From the Tantalizing Toxic Habitat of Lake Flaccid, New York, Comes Barabbas Munn-Dayne, the The Daily Growler Jots & Tittles Man
Ohhh, jolly, jolly, ho, I had a splendid Thanksgiving. If you recall from my last post, Cecil the Dog-faced Boy III had accepted an invitation to judge a freak show in Miami and while he was down in Miami his undog-like sister, Babs, was coming up to Lake Flaccid to stay in Cecil's log-cabin mansion up in Rich-Rich Hills just outside the village of Lake Flaccid.
While the cat's away...er-ah, Dog-faced Boy in this case...the mice will play and let me tell you, folks, old Barabbas the Mouse played, yes he did. Sister Barbara had just been driven up in the log cabin mansion driveway in Cecil's big Rolls driven by Hot Toy Chow, Cecil's chauffeur, when I showed up, jumped out of my used Jeep, and chased the car up the driveway.
"Hidi-ho, I was just passing by...," I hollered and waved at the big car.
Hot Toy Chow rolled down his driver's side window and said, "That's bullshit, Mr. Munn-Dayne, you were not just passing by. You know the boss don't want you messin' with his sister."
Damn, I'd forgotten how loyal Hot Toy was to Cecil.
"Come on, Hot Toy, really, I was just passing by...."
"That's bullshit, but if you insist on ignoring my boss's wishes then you're own your own, Buddy." With that he shot the Rolls on up to the front of the house leaving me to lope up the slope after the car.
"Poor Barrabby," Barbara said as she slipped out of the big car and skittered back to meet me. "Are you OK?"
"Hot Toy's right, it really wasn't an accident I was just passing by...."
"I know that, Barabbas. So, listen, here's what you do, you go on back to your place and let me call you and we'll work something out. H.T.'s going into New York City later today...."
"Good, I've made us reservations at Twilly's on the Thruway."
It turned out to be a splendid Thanksgiving. I'll not go into the details, but love was in the fetid air, let me tell you. She's left town now, gone back to Florida, and Cecil's due in tomorrow morning. We'll see what the consequences will be if Cecil discovers I had relations with his sister. Or I can lie like a dog and deny, deny, deny, though that wouldn't be fair to Barbara if say we may be really in love. The thought of being in love gives me the willies actually, but, anyway, I'm a human male and will do anything for...well, now, let me shut up about this private stuff.
Hot Toy didn't come back up to Lake Flaccid until it was time for him to take Barbara over to the airport in Saranac Lake. We said our goodbyes the night before so I stayed away when Hot Toy took her to the airport.
So we'll see. I may never be invited over to Cecil's again, and that's too bad, because he said he was bringing back some Kobe steaks an old freak pal of his from Tasmania was bringing to him to Miami. Nothing like a well-grilled Kobe steak washed down with a little icy cold Dom Perignon. Maybe start the evening off with some fresh Fort Kent oysters on the half shell.
Did I make a good trade off: Kobe steak dinners for a good-looking woman, who doesn't resemble man's best friend in any way at all?
I've made my choice, sobeit.
Jots & Tittles
--Did you know "I've fallen and I can't get up" is a registered trademark now? So if you fall and can't get up, you'd have to get permission to holler, "I've fallen and I can't get up." I didn't notice if the phrase was registered with an exclamation mark or not. Maybe if you screamed it out you could get away with using it without getting sued. This all has to do with what's called in the advertising world "branding." It comes from of course our "branding" our cattle. Putting our "Mark" on our product.
--More companies I'd never heard of until recently. [Note: there is a huge number of new healthcare insurance schemers out there now and new medical supply companies coming on line daily.] The list: Liberator Medical Holdings, Inc. (Liberator Medical Supplies); Cure (auto insurance); King Arthur Flour (it says it's "America's Oldest Flour"); VNS CHOICE (Medicare supplemental insurance company); Anthem Institute (I don't know what they sell): Reliant Pharmacy; Keirig (they make coffeemakers); Touchstone Health (another Medicare supplemental insurance company); FBLI USA (a senior life insurance company); and Mogi (an auto repair money loaner--a new scheme I've only recently seen on teevee. You see, you pay Mogi an annual premium like an insurance premium. When you have a problem with your car, say your transmission goes out on you, you take it in and get it repaired and Mogi pays your bill in full for you. The scheme is that Mogi isn't paying your auto repair bills for you for free. Hell no, Mogi pays your repair bill and then you pay them back through monthly payments--Mogi ends up collecting the original premiums plus now the monthly payments on your repair charges, plus interest on the money they actually loaned you to pay your auto repairs in full. Ah, what a scheme!).
