Monday, November 30, 2009

A Visit From Barabbas Munn-Dayne, The Daily Growler Jots & Tittles Man
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, 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
an Art.

not many have style
not many can keep style

I have seen dogs with more style
than men
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
Garcia Lorca.

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
of water
or you walking out of the
bathroom naked
without seeing

[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. [1]

Dillinger played his last four seasons (1952-55) in the Pacific Coast League, where he moved to the outfield and led the league in hitting with a .366 mark in 1953.

Dillinger is an alumnus of the University of Idaho; he was signed by the Browns as an amateur free agent in 1939.

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:

David Shapiro


Grace Zabriskie
Fred Yannantuono
Dennis Bernstein
Bruce Weigl
Marge Piercy
Bob Hicok
Ted Jonathan
Christine Ann Cuccio
William Meyer, Jr.
Mather Schneider
Dorianne Laux
Justin Marks
Mark Bibbins
Iris Lee
Carol Hamilton
Katherine M. Hedeen
Jesús Munárriz
Víctor Rodríguez Núñez
Jayne Lyn Stahl
Shya Scanlon
Donald Lev
Tony Gloeggler
Christopher Cunningham
Ira Joe Fisher
melissa christine goodrum
Douglas Treem
Yvonne Lieblein
Mukoma Wa Ngugi
Eileen Hennessy
Jackie Sheeler
Lisa Palma
Eric Gansworth
Bruce Ducker
Lyn Lifshin
Tom Benediktsson
Tom C. Hunley
Jim Daniels
Gordon Massman
Michael Lee Phillips
Jim Reese
Robert Simon
Scott Odom
Mary Dezember
Franz Douskey
William Baer, Jr.
Kim Bridgford
Andrés Rodríguez
Scott Bailey
Trey Conatser
Andrew Kaufman
Jennifer Banash
Elisavietta Ritchie
A. D. Winans
71 GOING ON 72
Matt Zambito
Norman Stock
Luke Johnson
Yoon Sik Kim
Fred Yannantuono
Cathryn Cofell
Leslieann Hobayan
Lynne Savitt
Thomas Rockwell
Monique Ferrell
Shelley Stenhouse
Andrea Adam Brott
David James
Traci Clark
Christopher Goodrich
Laurence Loeb
Charity Henderson
Susan Denning
Terence Winch
Liz Kicak
Susan Scutti
Dave Church
Rynn Williams
R. D. Coleman
Caroline Conway
Sampson Starkweather
Marlene Rosen Fine
Matthew Zapruder
Savonna Smith
Justin Scupine
Emanuel diPasquale
Ryan Crawford
Anne Elliott
Linda Tieber
Jeff Grimshaw
Nancy Carol Moody
Stephen Stepanchev
Hedy Habra
Hari Bhajan Khalsa
William Taylor, Jr.
EJ Miller Laino
John McKernan
Gerald Locklin
Tim McLoughlin
Professor Arturo
BLOW, to Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong
Peter Arcese
Stephen S. Mills
Urayoán Noel
Steve Henn
April Puciata
Scott Weaver
John L. Stanizzi
Ulf Kirchdorfer
Sharon Olinka
Seth Abramson
Naomi Levine
Jason Tandon
Christian Barter
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

Friday, November 27, 2009

Living in New York City--It's Black Friday--a Yahoo Holy Day

Foto by tgw, New York City, 2006.
A Bird Was Sacrificed For Us and Was Devoured--but not until after a prayer
Yeah, it was funny. A little dude from El Salvador gave the blessing. El Santo padre bendice esta comida, amén. "Let's eat," and we did. We dug in. Roasted turkey, a good Mexicany stuffing--I had 'em bring me a bowl of jalapenos for mine--canned cranberry sauce (my favorite kind; reminds me of my mom), mashed spuds (for the Irish), and sweet potatoes for us traditionalists--"And all the Heinekens you need to drink, Wolfie, me lad," and I was moderate. I drank only two Heinekens (Forgive me, Brendan Behan). The whole feast was topped off with a liberal slice of pumpkin pie (made by an Irish bakery in Queens) done Americano style with a huge dollop of vanilla ice cream riding high on its surface. I was bloated afterwards. In need of a siesta. Lazy as hell.

My favorite Irish waitress suggested an Irish whiskey--a tumbler of Jameson's Gold, one of the finest whiskeys ever concocted by very wise fermenting-minded human beings, in this case the Irish, and who know whiskeys better than the Irish? My Scottish grandmother said the reason I drank so much was due to what little wee bit of Irish I had in me. "Grandma," I used to argue with her, "the Irish and the Scottish, you're the same people, you're Celts--the old name for Ireland was Scotia--the old name for Scotland was Nova Scotia." "Hush your mouth, child!" she would eye-me-down back. "The Irish are no good and that's all there is to it. May God forgive me for the only prejudice bone I have in my body. That it be a bone of contention against the Irish won't hurt me one bit into getting into Heaven; in fact, according to my beliefs, it'll get me a place at the head of the line going into Heaven on the day I find myself standing 'fore the Pearly Gates."

