We All Started in the Jungle
I'm waiting for 8:30 am when I can call my bank and find out my latest balance. I went to the bank yesterday and deposited some checks and I ask the teller, a young, stupid, and obviously confused young lady--she looked like a recent high school graduate, and, yes, she was chewing gum--chew gum, act dumb--I used to chew gum, Big Red, but that was when I was in the jungle of love back after my second divorce and I was trolling the bar scenic waters looking for my next female associate for evening or life--but I quit chewing gum in the late nineties--though I have nothing against chewing gum--given to us by one of my heroes, the Mexican bad-ass, Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana--coming to New York City from his mountaintop home to which he'd been exiled by his own government and living on Staten Island and selling his chicle (from the jungles of Mexico) idea as gum you can chew--and it is a gum--dad-gummit--selling the idea to American investors--but I've already told this story yeah several posts ago--and we are coming upon our third year of production--holy Zebra Lord, The Daily Growler is going on three, a good age, an age that upon reaching one should be pretty sure of themselves. Begin, perhaps, thinking of themselves as prophets. We live for the advice of prophets, people we think can see the future. Or people who can talk to "those in the great beyond." "When am I going to die?" is the big "preponderous" (a Casey Casem neogasm) question, as old grizzled Freud said, we all have to deal with, perhaps best in a subconscious way--forgetting it and getting on with life by repressing it, you dig?--but all the time we're living we're having to deal with the fact WE ALL ARE GOING TO DIE one way or another. Speaking of the Jungle, in Chicago, Illinois, where Obama did all his glorified community service, 1.5 people are shot to death every day of the year! In New York City, every morning on the news we get a huge splattered wall of bloody deaths, of death-on-the-highway news, of death by fire news, of death by being shot by a drunk off-duty cop news, of death via a hit-and-run drunk driver news, of death by a cab jumping the curb and running over pedestrians news, of death from Israeli missiles being fired into UN sanctuaries in Palestine news, of death from 50 stab wounds by some revengeful ex-boyfriend or husband news, of the death of children drowned by their mothers news, of death from leaping from our highest structures news, of death coming via a heart attack during a high school football practice on a hot summer day news, of death via white guys putting a chain around your black neck and then tying the chain to the back of a pickup truck and then the good ole boys get in the pick up and then Wahooo-ing it up they drag your ass to death, though first decapitating you by the cutting fierceness of that experience news, of death coming from an ex-Iraqi serviceman shooting his pregnant wife in the head and then doing the same to himself news. And then there's the deaths we never hear about much at all--like that tsunami that killed 250,000 or more people--what happened after that. Or how many people really drowned or where shot by white vigilantes after Katrina and Rita hit and ruined old New Orleans? You can freeze to death in this weather and just be a mention in a small corner of the local news--or maybe not mentioned at all. Think of the millions of people who die everyday totally unknown. Like that explosion in Mumbai, India, left human bodies blown to total bits--no way of knowing the IDs of any of those dissolved human beings. Or you can lose your ass in the financial world and wish you were dead and get so depressed over it you'll finally slit your wrists or jump out the window. When death is the only way out, only then is death appreciated. As Dylan Thomas said after they took him from the White Horse Tavern over to Saint Vincent's Hospital and were trying to bring him back to life--he told them that he prayed that death would take him--only that would give him peace--the death wish wins in the end.
And nowadays the fear of death is overwhelming us. You can tell it's on the mind of Barack Obama--he's surrounded himself with tons of cops and Secret Service and specially built ironclad Caddie limos and hundreds of black SUVs with flashing lights and squealing Nazi-type sirens. Why? Because now that he's at the controls of one of the most Power Elite powerpacks in the world, he's scared of dying, man. Dying. No man or woman wants to die--even suicides want to be rescued, as Sylvia Plath said in her poems, and which in all of her suicide attempts she left time for someone to rescue her, and she was always rescued until that last cold day in a dreary London suburb in that tacky drab unpoetic apartment when she stuck her head in the oven and nobody came to rescue her. Death won--she had challenged it, privileged little genius that she was, and Death beat her.
