Still Groovin'

High!
No sleep last eve. My head was still too groovin' to cool it down. I had Hadicol energy..."If your car won't start/And your motor stands still/Give it Hadicol and watch it boogie up the hill" and I boogied up several hills, like writing rather embroidered badly poems, two, one called "I dig poetry," I prefer small letters for caps, too, like ee cummings and ted joans, but then the only mirror I like to see myself in is this mirror right here I'm looking in now, this mirror I made myself, right, Charles Horton Cooley? and a mirror I carry around with me, carrying it in front of my self so that everybody I meet looks like I want them to look in my mirror, just like the Jewish Big Sky Daddy, I like to see my own image in other mankind, elongated apes, I meet greet, bleep, blat, splat, spit on, whistle at, throw an elbow at while I'm walking down a New York City sidewalk where dumbass lost tourists stop right smack dab in the middle of a midday sidewalk, their huge maps in their hands, puzzled, confused, and standing dead still while the unshepherded flocks of regular old have-to-grind New Yorkers have to stop dead in their tracks and, as our little-man billionaire mayor orders us, courteously excuse ourselves as we ask permission to pass these foreign dumbbells or cornfed middle-Amuricans, the Gomer-Pyle-Golll-eeee-types, though I just can't do that, you know, ask their permission and I've been known to rudely shove my way through a pile of turistas--and like the Mexicans in Mexico, I should be allowed to steal the passports of turistas and shit like that--or beg big money off their asses, "Hey, you overfed Missouri geeks, how 'bout splittin' with a fiver-diver to help an old Show-Me-State fellow native out with a cup'a Starbuck's most expensive brew, I begs you'all in my best hillybilly--you'all is from Branson, ain't ye?" "Küssen Sie unsere Esel." "Oops, wow, 'scuse my F-ing American German-salvation ass, you god-damn...." Whoaaa. I have to remember what Mayor Billionaire ordered--I have to reign in what I was taught during that "righteous" war called WWII and be courteous; this is our only industry now.

Interesting to me how Eliot Spritzered's whore was a little Jersey slut living right up the street from me in a $3500-a-month studio apartment (landlords say these rent usually to three or four college nuts whose Daddies pay their way). Plus, I don't know of any apartment building of any size in Manhattan, mine does, that doesn't have a whorehouse in it! Sorry, ladies, I know, but I'm thinking like a man and whether you dear sweet women believe it or not down deep your men love slutty women--who do you think uncovered this shit on Guv Eliot and then revealed who this soon-to-be-naked-in-Playboy-or-Penthouse slut was (yep, I was just reading that Larry Flynt has offered Kristen a mil to reveal it all in his slutty Hustler magazine)--men, men investigators--I mean, I heard the ex-Mrs. Jim McGrief-giver (ex-wife of the gay American ex-governor of New Jersey--who was actually screwing an undercover Homeland Security plant, wasn't he?) saying how she didn't realize her husband was gay until the day he announced it and she was standing by him. She says if you notice closely she's fighting back angry tears and also once when Gay Jim tries to touch her she pulls back. I love women; I love how surprised they are when these power-hungry pretty boys finally get power they suddenly become irresistible to sluts and sluts have always been irresistible to them (McCain likes sluts, too, don't worry about that)--check out Slick Willie Clinton--a pretty boy and knows it--both he and Eliot could just as well have said they were gay, too. The ex-Miz McGreiver says it's definitely the power thing--they get this power then they feel like they are above judgment in terms of what they can get away with and the most exciting thing in the world for any man is to be powerful enough to manipulate babes and especially babes you uncover off the Internet, especially those little full-tittied, full-thighed, full-assed 22-year-olds (what if it were not her right age?) all exposed and available, all young and all eager to please and eager to bring that cum rollin' up out of those saggy balls--"Oooooooh, come all over my face, Uncle Eliot." As Howard Stern used to say, the sluttier the babe the hotter she is to most men whether they admit it or not. Go check out those private strip joints--they make millions a year--they're always full, just like the testicles of their patrons--and you talk about prominent dudes dropping big bucks on sluts! Hey, high-powered whores can afford the new rents in Manhattan, which means Mayor Billionaire says they're fine with him--"If they've got money enough to afford 3500-smackers-a-month, whore or whatever, they're welcomed over the slobs that clean the rich man's shitcans." Wonder how many YMCA's Mayor Billionaire has taken a relaxin' swim at over the years--reminds me of Mr. Macho Ed "Womanless" Krotch. And look at the sleazy affairs Rudi "Mussolini" Guiliani had when he was mayor and now, ironically, he's chompin' at the bit to take Spritzed's place as guv'nor--and who's gonna run against him, why he hopes it's New York's first black governor ("Oh my Lordy-Lord," the Upstate whiteys are saying) and he's blind to boot--and he's Basil Patterson's son, big palsy-walsy with the Black-power Dumbocrats like Handsome Carl McCall and Dave "Rudi Beat My Black Ass" Dinkins, who Rudi despises.