It is surprising how many new companies one can see if one watches enough teevee. There are at least two new companies a week appearing on television these days. Most of them are healthcare/insurance-related companies. For instance, check out how many new drugs appear each week on television.
--A fellow Growler recently sold some original Charles Bukowski poem manuscripts on eBay and in preparing these poems for shipping out to their new owners, he came across a small press rag called Free Thought. He'd bought the poems out in San Francisco 9 years ago from a SF bookstore owner and the guy had given him this publication and he'd filed it away and forgotten about it. I picked it up at his place and started reading it. "Did you know this whole issue is about Bukowski?" I asked the man--"That's why he gave it to you I'm sure." "I had no idea. I've never even looked at it much less read it," the man replied. He's a dealer and dealers don't really delve too deeply into the sentiments of what they are selling. Dealers can't get attached to the things they sell--they must sell their wares no matter how attracted they are to them in a personal way.
Here's one of the poem manuscripts he sold:
Charles Bukowski poem entitled "The day the epileptic spoke" from 1982. It's signed and dated by Buk himself.
And this Free Thought it turns out is a fascinating publication--at least this Bukowski issue is fascinating. Here's an interesting little piece on Bukowski's "style" from William Packard of The New York Quarterly [is it still around? I'll have to check].
"6. Thank god we've all come a long way from Tennyson when craft was seen as a lot of ta ta tum. And thank god Bukowski has spent most of his lifetime in bars and whorehouses, instead of in schools and universities.
"7. Bukowski's craft is his Style. One that has been won. Like, Hemingway, he earns his work. But he has said it for himself, in a poem entitled 'Style' which appeared in issue 9 of The New York Quarterly.
style is the answer to everything
a fresh way to approach a dull or
a dangerous thing.
to do a dull thing with style
is preferable to doing a dangerous
thing without it.
to do a dangerous thing with style
is what I call Art.
bullfighting can be an Art.
boxing can be an Art.
loving can be an Art.
opening a can of sardines can be
not many have style
not many can keep style
I have seen dogs with more style
although not many dogs have
cats have it, with
when Hemingway put his brains
to the wall
with a shotgun
that was style.
or sometimes people give you
Joan of Arc had style
John the Baptist
I've met men in jail with style
I've met more men in jail with
then men out of jail.
Style is the difference.
a way of doing.
a way of being done.
6 heron standing quietly in a pool
or you walking out of the
[From The New York Quarterly, issue 9 (winter 1970)]
"The whole poem is a good demonstration of Bukowski's style. How it moves from general statement to stunning specifics of the last 4 lines."
[Free Thought, Volume II, Issue 1, Summer 2000.]
And those "stunning specifics of the last 4 lines" are what I've always admired about Charles Bukowski. The academic poets call his style "Intuitive." They who have learned to write poetry will never understand those like Bukowski who just naturally have to write, poetry or whatever--it's the only sane thing they know how to do; otherwise, their lives are disasters. Only their writings are their successful selves. Bukowski, according to the publisher of the Black Sparrow Press, was a big seller--he saved the Black Sparrow Press from going the way of all small presses back in the 70s, 80s, and into the 90s (when desktop publishing came along). Plus, Bukowski left behind hundreds upon hundreds of poems and writings, enough that Black Sparrow has published two several hundred-page books of Charles's posthumous leftovers.
Charles Bukowski--the only way he could read his poems.