When my brother was facing death, I asked him one day after he was diagnosed with a rare eye cancer if he was afraid of dying and he looked me coldly in the eye--my brother was part wolf, too--and he said, "No, I look upon dying as a literary experience...oh that I could be writing when I die"--and, folks, he was, finishing two extra editions of his Sunday newspaper column and sending them by messenger to the paper, and then, laying back and dying. Not without a struggle, though, his wife told me later when she was telling me about his final hour. No, no, my brother who was not afraid of death did not die without a struggle. And that was the clue. My brother the invincible repressing death as a literary experience--didn't want to die--he struggled not to die, even though his death wish eventually caught up to him after he had beaten the eye cancer--only to be hit with brain cancer--and that was the way the Grim Reaper leapt out of the pages of his final diary and got him. And my brother was buried with a lot of pomp and circumstance in a place so distant and lonely that long after his family have disappeared from this coil, he and his place of rest will be incorporated back into the legends of that area he loved as his own world and only the books he wrote while he was alive will keep him living on and on into the immortal ethereal.
Right after my brother's death, I kept track of his books and his life on the Internet--the books were thick all over eBay and when you Googled him the first links you got to come up were bookseller.coms, like Amazon, offering his books. It's now 7 years since he died one peppy April Texas day, and now I Google him and there's not much left of him online--once 30 pages, now maybe 12--oh he still gets pages but his nemesis has taken his place under his name--you see, there's another dude with my brother's same name but for one letter, a famous basketball player, and I know it used to piss my brother off when people asked him if he were the basketball player or like one time he was invited to speak at a sports banquet and since he'd been a sports reporter and carried AP press credentials as a sportswriter he figured it was on the up and up. When he got to the venue and presented himself for the ceremony, the venue coordinator said, "You're not the basketball player, who the hell are you?" My brother sued them for his fee and WON.
My brother was a winner at obtaining money out of the blue (he got that from our father who constantly advised us to spend it now and not worry when it's gone because it was a family traditon that when you're down and seemingly totally out, some more will unexpectedly come our way--from out of nowhere--"That's the way it is with Wolves and money"). At my brother's height in terms of personal wealth, he managed to net worth himself up to around 3 million dollars--originally 6 million but he had to give his lawyers half of that--and we're talking back in the 70s before the age of billionaires and outrageously monied men like Bill Gates and Warren "Junk Bonds" Buffett. In the 70s, having 3 million dollars in investments got you a place pretty high up on the catbird's seat--why, Lyndon "Big Balls" Johnson at the time was only worth 7 million. But, one thing about us Wolf Men, money to us is not wealth--wealth is owning land and capital and having cash enough to speculate on the stock market--speculation is what drives the stock market up by the way in case you were wondering. My brother's money was eventually sucked away--first via land investments with much richer men, men so rich losing didn't hurt them much; second buying gas wells in Utah; third joining an investment club--minimum entry fee $300,000--rich men with money to burn scheming on how to bank more and more worthless paper money through stock-market speculation--paper fortunes--my ex-wife who worked exclusively for very rich men her whole life used to call them Paper Cowboys--and my brother a minor leaguer in money terms tried to play in the big leagues with these ruthless bastards and though their speculations didn't wipe him out, they reduced his worth in terms of net worth considerably. Caused him to have to sell his prize mansion and move into a smaller but still large, rambling slinky kind of Old Mexico-type casa that I loved, but he soon found it was sinking into the ground and needed thousands of dollars worth of foundation work--so my brother sold that house and had to poor-ass down to a nice big house with a swimming pool but in a middle-class neighborhood--degrading after he had once lived a street away from the Ross Perot gated mansion fortress and nextdoor to country singer Charlie Pride. He did manage to hang onto to his Lincoln Continental during that shift in neighborhoods, the one with the Cartier-signed back crystal windows--and he managed to still gain fame and a little fortune as a writer and teevee commentator and as a teacher, still rich, but not in the multimillionaire class anymore--and then, the final blow came when his cardiologist told him one fine spring day down in Texas that his treadmill work showed he had a heart problem. Not only did he have a heart problem, the doc said, but he had contracted a virus that had settled in his heart and was literally turning his heart to dust! How would you like to be told that! His only hope, the doc told him, was a heart transplant! Heart transplants are not cheap. Estimated cost for my brother getting a new "dead person's" still-ticking heart: 2 million bucks. And my brother wasn't afraid to die. The hell he wasn't. He shelled out 2 million bucks and got a new heart, a woman's heart he found out later, and that 2 million bucks got him 16 years more life--the longest-surviving heart-transplant patient in his transplant group--and the cost of keeping himself alive even with his new heart? Preponderous! Fucking preponderous. The drug that kept his body from rejecting his new heart and the 20 and thirty pills he had to take daily--stayin' alive was costing him thousands of dollars a week & month. I remember him telling me one time while we were walking around a Dallas mall--he had to walk 5 miles a morning as part of his life-saving regimen--that he had asked his doctor since he had the heart of a 30 year old would he live to be a hundred. The doctor told him, "Your heart may live to be 100 but I don't think you will." Even in extended life, we're still doomed to DIE. Dying is a part of the jungle cycle of life. You are born in the trees--then you die in the trees and fall to the jungle floor to be thrown into the rotting process that gives life to the jungle floor. The sun gives life to cover of trees; darkness prevails below--life down there based on rotting corpses--thus the legend of the Underworld! Heaven is above the forest canopy.