Studies (I don't have to name them; this is modern-day journalism) have proven that men get hotter over scatily clad babes than they do over totally all out naked babes (only cultured people view a naked woman as art--beauty to behold)--old Heff will tell you all this--look how many days in a row that old fool got himself off surrounded by a bedful of slutty Playboy bunnies out at Heff's L.A. Cat House--a house in this instance is definitely not a home, as Madame Polly Adler wrote in the bestselling book she had ghost written after her whorehouse was busted and she was put in the Big House, which ain't no home either. Yeah, that's why chicks turn out the lights after they've done a dirty dance in a baby doll before Big Ready Daddy whose layin' back fondling himself on the bed--Big Ready Daddy'd rather explore those naked bodies in the dark--tease him in the light, girls, and then let him roam in the dark. Open your eyes, girls, the next time your superman is pounding you the hardest--I'll bet his eyes are closed and he's lookin' up toward the moon, just like a wolf beginning to howl--that anticipating a cum is man's greatest desire--there is nothing more exciting to a man than shooting a manly wad--I guess women kind'a get that same feelin' when they're using a pocket rocket (Herbie's "Rocket in Your Pocket") on their clits (penises)--but, I've empirically decided woman's greatest desire is a warm cuddly man who with no unnecessary preliminaries except oh baby I love only you gently enters her vestibule of love and then gently rubs his hardened spear (burnin' spear she hopes) against that little trying-to-hide clit and tickle it into submission--yes, that's the way, but that's hard for a man; it's hard for him to concentrate both on keeping his penis hard by rolling fantasy after fantasy out in his head behind his closed eyes and knowing when a chick has had an O-gasm--that's why men all ask, "Did you like that, baby?" Man's basic urge is to pump that thing in an out of that hole--that's why they call it "drilling" out where I'm from.

OK, my technique? Gather 'round boys, especially you politically ambitious boys.... F you'all, I'm keepin' it a secret.

And I'm still groovin', right now diggin' Art Taylor's 1960 aggregation (I used to know a bandleader who always started off a tune with, "OK, boyz, let's aggregate...."), consisting of the unknown, I'll bet, Dave Burns on trumpet (member of the original Dizzy Gillespie Ork--he's on the band's original recording of "Groovin' High" and later worked with Al Grey and Bobby Hutcherson, did very little recording, becoming instead a respected jazz trumpet teacher), old-reliable Stanley Turrentine on tenor (he got to marry Shirley Scott (I know, Who?)--a great organist from those glorious days when jazz organists could rise to the top of the jazz charts and, like Jimmy Smith, to the top of the pop charts), one of my fav piano players (in jazz you never say "pianist"--at least not in my day), Winetone Kelly, that's what Daddy-O Daley called him, and Mr. PC on bass, with Arthur Taylor kicking the beat ride style, high-hattin' in straight fours with a snare-rim rap at the changes on drums, a hold on the bridge, a long bridge, taken over by Mr. P.C. who's playin' his whole solo on the bridge and the band will release back into the tune--and PO-ta-TO Valdez is kickin' in the Afro-Cubano flav with his educated congo drum--movin' from Coltrane's "Syeeda's Song Flute" into The High Priest's "Epistrophy" with echoes of old Habana flowing through the streets of Harlem, just outside Minton's--and the multirhythmics are enticing and the modulations are taking us on groovy tangents off the weak-beated Taylor-made drum slides and PO-ta-TO keeping the clave bubblin', cookin', oh those pots's lids are dancing in hip unison--and Winetone signals he wants a solo and the boyz lightin' up, some light socking by AT, PO-ta-TO's hot-buttered-rum sippin' conga--and then it all simmers down to Mr. PC soloing again--"If you really wanna hear the bass played the way it should be, you dig PC." Old-days's groovin', light high here, light high, sailin', or as Art Pepper would say, "surfin'," the measures, oh PO-ta-TO and A.T. go African all the way before returning down the aisle to the High Priest's pulpit.
A.T.

There's sweet sunshine out my southern-facing city windows. Spring is trying to get in--it's a knockin'--and I just won the original "Huckle-buck" 78 rpm on the Savoy label on eBay, with Paul Williams and His Hucklebuckers--and oooohhhhh-weeeee, folks, A.T. and the boyz are working PO-ta-TO's ass off, but he has more than enough so don't worry--it's a racehorse version of Denzil Best's great "Move," a killer of a tune the Black cats who knew it by heart would call in the key of D-flat when a white boy wanted to jam with them--"OK, no problem, dude, we're doin' 'Move' in a half above C, right about here...ah, 1,2,3,4." Oh, god-damn, the white boy's saying, these motherfuckers are doing 16th notes--holy shit--oh well, you gotta when you gotta or why am I up here then--I'm facin' the music like a man. Steve Lacy, the soprano saxist--sax became "axe"--can you dig it?--said he literally showed up at every Monk gig he could make and bothered Monk asking to sit in until finally one night Monk said OK called a tune and that's how Steve got started--Steve seems to me like he was so greatful for such a great chance he's played either like Monk or Monk tribute albums and covering Monk tunes ever since, all of 'em including "Trinkle Tinkle"--"Let's see you play that, motherfucker."

thegrowlinggroovin'wolf
for The Daily Growler