--70% of your immune system is in your gut! Good for the gut: probiotics, royal (bee) jelly, magnesium, oil of oregano, grape seed extract. Heal thyself! That's the bottom line to this new National Healthcare bullshit that's currently being perpetrated on We the People of the USA. In the meantime, the percentage of people without health insurance is going up not down (over 2,ooo Veterans died last year because they had no health insurance--and we swoon over how brave these men and women are and then treat them like shit when they return to their civilian lives--we've done it to the Vets of all our wars--look how we treated the World War I Vets--Coxsey's Army, look it up. World War II Vets had to fight for what benefits they got--they were considered respected Vets since we firmly believed we won World War II all by ourselves. Not all Vets of WWII got treated so respectfully). The resulting National Healthcare bullshit being "debated" over in the Senate right now will throw more people out of the healthcare system than it will bring in. Of course, those it will bring in will be forced to either buy into the private healthcare insurance schemes or perish. Before you perish, the IRS is going to fine you--upwards of $2500! If you can't pay your IRS bill, then, hey, guess what, partner, you're headed for the poorhouse. In this case, you'll be headed for the nearest work farm--where you work or die. I'd suggest you die.
Doesn't it make more sense to learn how to diagnose your own ills than to trust some doctor? Watch that TV show "Scrubs" or a movie with George C. Scott in it called "Hospital"--in the bitter satire of these two dramatizations doctors, I think, are portrayed, yes, exaggeratedly so, pretty close to who they really are and how they struggle behind the scenes in a world of life and death competitions. Up here on the shores of lovely supertoxic Lake Flaccid we learn to go to Mohawk medicine men before going to a local doctor. Certainly not Doc Trees here in Lake Flaccid. He's near 90. He's still practicing 19th-Century medicine. Of course he's cheap. I mean, say you have an ingrown toenail, old Doc Trees can handle that, like shove a couple of slivers of plastic up in under the ingrown parts--Holy Jesus it hurts--but, dammit, it works. That's the only time I ever visited the Doc, the time I had an ingrown toenail and the pain shoved me in to constant torture--so I hobbled from Gypsy Joe's Pharmacy and Backyard Coffee Garden over to the Doc's second-story office in the Loony Johnson Office Building. I walked out of there a new man--and, oh I did go back and the Doc pulled the slivers of plastic out--again with a ferocious OUCH but afterwards a natural born pleasure walking easily upright again.
There's tons of information about how to study your physical problems on the Internet. The Mayo Clinic has a great site in terms of understanding diseases, causes, symptoms, preventions, cures.
I've always wondered why nurses don't do more in the way of healthcare providing than they are allowed. Nurses have to be pretty smart in terms of diagnostics, procedures, emergency medicine, etc. Nurses could certainly give exams and tests and stuff in free clinics. We could have nursing stations all over towns and cities. For just half of our military budget, we could provide free healthcare for everybody in the world. What a waste of money and human beings these incessant wars are! That's the biggest shame I can see clouding over the intentions of this nation and We the People. We the People want a Medicare-like healthcare system--a large majority of us do! Yet, our representatives won't allow us what we want! Our government has decided it knows more what's best for us than we do--and I think that's what pisses Repugnicans off about Dumbocrats and so-called Liberals. We the People want an end to these occupations and this stupid war on terror perpetrated on us by the worst president in the history of this country--of which everybody agrees, even his own father and mother and his brothers--and we want that little prick brought to the dock for all the god-damn ignorant revengeful and Neo-Con positions of danger he put this country in! This little asshole brought this nation down lower than Benedict Arnold affected the outcome of the Revolutionary War. This little asshole did more damage to our economy, armed forces, financial system than any Commie government or al-Queda terrorist ever could have done. Yet, he's living well down in Dallas, Texas, comfortable as hell, like a duke or an earl, his wife busy as hell doing her gadflying about Dallas--surely George and Pickles are members of the Dallas Country Club--surely! OJ is, why not G.W. Bush! Yet our representatives and our elected President refuse to give us what we want--instead forcing pay or die health insurance on us and forcing a further war into Pakistan on us it looks like. Prediction: President Obama will try and scare hell out of us in his serious way Tuesday night from West Point as he goes about justifying his sending 40,000 more worn-out troops and raw rookie troops into the scariest parts of Afghanistan. Oh, you bet he'll justify it! He'll also justify another 80 billion to pay for this batch of extra canon fodder boys and girls--not many of these kids are pot-bellied old men--except the general officers who keep figuring out ways to get more of them in the army and more of them over into Afghanistan so these fucking generals can keep trying out their failed methods of war. We listen to generals and we inevitably end up deeper in danger, debt and degradation. Men of peace holler like madmen at us and we shun them! Why is peace so frightening to us? I'll tell you why, because we're dumb animals, that's why.
