Lehman Brothers and Merrill Lynch Today; AIG and Who Knows Who Tomorrow; The US Government Is Already Bankrupt; Barclays, a Brit Bank May Buy Lehman!
Another John McCain Sunday has passed. There was a modicum of John McCain and Sarah Palin criticism though most of the commercial media was still championing their man and woman. Even Sarah Palin suffered some challenges and the Disney Network, ABC, was discussing how brilliant their top reporter, Charles Gibson, had been in his exclusive interview with the Governor of Alaska. Still, Mrs. Palin came out much better than Senator McCain, though the polls still showed Senator McCain with a slight lead over Senator Obama. Political Analyst, Karl Rove, on the Fox Network, said Senator McCain along with Governor Palin were winning all of the Red States--but that the overall strategy was working to the point Senator McCain and Governor Palin were turning Blue States into Red States.
Good Holy Heathen Gods--is that the way we're supposed to write here at The Daily Growler to be taken seriously? Even svelte-sentenced marvelousmarvbackbiter (former announcer for and co-owner of the Canisius Clowns, a midget baseball team in Upstate New York) was condemned as unreadable by a commenter.
I keep getting reflushed acid syndrome or whatever the hell it's called from some barbecued beef ribs I ate yesterday honoring Mexican Independence Day. They were sloppily soused in tons of good ole Texas-style barbecue sauce, which mixed with the grease as you split a rib off the huge roast and then tore into it canines first, animal-style, you know, diving right down into that juicy male-cow meat with that gourmet-made Tejas sauce oozling out all around your mouth as you chomp into that tender and smoke-tasty rib! Hallelujah, I'm shoutin' like a saint in glory! My ladyfriend, girlfriend, my babe, says I'm a man of faith even though I claim to be a stone atheist with a left-wing anarchy background to boot. She also attacks my veracity by saying I know anarchy like I know finite math--and she curses me and brands me as a Libertarian--and a rightwing one at that. I squeal back, "You consider me in the same breath with a clown like Bob Barr; come on, I'm way out of this atmosphere from Bob Barr, that bastard!" But she insists. My girlfriends all act as my managers, a lot of "here's what you should do, Wolfie, and here's how you should look, and here's why you're not successful...." On and on into the days and nights.
There's SEER (see'r) talent here at The Daily Growler; yes it's my winter hibernating place, and yes it's my summer fiesta, but it's also got other diurnalist writers around here who are real, flesh and blood--though I don't know about some of the paler members of the Growler disciples!
And speaking of me creating my own religion, I see where they've discovered, or some ScientoLIEgist scrambled-egghead has written them, some new L. Ron Hubbard books. Some more dumbass enlightening from L. Ron's grave--or hath L. Ron arisen again?--Hell, the failed science-fiction writer came up with his own religion based on his belief (and I agree with L. Ron on this) that if he could come up with a sort-of believable religion he would get faithful followers and get rich--and BOOM, L. Ron Hubbard created Scientology based on his Holy Bible, that Diuretics theory book (I'm committing blasphemy, I know)--and I have had experience with a Scientologist on a job I once had--he somehow became the managing editor of this vanity house editorial department. He was a pencil-necked geek (Classy Freddie Blasse) with pimples blotching his imaginationless face--right off L. Ron's stone slab--a living dead--and he handed me a book one day and said it was free if I would read it--and I took it home and it was a Scientology primer of some sort and after a very brief glance at its gobbledygook, I pitched it in the garbage from whence it came. Next time I was in to pick up some editing, this geek asked me did I read the book and I said I read a couple a'pages and then I trashed it in File 13. He said, "What, you threw the book away! You owe me $12. Pay now or I'm not giving you any work." With a hail-fellow-well-met "Fuck You" (a la Unka Dick Cheney to the American people), I went right straight in to Mr. Goldberg, the big boss, and I said, "Abe, you gotta god-damn Scientologist workin' back there as your managing editor and that son of a bitch is withholding work from me, your top editor, Abe, you know that, because he GAVE me a stupid Scientology book--man, if you could get their publishing you'd be even richer, Abe, but anyway, this son