My point: you can't avoid death. No matter how "civilized" we think we are making the jungle-- in the jungle is eternal life--the continuing cycles of life--but as we humans more and more separate ourselves from the jungle we are destroying our only real chance at immortality--that that is hidden within the Jungle--the Jungle is Nature--and human beings feel Nature is their enemy and not their mother and they hurl malevolent intent at it, threatening to pave the whole world over, brick it over, concretize it. Civilization is based on concrete--even though it has evolved out of an abstract.
I've been delightfully broke for the past seven days. I mean literally BROKE, folks. There was nine dollars left in my bank account--I went to the bank yesterday and deposited some money but when I asked how much cash I could take out, the teller, gum chewing away, told me $9. "Nine dollars!" I hollered, "That's fucking preponderous!" like Casey Casem having to come out of an uptempo tune to suddenly have to talk about the death of a god-damn puppy named Snuggles! And that's what life is--it's like coming out of a swinging, long-playing, uptempo tune and then having to face announcing your own death.
Today, I hope (I know, Admiral Stockdale said there's no such thing), a California sales negotiation pays off--I've sold one of my historical treasures to one of the big players in the historical treasure game--instant money is being transferred into my account as I type on this at 7:25 in the am, the reason I'm waiting for 8:30 when I can call my bank and see if the money is in my account or not. Knowing my bank, they'll come up with a bank rule that won't let me use the money until.... Bastards! I hate banks. It's in my family genes to hate banks and bankers. If they won't let me dig into my big bucks yet, I'll be broke another day. Wev. Being broke makes me strong. I can defy the world when I'm broke. When I've got money I'm looking for pleasures to spend it on. Like am I going to buy an HD-digital-capable teevee or fuck teevee and retreat into my own cinematic world of my own analog creations.
And what did I find out about this teevee signal changing bullshit! I knew it was a fraud. Yes, folks, the real reason we are having to switch from analog signal teevee to digital signal teevee (all those microwave and electromagnetic signal towers on the roofs of all our buildings here in New York City)--and this is amazing--I finally found this out from a PBS executive--the reason we are having to switch to digital teevee IS BECAUSE when Repugnican-Neo-Con stooge Kevin Martin, a pal of G.W. Junior-Bubba Bush-Ladin, replaced Colon's Pal's worthless son, Michael, as head of the Federal Communications Commission (whose original job was to configure radio station signals around the country--check the transmitters, you know), one of the shenanigans he got away with without We the People knowing it was he sold the majority of our analog signals to private corporations and the remaining to police departments for 20 BILLION dollars! I have never heard this mentioned in all the tons of infomercials all channels are desperately airing trying to convince We the People that we have to convert, buy a new teevee, buy into CABLE and Satellite teevee (thus doing away with free teevee)--turning it all into COMMERCIAL teevee that WE have to PAY for--or we will not get a teevee signal any more. But these silly bastards are suddenly finding problems in this transition and word is up that they are going to extend doing away with the analog signal until June. The lie now is that 85% of the American numbskulls are already digital capable--from buying new expensive wide-screen teevees--I've seen them up to 56 inches and know there are some $10,000 jobs that offer more inches than that--but 15% of Americans haven't rushed out and bought a digital-signal-receiving set or converter box yet with the industry saying these are mostly over-the-hill, stupid, senior citizens--old fogies--fuck them, let them listen to the voices in their heads.