Just think if old Georgie Porgie drinks a little too much or maybe almost ODs on rock cocaine that bastard will get the finest of healthcare--and from whom? you may ask. And if you don't know the answer to that, then you'll gladly pay or die.
Heal thyself. That's all.
--A Jeep commercial tagline--said by a White male talking tough while a Jeep races across a desert-looking horizon--is "I Ride, I Live, I Am"--what the hell does that mean? And I drive a Jeep. A used one. I never felt like hollering in a rough manly voice as I drive along, "I Ride, I Live, I Am." Jesus, wouldn't you be lasso-ed and hauled off to the asylum for that?
--Deaths in November that shook me:
Art D'Lugoff, owned the Village Gate and Top of the Gate jazz clubs in the Village of New York City; also owned the West End Cafe later. Art died of a heart attack at 85--a good long life for a hard-living jazz promoter--I've spent many an enjoyable evening at both the Gate and the Top of the Gate.
Robert Bernard "Bob" Dillinger (September 17, 1918 – November 7, 2009) was a professional baseball player who played third base in the major leagues from 1946-51. He played for the St. Louis Browns, Philadelphia Athletics, Pittsburgh Pirates, and Chicago White Sox. He was born in Glendale, California.
Dillinger led the American League in hits in 1948 with 207, was an A.L. All-Star in 1949, and was the A.L. stolen base champion for three consecutive seasons. An excellent contact hitter, his career batting average in the majors was .306, amassing 888 hits in 3,201 plate appearances. 
Dick Katz, a damn fine jazz pianist and arranger; Dick was 85, and lung cancer finally got him.
Sy Syms, New Yorkers all gotta kind of be surprised at the passing of old Sy Syms, the master seller of cheap clothing and sponsor of PBS Movie nights. Poor old Sy; when he and his wife split there was a big fight over control of Syms Clothiers--the daughter and the son fought over the business--Sy favored the daughter and she did the commercials for years; though here lately the son has been doing them.
Jeanne-Claude, Christos's babe. Creator of the tacky "Gates" she and Christos talked NYC Mayor Mikey Bloomberg into paying for--to waste tons of city money on these tacky gates made out of a shitty looking plastic crap the color of Jeanne-Claude's badly dyed hair. Sorry. Such disrespect for so great an artist. I can also say one time I saw her up close--during a "Gates" hoopla ceremony--and she's one of the ugliest women I've ever gazed upon in my fairly long life.
Hale Smith, the American composer--this is sad because I was just listening to my Hale Smith CD just the other morning. His Dialogues & Commentaries and Innerflexions are well worth giving a listen to. Yep, we're sad to hear that Hale had a stroke. We lost a good one.
Princess Farial Farouk has kicked the royal bucket. King Farouk's eldest child. Anybody remember King Farouk? He had a freaky passion for a young Jewish Egyptian actress with whom he could never complete the sexual act. She said the King's royal bone was no bigger than his pinkie finger and was just not long enough to even get past her major labia.
RIP to all the above.
--I laughed like a hyena on a pot high watching an "Inside Edition" television show the other night. The story was of a "little person" woman. I hate the phrase little person, but what do you do when that's what these people want to be called? Not midgets. Not dwarfs. You want to go to a really weird site, here you go, to the "Midget Manifesto."
Somebody went to a huge amount of trouble to produce these pages. Boy, some people. Time on their hands. This site's been up since 1999. It even has big-time advertising on it.