of a bitch gave me this stupid book and I threw it in the garbage and now this geek is saying I either pay him twelve bucks or I don't get any editing...." "Hold it, hold it, Wolf," Mr. Goldberg said, shifting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "Here," he continued after reaching in his pants pocket and pulling out a twenty. "Give this to that pimple-faced Goy, take your work and go on about your business. You know how hard it is for me to keep a managing editor very long back there with what I pay 'em? Oy! So he won't be here long, probably be gone by the next time you come for some work...and, by the way, good work on that stupid fuckin' Fish book. We did good on that. By the way, too, Wolf, my daughter's comin' up from Miami next week. She's interested in editing...." And sure enough, the next time I came for work, the geek was gone and a Jimmy Olsen-looking goofus was in his place, a goofus who respected me and called me Mr. Wolf and yes sir-ed me and no sir-ed me and for a while there I was the keiko-muckity-muck in that editorial office--until I met Mr. Goldberg's daughter and taught her how to edit in one of the big conference rooms and I so showed off trying to impress this glorious and glamorous Jewish princess daughter of the owner of this great vanity (rip-off) press that I found 32 eas on an ms I'd earlier edited and not found 1 ea--that was my specialty as a vanity editor--never finding an ea--I found tons of pes and aas only! That was the rule and I went out of bounds trying to impress the boss's daughter. As a result, Mr. Goldberg personally fired my ass, though offering me one of his standard recommendation letters and telling me what a good boy I was.
The italicized opening paragraph up above my rambling there is the way The Daily Growler is supposed to read. Journalism 101. The people in the street, even in the offices, don't discuss things in Journalism 101. They use the language common to them and they use it vulgarly or properly to make their point or to create their argument. I have always written like I think--and I have always eschewed the proper for the common, usage that is. I find the common usages of English or whatever are the niftiest, the ones I understand in my mind best--and when you hear foreign languages in the street just remember they're talking and gesturing madly about the same things speakers of English are talking about, the same things--the same way of talking about politics--the same way of talking about going grocery shopping--same old shit, in other words, we're all talking about the same old shit we're all always talking about. And when I heard this beautiful Latina this afternoon cussing someone out on her cell phone--loud enough she didn't really need a cell phone--and though I didn't understand a word she was saying, I could tell she was pissed at some dude--over money, I assumed; men want love; women want security--that's the gender battle in life.
From Generation X on, I keep forgetting, our youth haven't learned how to read, or even if they can read, they have very little comprehension of what they're reading. It was the great, I say, Jewish comedian, everybody else says shock jock (now in Webster's I think as a legit word), Howard Stern, who while writing his first book, Private Parts, about which he would comment every morning on his hit radio show, said his biggest discovery on how to write was that he had to learn to chop up long sentences and make them very short, almost Dick, Jane, and Spot short, because, as Howard said, most people who would be reading his book (especially his fans) couldn't really read--and his editor was Judith Regan, too, the hot minky mistress of good ole Bernard Keric, Rudi "Mussolini" Giuliani's body-guard-made police chief, and fucked him in the ashes of Ground Zero, while the remains of the WTC were still smoldering, in his special luxury apartment overlooking Ground Zero the city had leased for him so he could oversee the place--police chiefs in New York City can kind'a do anything they want to do, make up laws, block off streets, blockade buildings, make rules in terms of protesting--typical Fascist police. Howard's book went on to become the fastest selling and largest selling book ever published--it made Simon & Shuster rich and made Judy Regan famous and rich and then got her her own Harper-backed (a Rupert Murdoch Australian-American publishing company) publishing company (she was the publisher of the famous O.J. Simpson How I Did It book that at first Rupert OK'd but then after so much bad publicity decided to leave in the can).