What's so great about digital? Its the way the pixels are distributed across the screen by the signal. Analog screens pick up the pixels in lines running from the top of the screen down to the bottom of the screen--why analog pictures get wavy or lines start running up and down the screens. Digital screens come on bam with their pixels all set in place. With digital teevee, we superAmerican males, we sporting males, will be able to look up the butt cracks of the short-skirt women tennis players--or hell, sports fans, men will be watching figure skating so they can get a digital close-up of some teenage bimbo's upskirt-revealed panties and butt cracks and hopefully cameltoes. I speak for men. What women watch on teevee is just as disgusting--like Oprah. In digital you'll be able to see the huge gobs of sweat pouring out of Okra's bubbling body, especially those beads of perspiration oozing out of her droopy jowl neck.
And speaking of Okra, do you know how many fraudulent books Oprah's Book Club has promoted? Recently it was the Jewish dude who claimed he was in Buchenwald and this German babe used to throw him food and shit over the Buchenwald fence--and he used to kiss her through the fence--yeah sure! Turns out the son of a bitch wasn't even in Buchenwald; secondly, it would have been impossible for a German woman to get that close to the fences at Buchenwald! She'd a been shot by a tower guard. Turns out, too, this couple didn't know each other until they met in Brooklyn! Brooklyn, New York. A hoax! And Oprah's a hoax.
Oprah Winfrey just said she could handle the Sec'y of State job but she didn't want it. Ah, come on, Okra, share your blessings with us. Fat Cow. That's what Okra is now. My disrespect runs deep.
I am broke. Being broke is wonderful. First of all, how do you survive in New York City being broke? It's done everyday. Donald Trump, for instance, I guarantee you is currently broke. He's bankrupting his Atlantic City casinos again--he bankrupts them every ten years or so to renegotiate his loans and shit with his moneybagger backers. Trump recently sold one of his casinos to that Margaritaville no-talent idiot. By the bye, all the casinos in Atlantic City are tanking--firing left and right. 80,000 jobs were lost in New York City a couple'a days ago. CitiGroup is going bonkers. Bank of America is living off borrowed time and stolen money. Did you see what one group of Wall Street crooks did with their bailout boondoggle money? They bought a new corporate jet!
Hey, and my old pal, Pfizer, already the world's largest pharmaceutical (chemistry) company, is paying 60 billion dollars for Wyeth Pharmaceuticals! Wait a fucking minute! Where's Pfizer getting 60 billion dollars to buy Wyeth? Why aren't we investigating that? This is all paper bullshit, you understand. Pharmaceuticals, by the way, get tons of tax relief and government subsidies--and since the cost of manufacturing these custom-made drugs is cheap as hell, pennies on the dollar, these pharmas make tons and tons of profits--but drug patents only last 7 years then a drug goes generic unless the pharma has its biochemists tweak the old patented drug's mechanism of action (what makes the drug "work"), say these biochemists add a new chemical element to the chemical formula of the drug, thus the drug company can renew its patent for another 7 years based on a "NEW" formula, you see--and both Pfizer and Wyeth are losing the patents this year to some of their bestseller drugs--for Pfizer it's Lipitor and Viagra that wave the success flags, both of which patents may be running out this year--I'm trying to remember; I worked for a Pfizer ad agency just as Viagra and Lipitor came on line and it seems like that was surely over 7 years ago.
These are DRUGS we're talking about, just like cocaine and marijuana are drugs. Lipitor and Viagra are DRUGS--illegal, too, without a prescription--DEADLY, too, if you don't follow the Prescribing Information (we called 'em P-Eye's in the biz--they come in the bottles of all drugs or that druggists have in their computers and are required to give you a copy along with warnings about the bad effects of the drug) or your doctor prescribes the wrong dosage, you're dead as a doorknob--it's called OD-ing at street level--it happens to 300,000 people a year in the USA--don't believe it! OK, believe what you will.
The US Government, by the way, grows the best marijuana in the world--down in Mississippi of all places--that's where medical marijuana is supposed to come from--pharmas also make what's called Maninol out of marijuana. Also, the reason the poppy industry in Afghanistan is so successful and profitable is because pharmaceuticals buy the juice of the poppy--poppy juice becomes heroin in its powder stage and becomes morphine in its liquid stage, the painkiller of choice in most hospital pharmacies; the high-powered painkillers needed to stun the horrible pains inflicted upon our physical beings by butcher surgeons or ignorant overprescribing health-care providers--drugs especially needed to quell pain in the cancer industry, a multibillion dollar industry in this country. Do you really think the medical industry wants to find a cure for cancer! Hell no. Without cancer, how would doctors keep living the good Power Elite lives they are so traditionally used to and they so traditionally expect. Cancer butchers are sawbones who used to work out of their true professional places of business, their barbershops. They were the dentists, too. Can you imagine having to go to the dentist back in the days before some biochemist invented cocaine--which the dentists used to stuff up people's noses and put it in their ears and shit before they took their chrome-plated pliers and began EXTRACTING those rotten teeth! Novocaine, by the way, is a cocaine derivative.