So what was so fascinating about this edition of "Inside Edition" was that this little person woman, only 2 1/2 feet high, was pregnant. They showed her in her home sitting on a couch. Jesus Christ, she looked Todd-Browning freaky as hell. She was all stomach with a regular-sized human head on it. You couldn't see her legs. I started laughing at her--isn't that the whole idea of this "Inside Edition" feature? Aren't we supposed to laugh at this poor woman whose horny regular sized husband can't keep his wacko dick out of this poor woman?--oh boy I'll bet the fact he's banging his little person wife is what gets him off! I'm sorry, but the only sense I see in any "Inside Edition" show (it's show biz, folks, that's all it is--the first one of these shows was called "Entertainment Tonight") is comic relief. The headline of this story was "America's most courageous little mom!" That one made me laugh my ass off almost. You see this "America's most courageous little mom" is taking a chance of "blowing up"--I swear, that's the risk she's facing being as pregnant as she is. She could blow up. When junior comes shooting out the shute, I suppose. And I'm getting gross, I know. But this is all insanely humorous to me. The poor woman I feel for, even though, why would a woman like this risk blowing herself up just to have a "normal" child. On top of this ludicrous bullshit we then find out she already has had two kids! I left the show curious as to how many "little moms" have actually blown up in medical history?
Here's the story of "America's most courageous little mom":
And on checking to see if The New York Quarterly is still publishing; the answer is Yes. It's online now--cost you $10 to read it--here's a list of the poets and poems on the Contents page:
|THE CHERRY BLOSSOM PROOF|
|THE NEW SONG|
|Dennis Bernstein||DIRTY POOL|
|Bruce Weigl||THE END OF MY CAREER IN DANCE|
|Marge Piercy||WHEN THE FLOOR DISSOLVES|
|Bob Hicok||CONTRIB NOTES|
|Ted Jonathan||REGINA EINHORN|
|Christine Ann Cuccio||MARY'S MARYS|
|William Meyer, Jr.||A DRINK OF WATER BEFORE I DIE|
|Mather Schneider||DESTINY OF A CAB DRIVER|
|Dorianne Laux||HOW WE WERE: A LULLABY|
|Justin Marks||TWENTY-FIVE HOURS IN ICELAND|
|Mark Bibbins||THE DEVIL YOU DON'T|
|Iris Lee||VISITING MY CONEY ISLAND HOME|
|Katherine M. Hedeen||GEOMITRIES, 8|
|Jesús Munárriz||GEOMITRIAS, 8|
|Víctor Rodríguez Núñez||GEOMITRIES, 8|
|Jayne Lyn Stahl||NO SMALL ACCOMPLISHMENT|
|Shya Scanlon||I'M PATH, PATH-WORK, A RIGOROUS UNDOING|
|Donald Lev||ON THE FILM SOPHIE SCHOILL: THE FINAL DAYS|
|Tony Gloeggler||MID LIFE POETRY CRISIS|
|Christopher Cunningham||A TIME OF REST|
|Ira Joe Fisher||A FINISH|
|melissa christine goodrum||OBJECT|
|Douglas Treem||CAROLE'S BOYFRIEND|
|Yvonne Lieblein||CROSSING MONTANA|
|Mukoma Wa Ngugi||I SWEAR I SEE SKULLS COMING|
|Eileen Hennessy||FOR TIMES OF WAR, A SONG|
|Jackie Sheeler||GLORIA'S STORIES|
|Lisa Palma||LUNCH DATE|
|Bruce Ducker||I WATCH YOU SLEEP|
|Lyn Lifshin||TWINS IN AUSCHWITZ|
|Tom Benediktsson||FIRST NIGHT IN TEXAS|
|Tom C. Hunley||ISM-ISM|
|Jim Daniels||NO DICK/DICK|
|Michael Lee Phillips||THE HIERARCHAL BINARIES OF RON JEREMY|
|Jim Reese||THIS HAVELOCK|
