"We're All Bozos on This Bus"

Among the Bozos
Yes. Bozo died over the 4th-of-July weekend. Larry Harmon. He was buried in his patented Bozo outfit. In honor of the Death of the First Bozo, our own thegrowlingwolf seems to have flipped his wig...while we're at it, how about honking our beezers! how about we all let the air out of our shoes!

www.firesigntheatre.com/albums/bozos1.mp3


Larry Harmon looking slightly perverted as he squeezes a Little Bozo named Bryan.

Georgie Porgie "Bozo" Bush, our faux president.

Bozo, a village in Mali.

Check out the "real" Bozos:

www.galenfrysinger.com/bozo_village_2.htm


How about a Bozo guitar?

Bozo Bear? Nobody remembers Bozo Bear, do you?

A Bozos mullet fishing lure.

A Bozo Bop Bag--you get to slug the shit out of the irritating Bozo.

Surely there once was or was thought about a Bozo Cola.
A Bozo 8 automobile? Bozo did have a bus on his kiddie show.
A Bozo cut--haircut.
Bozology 101--at clown college.
A dance called "The Bozo Bop"--dance like the Bozo Bop Bag when it's slugged.

Bo and zo
not zo and bo
bowed to zowie
and became
Bozooogie
a funny boogie-woogie
a character named Oogie
all because
of Larry Harmon
the darling of the carny
with his red-honker beezer
his shoes full of air
his red flaring hair
"That's Bozo there"
Except,
"We're all Bozos on this bus."

a poem by a fifth grader named Bennie Bozokovsky

We don't understand the reference to Uncle Floyd's Oogie!

thegrowlingwolf's Daily Journeys
Since our own resident Bozo has flipped his wig and wobbled off down the road like Junco Partner, we, in digging around in old files here at the gorgeous offices of The Daily Growler--deep inside the Unka Dick Cheney Private Bunker--under a mountain somewhere in Virginia--have come across a Daily Journeys folder on the laptop The Wolf-Man left behind--the inconsiderate bastard! We got a passel of phone calls--I know Dick Gramblerian called Franny and Zoe and bitched about thegrowlingwolf bailing out on Growler fans simply because he was suffering from chronic empathy for Dr. Hunter Thompson. "Preposterous," Dick spewed. And Esteemed Professor Butler "Butane" Gobblett called Mr. Ed, our editing horse, wildly accusing us of false advertising--if you type in a certain key word into Google Search you get a whole big, gay, banner-flowing, Hail Mary blurb about how fascinating thegrowlingwolf is. OK, already. Here is the first entry in thegrowlingwolf's Daily Journeys:

Daily Journeys #1

Because of Bukowski

Charles Bukowski impressing me.

I’m trying to write poetry again.

Writing poetry to me is like improvising music…

the same thing…

has nothing to do with spirit, soul, anything like that.

As Gestalt Psychology tries to teach, we live in a concentric whole,

a place that is one and the same no matter where within that whole

you are as whatever you are. Gestalt Psychology tries to bring that broken whole back together again… Gestalt Psychology is a Humpty-Dumpty experiment with

putting fragments of the whole—the world, the environment, the self, the society, the community, the neighborhood, the district, the part of town, the farms, the dells, the rivers, the streams, the Gestalt back together again…

I’m exhausted from how the whole doesn’t to me seem to have ever been whole, unless it was at the precise moment a certain slime began evolving toward what would eventually walk out of the sea as the beginnings of man—maybe that beast walked out onto that land and then had the problem of acclimating to it, realizing himself or herself, looking and seeing others of the same type, going to them, communicating with them, figuring out first of all they were thirsty—you couldn’t drink the sea water in those days either, could you?—second of all, they were hungry—and surely it stopped there for a moment. Perhaps the easiest way to stop the immediate hunger was to eat each other; but no, these were probably plankton eaters while they were evolving in the sea—so there would probably be edibles in the prehistoric sands onto which they had walked—like shellfish, washed ashore regular fish—there must have been billions and billions of fish or fish-like things in those old primordial seas—and billions and billions of land crabs and things like that living on the primordial beaches--plenty to eat when you consider it a while. So, there you go: thirst is taken care of by pools of fresh water (clean rainwater), I assume, or the fresh water from the crustaceans they ate—or maybe like crocs and alligators they didn’t have to drink that much to survive—anyway, finally it came to successfully satisfying those two essential instinctual survival urges and then there was that time—satisfaction from good drink and plenty of food, that time of leisure, with bellies full, relaxing, wanted to be entertained, and the females must have started dancing enticingly—or were they asexual like giraffes? Jesus, this is too deep for me.

Journeys Continue as Is Continued

Waiting for my Godot, a man named Jimmy, from outside Philly.

Waiting for a man named Jimmy from right outside Philly.

Waiting for my Godot, except my Godot will finally come.

We all will finally come.

The final cum.

The second coming.

Rejuvenated instincts.

And a new blossoming of gods.

thegrowlingwolf 2007