So these crooked assholes in Washington, District of Corruption, sold We the People's analog signal system to private corporations--for their televised sales meetings and proposal sessions--very important for corporations to own their own broadcasting and broadband channels. You see an analog signal goes way farther than a digital signal.
The reason a small percentage of the analog signal system was sold to police departments is because, as it was explained by this PBS exec, their communication devices are so out-of-date they need analog broadbands for their communication channels.
My question is, what happened to that 20 billion dollars? Where'd it go? Did G.W. Bush buy his new Dallas mansion with it? Probably not. G.W. stole 40 trillion from us right off the bat--remember how 40 trillion just disappeared out of the so-called budget surplus Slick Willie left us; plus the Bush Family Empire made millions selling stolen Iraqi oil--how many barrels went missing during Bush Baby's reign? So he didn't need to steal a lousy 20 billion from us--so where did it go? Unka Dick's worth more than 20 billion through his Halliburton connection--yes, folks, to the Power Elite, 20 billion is chicken feed in today's trillion-dollar crooked ass world.
The Power Elite will never allow We the People access to our own wealth. Money is not WEALTH. Money is a way of exchange. Paper money is only as valuable as the paper and ink and design costs and security tab costs it is printed on and printed with. The machines that print our tons and tons of daily printed paper money are more valuable in terms of wealth than the money they produce. The stock market is supposed to reflect the true worth of a company. That is now bullshit and always has been bullshit since stock markets were invented back in ancient times.
In actuality, the United States is never BROKE. Why, you ask? Because of the assets We the People own. As one thinker several years ago said, "We could sell Alaska and pass out the take and every American would suddenly be rich." Also look at all the land We the People own. And we're supposed to own the airwaves. We're supposed to own the beaches. We're supposed to own all the thousands and thousands of government buildings and the highway system--I mean, all of that is capital wealth--land, air, water--the sources of the natural economy.
How disgusting is it watching Larry Summers, that shady, lyin', crooked asshole, explaining Obama's bailout plan--no different really than the Repugnicans's bailout giveaways--all this ballyhooing from the economist dumbass who was the cause of deregulation under Slick Willie Clinton. All these dudes in the Obama camp are tied to Slick Willie. I think Obama's tied to Slick Willie's apron strings--too bad, that's his Achilles Heel: his connection to the Clintons and the traditional old-line-legal-reserve backwards thinking Dumbocratic Party machine--and that Achilles Heel may surely bring him down.
Check back in our history. We assassinate presidents! Who assassinates our presidents? Why it's always some kook--they used to be called Anarchists--now they're probably called terrorists. We assassinate potential presidents, too. We assassinate anybody who stands up and contends with the laissez faire--and that's the economics we play in this country--what the Repugnicans stand for--the politics of leisure--the leisure class running our country! If you watched that inauguration closely you could see it in plain view--how leisurely these privileged bastards go about their lives--they hate WORK! They hate WORKERS. They hate the WORKING CLASS. They truly look down their stuck-in-the-air noses at We the People. We vote to give them people power and they ignore that vote and go on with their leisurely lives. Even Obama does this. Even Michelle Obama does it. It comes with the power.
I was with my brother the day he got his first check after winning a big lawsuit against one of the largest Texas newspapers at the time. This paper was being taken over by the Los Angeles Times--back in the days when the Chandler Family ran the paper--the largest deal in communications history--95 million dollars--and the deal couldn't go through because of my brother's lawsuit. They settled with my brother. He got 10,000 shares of LA Times stock--it made my brother, unfortunately for a short time, a 10th owner of the LA Times. And I was with him the day he got his first check from the Times--for $25,000--and as he showed me the check I could tell his attitude had suddenly changed--I could feel the confidence in his voice as he was realizing how he was now a player in the world of the Power Elite--he was in the big leagues--with the horsey set--he could now send his kids to the best private schools and later all the way to Harvard, which he did eventually through his daughter--and I must say, I find that daughter, my niece, one of the most brilliant women I know--I mean she's so easy to get along with she's like ME! Just like ME! That day, I saw a surge of power suddenly realizable by my brother. And he said, "Come on, Wolfie, let's go downtown. I'll show you what being rich means." And we went into Austin and he went in the finest stores and after being offered cheap items--I guess my brother didn't look rich--I wouldn't know, he still just looked like my brother to me--and as they trotted out the cheap stuff, my brother turned on 'em and said, "Is that cheap shit all you have?" "Well, er-ah, we have more expensive...." "That's what I want, you're MOST expensive." What a day. I'll never forget how my brother changed that day. How his confidence built until he was puffed up and mighty and mean and don't mess with him 'cause now he had the pot of gold at the end of his rainbow.
