with profits, my friends--all kinds of different record bins in Tower Records, or whatever the latest big chain record store calls itself these days, the more bins the more diversity, the more diversity, the more customers--big chain record stores now come and go as fast as top ten bands and singers and trends come and go [And by the by, I listened to Kelly Clarkson last night singing in a special tribute to herself, the sweet little naive innocent saintly first-time star of Rupert "Crass Ass" Murdoch's own private little teevee show, American Idol, and listen to me, folks, she was flat; she had no sense of feeling for her song at all, totally uninspiring, except to the little budding squealy girls who are still pissing in their pants they're so easily thrilled--and Kelly was flat in her pitch and she was flat in her presentation and as far as I know, she's flat chested. Case closed. American music today SUCKS. You know why? World music sucks. You know why? It's purely commercial music--manufactured music--music generated by scraggly ass nerdy white guys who command the boards of million-dollar recording studios--God, I'm getting wolfishly angry--I mean, I need'a growl at that god-damn moon. "Going by the river/On a real moonlighty night...."
[Short but sweet, folks.] [Are short folks sweet?] [Sweet folks are short of ....]
To be continued as everything is continued because without continuence nothing is ever done.
for The Daily Growler
Monday, September 24, 2007
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 dad...in 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)--
Don 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.
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 coming...eh-ahhhh, 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
Sunday, September 23, 2007
No, not U.N.C.L.E.'s enemy--a la olde teevee history--that's not the Chaos we here at The Daily Growler are championing, and we say "championing" very proudly, because like the true believers in Chaos we are, we crusade with girded loins and shielded breasts as we go about the world searching for our Holy Grail, our Tao, our The Life, our humbling god, the true ultimate god, Chaos.
And, folks, Chaos is'a comin' faster than them shrimp boats used come in at night up the inlets to Morgan City and Houma--off what used to be a magnificent Gulf Coastal area, with grand islands spilling out away from the thousands of peninsula fingers of connected land reaching out from Louisiana's bottom parishes--like that land from Houma down to what used-to-be the awesome Grand Isle area of Louisiana, straight below New Orleans--oh, er-ah, hah-hah-hah, we forgot, the Corps of Engineers destroyed that coastal area and its natural rebuff of the mighty Gulf of Mexico, that huge body of water that seems to welcome horrendous storms with open arms as it did September a year ago when it opened its arms to a hurricane babe they named Katrina and thanks to the disastrous wiping out of the reef and sand barriers at the mouth of the Mississippi--you see, folks, the Corps's obligation was to the oil industry (it is all about OIL) and in order for the oil industry to ship its offshore oil and its imported foreign oils up the Mighty Mississip, they needed wide channels in the true delta and not the slave-driven-cotton-kingdom delta of blues fame and antifortune further back up the Mississip just off the still slave-smelly-Mister-Charley world it's always been--blues or no blues. Nope, those huge oil tankers needed a deep-deep channel stretching way way on out there so they could come in from the Gulf of Mexico--[Note: from an old Ernest Tubb hit from WWII: "Ridin' on a tanker/In the Gulf of Mexico...."]--and plough on up the Mississip to Baton Rouge where the air is reeking with fumes from the many oil refineries and chemical plants that keep Baton Rouge from sinking back into the bayous from whence it came--and so the Corps of Engineers redefined the DELTA, destroyed it as a barrier and opened it up as a wide-mouth channel and Sister Katrina just simply holy rolled her chaotic way right on up the Mighty Mississippi right on into New Orleans, except not onto the higher ground of New Orleans, the White Garden District, the White Vieux Carre--but crashing onto the Ninth Ward and the Channel District, and up the Channel and the Lake Front to Metairie, where the real New Orleanians, both white and black, some well-to-do, lived, though mostly this area was home to poor folks, and yes the poorest of black folks (most blacks in New Orleans) with their wonderful New Orleans-Caribbean culture and their wonderful and so unique music they gave us--the parades, the marching bands, jazz, r and b, out there, those Corps-built levies built with such substandard skills, those are the levies that gave way and allowed Katrina to turn male and Fuck the hell out of half of New Orleans in their fleeing asses--
That's the Chaos we here at The Daily Growler worship. Man doing Chaos's bidding, convinced by the fears spread by big bad Chaos about the world being doomed and our only salvation being from the supernatural, while all the while Chaos is the home of the supernatural and believing in these supernatural saviors is what is leading us human-animal-hybrids like lemmings over the brink and into the unknown unknown of Chaos. We rebuke Utopias. We rebuke peace on earth and good will toward the eviliest of the world's creatures, the ultimate predator, man, woman, and their children. And one can get the word "Beat" from either Beatitudes or Beasts, and the beat of the beasts is that echoed through it coming from the calling drum of Chaos and the dance of futility (the concluding dance in Stravinsky's Le sacre du printemps, the only end to the dance is death. As long as we're dancing we're living; when the dance is over, then there is only Death, the engulfing of Chaos).
Yes, computer freaks have said they have found a pattern to Chaos in their modeling sessions and using Deep Thinking computers, but then one such fractile freak claimed he ask a Deep Thinker if there was a god and it answered him with an undefined "Yes." But then you could probably find god on a Ouija board, too, if you truly believed in the supernatural power of a toy made by Parker Brothers, a Chaotic toy. Toys 'R truly Us, maybe.
The Daily Growler Psychic Intentions Division, under famed Psychic Quack Dr. N. Coler Wilson, asked this Parker Bros. Quija if there was a God. You see the answer it gave us. Proof positive?
And How Fast, You Ask, Is Chaos Coming?