My favorite Irish waitress brought me a tumbler of Jameson's Gold. It is gold now, by the way. A tumbler of Jameson's Gold at my fav Irish pub is now $12. Twelve dollars for a shot o'gold!

Let's pause and celebrate something good besides good whiskey out of Ireland:


by: W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

      HE cat went here and there
      And the moon spun round like a top,
      And the nearest kin of the moon,
      The creeping cat, looked up.
      Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
      For, wander and wail as he would,
      The pure cold light in the sky
      Troubled his animal blood.
      Minnaloushe runs in the grass
      Lifting his delicate feet.
      Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
      When two close kindred meet,
      What better than call a dance?
      Maybe the moon may learn,
      Tired of that courtly fashion,
      A new dance turn.
      Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
      From moonlit place to place,
      The sacred moon overhead
      Has taken a new phase.
      Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
      Will pass from change to change,
      And that from round to crescent,
      From crescent to round they range?
      Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
      Alone, important and wise,
      And lifts to the changing moon
      His changing eyes.
"The Cat and the Moon" is reprinted from The Wild Swans at Coole. W.B. Yeats. New York: Macmillan, 1919.

Come on now, what a great little poem!

Contrary to the stereotyped Irish male characteristics, Yeats was not a drinking man.

In cruising the Google fast lanes while researching Yeats, I came across this splendid blog post:

Tuesday, May 19, 2009


#139, Baggot Street, Dublin

My senior year of college, I dressed up like William Butler Yeats. Not every day, sadly, though I have to confess I cut a surprisingly sharp figure in a cape, flouncy poet's tie, and pince-nez. I made a pretty good six-foot-two Irishman for a five-foot-two American girl, and sometimes I think they must've switched souls at the Illinois hospital where I was born with a word-struck mystic outcast lad from Sligo. We've been trying to find each other ever since.

The method to the cross-cultural cross-dressing madness was a one-person show for my Non-fiction Studies class in the Performance Studies department. We were to research the life of a historical figure, put together a script using only primary sources (diaries, letters, first person accounts), and then perform a 30-40 minute long show where we became this historical figure. There were my classmates, parading about as Janis Joplin, Anais Nin, Frank Zappa, Bette Davis, and me, W.B. Yeats. The life of the party.

I mention this today, for 139's pub mural, because Yeats was not a drinking man. This asocial quirk did not make him popular among his fellow countrymen. As a child, children would jeer as he approached, lanky and gloomy, "O, here is King Death again!" As a grown-up, he was known as "Willie the Spooks." George Moore said of W.B. that he looked "like an umbrella left behind at a picnic." And as you can see, here he's been ousted from the hard man's drinking party with James Joyce and Sean O'Casey who are clearly living it up, bad eyesight and all, on the wall of Toner's. Only look at those drugged expressions. What do you suppose they're drinking, absinthe?

To read more, here ya go:
I love finding interesting blogs out of the slog of blogs that slime their ways into the threads of the blatantly democratic Internet (oh how the Capitalist pigs want to OWN the Internet--though guess who owns the Internet? Why We the People do; just like we own the airwaves, the radio and television frequencies, all the frequencies--We the People own them though we don't control them. The Power Elite controls them--they control them so broadly they actually think they OWN them). The Ampersand Seven blog is the blog of a woman, Therese Cox. I find women bloggers more interesting than the men. But then I'm a ladies man; I love women; most of the time I hate men. My ex-wife says I love women and hate men because women aren't a threat to me and men are. Oh how bitter that woman became over me. God. I mean, when we first met, Jesus, you'd a thought I was an Adonis--I fell from the mythological glory of being an Adonis in her eyes to being a foolish Icarus-type character--burning myself alive in an attempt to establish myself above the glowing of the Sun, our true Big Main God.

My problem for my ex-wife? I was too intuitive. I'm totally improvisational and most women can't tolerate such a side-to-side ride through life. Improvisation either works or it skids off into the ditch of total failure--ruin. Only the most finest tuned improviser can "blow choruses all night long" and survive. With the improviser, the next chorus has to blow away the last chorus or hell, what's the use of improvising? Why not collect your individualist pride and join a symphony orchestra and sightread note-for-note the written-down reproduced reprinted notes of music written by somebody besides you most of the time long before you were even thought of being born. My analogies and metaphors and semiphors and shit are running wild.

Thanksgiving. It's kind of a farce of a holiday. What, for instance, do We the People have to be thankful for collectively this year? The escalating invasion and occupation of Afghanistan? Maybe the fact that our "brave" troops are beginning to be killed more and more over there daily now? How about being thankful that perhaps, it looks as though, our President, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, is about to try and invade and occupy Pakistan? I'm suspicious as to why he's spending millions of bucks courting the president of India a couple a days ago in the meantime, contending with the Pakistan government by continuing drone airstrikes into Pakistan sovereign territory--killing innocent Pakistan men, women, children, and justifying it...and there's the problem. How the hell is President Obama justifying these illegal invasive attacks into Pakistan territory? I suppose he will gloss this up in his upcoming grand speech before true fools of human beings at the West Point Military Academy. Obama like G.W. Bush has this obcessive desire to be loved and trusted by our foolish volunteer troops (and I call them foolish because they are dumb foolish kids for the most part).