So Howard had already clued me in to how to write for the illiterate--but, you see, I'm programmed by my instincts and my DNA and I can only write like I think, like I am; therefore, read me or leave me--and I was reawakened to Howard's advice when marvelousmarvbackbiter was put down by a commenter for writing incomprehensibly about the NY Yankees sucking--a very insightful look at the failed Yankees baseball team this year, I thought--the team that new young modern manager Joe Girardi said he would take to the World Series--and Marv hit the nail on the head when he said George Steinbrenner loved ruining Yankee players and managers and Brian Cashman is a dumb man when it comes to baseball players--sticking the Yanks with a combo minor-league-and-ML-has-been pitching staff (like who decided to bring Sidney Ponson back to the Yanks?)--and then buying all these cast-off former stars like Pudge Rodriguez! And now I notice Girardi has turned on Robinson Cano--who Joe Torre through Don Mattingly taught how to hit, to the point Cano hit .345 his second year with Joe and the always-in-the-playoffs Yankees. A really sorry and sick Yankee season, oh dear baseball commenter--and I guess baseball fans in general aren't that interested in reading long windy analyses of what went wrong--they wanna lambaste somebody--"Hey, Joe Girardi's OK, it's that fuckin' Brian Cashman!" We agree. "No, man, Joe Torre had to go, man. He was too old. I tho't Girardi could do it, man. Maybe next year."
Just like dumbass Jets fans thought old has-been quarterback Brett Favre had one more year in him--yeah, he looked great against Miami, the pink Dolphins this year, but not so hot against the Brady-less New England Patriots--who'd a'killed the Jets if a healthy Brady had a'been playing. Sorry, Jets fans. I love the Jets and hate the Giants, but the Jets have a wimp for a coach and an administration that's tighter than dick's hatband with the bucks. At least they got rid of Chad Pennington.
Another McCain Sunday
I totally disregarded the Sunday pundit parties--I did see a lot of McCain shots, more than Obama shots, and still tons of Sweet Sarah of Alaska shots, though I did hear some criticism of Sweet Sarah, how she lied about her trip to Iraq, actually only getting to look over into Iraq while still in Kuwait--now what the hell the Governor of Alaska was doing in Kuwait is the question I would have asked Sweet Sarah, but no, what do I know. I can't even write comprehensibly.
Uncle Joe Biden made his first campaign fuck up--he told a man in a wheel chair to stand up like a real man--Joe didn't see the guy was in a wheel chair. Joe Biden's a fool, but hey better this fool than those other fools. I don't think Obama's a fool; but John McCain definitely is and Karl Rove is a truly Devil-looking-and-acting fool and Sweet Sarah of Alaska is a golddigger (natural gas in her sleazy case) fool with a fucked up Holy Roller "more-pious-than-thou" family of big-breasted highly sexed girls and those dipstick boys who'd drather take a chance in Iraq than having to stay around Mom and listen to her bullshit.
Apologies to Osama Bin Ladin
I've been spouting out for years that Osama Bin Ladin was a figmentized devil of our CIA-created imaginations; however, this morning on delicious Amy Goodman's Democracy Now radio show, I heard this dude Steve Kohn whose written the Bible on the Bin Ladin family--and it's a big family--even for multiwived Saudis--in this case old original Pappy Bin Ladin had enough wives to breed him 29 sons and 28 daughters--the Bin Ladins were originally from Yemen. Pappy Bin Ladin was an engineer who went into the construction business at the end of WWII when the Saudis got filthy rich off oil and Pappy Bin Ladin built palaces for the Saudi Royals and all the Saudi Family fops and spoiled brats--and Little Osama Bin Ladin was like a bastard child, Osama's mother left Pappy and married another man and Little Osama was raised by his mother and stepfather in Jedda, though he had spoiled brat privileges as a Pappy Bin Ladin son like his more Pappy-related sons and daughters whose mothers were Pappy's prized wives, his boss wives, his houris.
Kohn sounded pretty reasonable to me, though a lot of his info was gathered from looking at videos of Osama--Osama loves video cameras and taking videos of himself--and a lot of this dude's facts about Osama may be conjecture...still it sounds like there really is an Osama Bin Ladin and yes he was the mastermind of 9/11 because he was trained and worked for his Pappy's construction company as an engineer, so Kohn said Osammy had stated at his son's wedding in Afghanistan in November of 2001 that he had thought that the planes hitting the twin towers of the WTC would hit the building so that the jet fuel would spill out and down the fire escapes and elevator shafts setting the buildings on fire. He said he was totally surprised when both buildings pancaked straight down and were totally destroyed.
OK. Maybe I'm wrong about Osama's reality, but I don't think I'm wrong about his power not being as great as our Al Queda legend sort of forces us to believe.
for The Daily Growler