|Mary Dezember||THE TRUTH|
|Franz Douskey||BLUEBERRY-FLAVORED MORPHINE|
|William Baer, Jr.||SEASIDE HEIGHTS|
|Kim Bridgford||THE GLASS SLIPPERS|
|Andrés Rodríguez||EVERYTHING IS DARK|
|Trey Conatser||LEAP, FROG,|
|Andrew Kaufman||ASSISTED LIVING|
|Jennifer Banash||WHITE RIBBONS|
|Elisavietta Ritchie||TABULA RASA|
|A. D. Winans||71 GOING ON 72|
|Matt Zambito||WHITE LIGHT WHITE STARS|
|Norman Stock||WALLACE STEVENS IN QUEENS|
|Luke Johnson||ROARING RUN FURNACE|
|Yoon Sik Kim||COLLECTION OF HAIKUS|
|Fred Yannantuono||CANINE DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR PALINDROME|
|Cathryn Cofell||THE PLIGHT OF THE CHRISTMAS SUGAR...|
|Leslieann Hobayan||CRANBERRY WINTER DANCES|
|Lynne Savitt||LUZ GARCIA'S HALF MOON OVER...|
|Thomas Rockwell||OUT OF HER MIND|
|Monique Ferrell||FINGER...FOR WOMEN WHO SURVIVE|
|Shelley Stenhouse||SNOW DAY|
|Andrea Adam Brott||BEST FRIENDS|
|David James||VIEW OF A PAIR|
|Christopher Goodrich||TO THE WOMAN WHOSE NOSE RAN INTO...|
|Laurence Loeb||AFTER THAWS|
|Charity Henderson||WHEN THE ANGEL CAME|
|Susan Denning||O MY MECHANICAL HEART|
|Terence Winch||OBJECTS OF SPIRITUAL SIGNIFICANCE|
|Liz Kicak||PANIC ATTACK AT 2:17 AM|
|Dave Church||VISITING AN OLD LOVER|
|Rynn Williams||MAGIC KINGDOM|
|R. D. Coleman||AFTER DYLAN|
|Caroline Conway||PARENTHETICALS OF PLACE|
|Sampson Starkweather||THE SURFACE OF THE UNDERGROUND|
|Marlene Rosen Fine||WHEN I WAS TEN|
|Matthew Zapruder||from "TWENTY POEMS FOR NOELLE"|
|Savonna Smith||JUST US|
|Justin Scupine||GOOD AND GREAT|
|Emanuel diPasquale||AURORA, GOD'S WINGS|
|Ryan Crawford||I'M TOO FRIGHTENED TO KNOW|
|Linda Tieber||WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TOP...|
|Jeff Grimshaw||POEM ABANDONED IN PANIC...|
|Nancy Carol Moody||ALOFT: ONE GODS PERSPECTIVE|
|Stephen Stepanchev||BAGHDAD BLUES|
|Hedy Habra||THEY BELIEVED EVERYTHING I SAID|
|Hari Bhajan Khalsa||SOME DAYS|
|William Taylor, Jr.||THE SAME FIRE|
|EJ Miller Laino||PICTURE US|
|John McKernan||BELIEVABLE DREAMS|
|Gerald Locklin||VANESSA BELL|
|Tim McLoughlin||SENATOR STREET|
|Professor Arturo||BLOW, to Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong|
|Peter Arcese||DEEPER THAN DANTE|
|Stephen S. Mills||THE SCIENTISTS DON'T KNOW WHY...|
|Urayoán Noel||PUERTO RICAN PANTOUM|
|Steve Henn||TALKING AT SPIKE'S ABOUT A FRIEND...|
|April Puciata||MY FIRST IRISH WEDDING|
|John L. Stanizzi||WATCHES|
|Ulf Kirchdorfer||NO SHAME|
|Sharon Olinka||KILLING THE PIANO|
|Seth Abramson||SHAKE OUR HAND|
|Naomi Levine||REMEMBERING GRANDMA|
|Jason Tandon||LIGHT CATCHER|
|Christian Barter||THINGS I'VE FORGOTTEN|
My favorite poets in the list above I would love to read: of course Antler; and Professor Arturo; but the main one is melissa christine goodrum (is it pronounced "Goo-Drum"? or "Good Rum"?). I can romantically imagine meeting melissa christine goodrum on a full moonlighty night in a dark bar, like the Tantrum Tavern up the road from me, over a hot buttered rum with a gardenia floating in it.
melissa, I do
christen thee good rum; dark rum
melissa I do
A haiku for melissa christine goodrum.
A hearty fare-thee-well from,
for The Daily Growler
melissa christine goodrum