Even I experienced that powerful feeling that day--you know, here was my brother playing big time in the world of the Leisure Class. My brother thought he was certainly King of the Hill that day--King of the Austin Hills for sure.
Later, one of my brother's books was optioned by Columbia Pictures--and not only did that make him richer, but it made him think of himself as a Hollywood player! One day he called me and said, "Pack your bags and get a ticket to LAX, you're joining me in Hollywood!"
That was my introduction to Hollywood. I knew L.A. enough to know I hated it, but I'd never really been into Hollywood. Remember, the last movie I went to was Lawrence of Arabia back when I first came to New York City--I saw it at the Rialto, too--so I wasn't ready for Hollywood.
Two things impressed me on that trip. First of all, because I looked like a Woodstock Generation Wavy-Gravy-looking hippy in those days, my brother sent me over to a Columbia set barbershop to get me spiffied up Hollywood style. The barber (stylist, I'm sorry) was a Jay Sebring student--Jay was killed with Sharon Tate by the Manson Family--Charlie's still with us, by the way--living well in a California prison--and this Sebring stylist had his Mexican girl wash my filthy locks, then he put me up in curlers and after about a day and a half under a dryer, he unveiled my new look, blew it out, and picked it high with his pick, and he whipped off the protective apron and wheeled the chair around so I could see myself in the mirror--and son of a bitch, I looked like a movie star. I said, "Son of a bitch, dude, you made me look like a movie star." "That's my job, pal, that's my job." He charged my brother $75--so Columbia Pictures bought me a haircut (sorry, a style).
Then later, this Columbia assistant director, a friend of my brother's, gave me some chits to use at the famous Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Hot damn, the keiko-muckity-muck joint to be in those days. And I'm sittin' in the Polo Lounge drinking a Brandy Alexander--the bartender telling me all the while how he hated making Brandy Alexanders--in that case, I told him, make me a whole pitcher of them--here's some chits from Columbia Pictures. "Wow, you've got connections at Columbia. I have this screenplay I've been working on, I mean it's cooly contemporary...." Power was in my corner for that moment.
And then the second thing on that trip that impressed me happened. A big dude was standing down the bar from me--wearing a big Stetson and a Western-style business suit--though I was close enough to watch his actions and to hear him tell the bartender to call for his car and then watch as the dude threw a $1000 bill on the bar to pay his tab. I had never in my life seen a $1000 bill--and the bartender showed it to me--even let me touch it--this was before I got into coin and paper money collecting and appraisal biz--since then I've seen a $100,000 bill. Have any of you ever seen a $1000 bill?
And then, you know what happened--I looked up and a Corvette was driven right up a brick driveway that semicircles right into the bar itself--this bar having an air-wall--very common in Las Vegas I remember--as its outside wall--just a blast of air acting like a protection against the outside sunshine and beautiful weather--and this fucking Corvette was this dude's car and after he left, I asked the bartender-scriptwriter who the hell he was. "Some Texas real estate dude," he said. "It's the first time I've ever served him though I've seen him around the hotel a lot."
Hollywood! If I could, and I did. My brother's power in Hollywood was limited, though one of his best friends in life was a very successful Hollywood producer and director--and his other best friend in L.A. was bandleader Artie Shaw, though on that trip he didn't take me to meet Artie.
In Case You Had Trouble Deciding If Jesus Christ ("Joe the Blessed" in Greek) Were Real, Read This and All Your Troubles Deciding Will Vanish--The Truth Shall Make Thee Free! The Best Piece of Infidel Writing on Christianity I've Ever Read
www.infidels.org/library/historical/marshall_gauvin/did_jesus_really_live.html
What more can I write?
thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler
No comments:
Post a Comment