Here's our take of Chaos as it is coming. Currently 1/2 of the world's workingclass, 1.5 billion, is earning $2.oo a day or less. This is in keeping with Neo-Conservative values. We tend to forget that the whole design of the Neo-Con world takeover is based driving down the dollar---which they are successfully doing--the dollar is falling fast against the Euro. Our pals the Saudi Arabians, our precious Arab friends, home of Osama Bin Laden and his dear, sweet family, including his brother and Bush family adopted brother Prince Bandar Bush, have decided to abandoned the dollar and basing the prices of their oil in Euros, which is OK with the Neo-Cons, since that helps ruin the dollar and once the dollar is ruined and the US is leveled off into an almost Third World economy (always remember that Cheap Labor has been the goal of globalization going all the way back to the Industrial Revolution), which is OK with the Neo-Cons, too, because it means that the other 1/2 of the world's workingclass, those making more than $2 a day, 1.5 billion, must be toppled over, so to speak, so that those 3 billion world workingclass will be leveled off into a level world wage--yes, it will be a slavery wage, the workingclass slaves making the luxury items needed by the world's leisure class, whose 1% own 90% of the world's wealth--finally, a RICH ruling class over a Dirt-Poor workingclass (NO UNIONS)--DIVIDED they fall. "Division." That's a key word in the Chaos Bible. Division causes chaos. Unity causes action and action causes growth...oh, blah, blah, blah, let's go back to the Quija board and ask it, "Will we be saved?" The answer, "Yes, by Chaos, you fools. Why? Because in Chaos, salvation is DEATH.
As Sigmund Freud would say, "Hell, we wish for death constantly, finally we will get our collective wish." That's not a real quote from Freud, of course, but you know what we mean.
"The Chaos Theory" Explained [Click on Chart Below to See It]
Chaos Theory: A Brief Introduction
What exactly is chaos? The name "chaos theory" comes from the fact that the systems that the theory describes are apparently disordered, but chaos theory is really about finding the underlying order in apparently random data.
When was chaos first discovered? The first true experimenter in chaos was a meteorologist, named Edward Lorenz. In 1960, he was working on the problem of weather prediction. He had a computer set up, with a set of twelve equations to model the weather. It didn't predict the weather itself. However this computer program did theoretically predict what the weather might be.
One day in 1961, he wanted to see a particular sequence again. To save time, he started in the middle of the sequence, instead of the beginning. He entered the number off his printout and left to let it run.
When he came back an hour later, the sequence had evolved differently. Instead of the same pattern as before, it diverged from the pattern, ending up wildly different from the original. (See figure 1.) Eventually he figured out what happened. The computer stored the numbers to six decimal places in its memory. To save paper, he only had it print out three decimal places. In the original sequence, the number was .506127, and he had only typed the first three digits, .506.
To continue reading this piece, here ya go: http://www.imho.com/grae/chaos/chaos.html
Now you're reading something tough--kind'a chaotic, wouldn't you say?
for The Daily Growler
Tune in tomorrow for the continuing continuing episodic human-wolf tale, One Spring Morning Off Spring Street, episode #11, finally the boyz are in Detroit. What's the symbolic meaning of Detroit in this story that is about New York City? Keep tuned in for each new exciting episode--sporadic episodes, where just like life, it's episodes are unpredictable and unpredictable as uncontrolled sequencing.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
thegrowlingwolf via the telephone has informed us that he didn't get any more written on his continuing serialized compendium of strung-together English words that keep spewing forth old-faithfully from the spontaneous geysers of his furry mind [One Spring Morning Off Spring Street], so far having vomited out 10 episodes. No, no one can make heads nor tails of any direction he's taking us in--we have inside knowledge that this tale has to do with a certain person he met in a bar in New York City on Spring Street called the Ear Inn--it's still there but it's been converted into a chic-chic watering hole for wannabe culturites, fops mostly, full of disjointed thinking in pathetic neo-nihilistic "whatever" types of self-promotion, their favorite sport while they chug apple martinis and the latest chic-chic drink made by some Brit...Jesus, we're getting just like thegrowlingwolf full growling, frowning, daring, frustrations, even to the point of DAMMIT having that full moon the Wolf Man was born under and lives under floating over our maintaining asses now in this NADA, which is all history is, NADA, and which is all the future is, NADA. Hemingway prayed to NADA and we here at The Daily Growler worship NADA, too.
thegrowlingwolf says he was terribly depressed today after reading and finishing reading Oscar Levant's book, The Memoirs of an Amnesiac, a funny but seriously distrubing book according to the Wolf Man, our human-animal-hybrid.
Oscar Levant at his worst, by Richard Avedon.
This book, again, according to the Wolf Man was compelling reading for him, a pianist, too, like Levant, a classical pianist who specialized in George Gershwin's classical pieces--Oscar lived with George Gershwin for a number of years--Levant, though, was also big with Tchaikovsky, Anton Rubinstein, and a student at one time of Arnold Schoenberg when he was living in Hollywood. Levant got hooked on peraldehyde back in the childhood days of psychiatry as practiced in the USA, the electroshock capital of the world. Levant suffered from manic depression but this was before the days of Zoloft and Prosac--this was the time of Milltown--barbiturates, and peraldehyde--and Levant became so obsessed by his neuroses he fell under the spell of the pills. It's funny but depressing, too, especially the chapter in which he describes being on the 3rd Floor of Mount Sinai Hospital in L.A., the psycho ward, trying to go cold turkey for three years--three years--started by Levant having a heart attack and not knowing it... The Wolf Man took this book very seriously and if the Yankees hadn't of won today--12-11 in the bottom of the ninth--Wolfie might have slit his throat--but nope, he's fine now--baseball is the Wolf Man's bad habit, especially this weird and wonderful year in baseball.
Tune in Monday for the continuing saga of One Spring Morning Off Spring Street--the eleventh episode--finally in DETROIT with Big Bad John and John's sister, Girl.
for The Daily Growler