Did anyone pick up on the fact that Obama feated the President of India almost one year to the day after the Pakistan terrorists attack Mumbai and killed 170 people--the only living terrorist who was captured alive going on trail in India as the President of the USA was charming and feasting the President of India to a multimillion dollar extravaganza dinner--the President of India gladly accepting the deal of trading him our nuclear secrets for his mangoes! Should we be thankful for that multimillion buck dinner we gave the Indian president? How many outsourcing deals did this bastard make with American corporations while he was here? Since We the People through our government never pick the right sides to align ourselves with, I'm sure this alignment with India will bring us grief in the near future as President Obama seems pretty intent on carrying on what is now his righteous war, carrying it on into Pakistan that is. Like I said yesterday, I think the Prez and his G.W. Bush (Neo-Con) military advisers are concerned about Pakistan's nuclear arsenal (which we gave them in the first place) falling into Taliban or al Queda or Pakistan left winger hands. There is a strong Communist movement in Pakistan. There's one in India, too. Also, the Kashmir mess isn't cleared up by any means yet in that part of the world. It's all about religions and gods and ways and paths and nirvanas and utopias and holy writs and shit. Marx, who was right about so many things, sorry all you Commie haters, but Marx was a smart man, said religion was the opiate that had us all in a fabulous lull--rocked asleep in the cradle of our fears and mysteries by the comforting winds of believing we are divine and thereby never going to die.

Should we be thankful that the recession is over? Well, at least it's over as far as the Power Elite's concerned. Hell, the Power Elite never even noticed we were in a recession. Recession, hell, we were and still are in a depression. A depression that could implode any day now and send us rocketing into a black hole of a truly "evil" depression! The Greater Depression. Let's have, in fact, the greatest Depression ever!

I'm getting cynical again. Why? Because of my fellow humans. Why are we intent on doing exactly what Freud said we were doing back in the early stages of his discovery period? I'm talking about the built-in death wish we all possess! To a person like me who accepts death as inevitable and life as a grand and glorious experience, I'd rather find pleasure in life than pain--Evolution as the true creator--accident as the way we do naturally change--an accident, and we change patterns--we have to change or perish in some accidental cases, like when an asteroid accidentally hits the earth again. By the way, you can check on asteroids headed our way over in our blog
So, alas, another Thanksgiving has come and gone.

Still it's a Holy Day here in New York City. It's 9 am and so still it's eerie. I'm still anticipating the construction site to start hammering at any second. I've just been bitten by a mosquito. This has been a bad year for them. I remember when Rudy Guliani was Mayor how he gassed our asses--trucks running up and down Manhattan spraying god knows what into our already contaminated air--his decision to kill all the mosquitos in New York City even if he killed all the humans in New York City to do it was just one of the idiocies of this pompous asshole's mean years as our mayor--who still is disgracing the true greatness of New York City by trotting around making appearances and threatening to run for, but now he's maybe running for senator--he's pondering his chances--"Do I win easier against the moulinyan or the female?--I know I can charm the female out of her panties...but I don't know about the Moolie; slandering a blind man, let alone a blind Moolie...oh, I'm sorry, did I say moulinyan--I swear I said,, I mean, blaaaa...." And poor old Rudy. He's looking haggard. He's looking a little osteo--humped, you know. He's looking tired, too. In the meantime, his old asshole buddy, Bernie Keric, is tucked away in a Federal prison--don't worry, he's doin' just fine--he's in with his own kind--he'll probably soon be buttering up to some of the younger dudes. Rudy's free while Bernie does a little time for doing the same things Rudy did. Can't separate the two with a crowbar, as we used to say about asshole buddies.

I date myself. Hell, I don't care. My traveling self. My self that moves along in the NOW. I'm always thinking "Now's the Time." Because now's the only time we have. It's the only real time. Think of it. You're reading this and it's already in the ethereal. Floating around on the cyber seas--to perhaps float there forever. Wow. You think there's a lot of manmade junk in outer space--what about Internet space! Watch out! Wow, that piece of shit almost hit us.

What amazes me about all this is that I'm soon considering it as word garbage. Isn't it garbage to a writer after he or she has written something and finished it? I remember Hemingway and Faulkner talking about not reading their books after they'd finished writing them and they were published. Yes, they all had their leather-bound very first editions on their bookshelves. Or, I remember hearing a lot of jazz musicians talking about how they never listened to their own recordings. Again, like the writers, they all had stacks of their albums all around their apartment walls--but they were remains--bodies. In the now the writer or musician has to be creating anew, with no time for looking back. This is kind a'what Obama's philosophy is in his saying he doesn't want anything to do with the past, only the future. That's jazz thinking. Yes, it's Black thinking, too. There's only "badness," "blues," and "bondage" in the past...there is a CHANCE for breaking free in the future. In other words, the future can erase the past with the right editor wielding the eraser...and then be rewritten by the right writer. Does Obama write his own speeches? I know he was the EDITOR in chief of the Harvard Law Review when he was one of the future best & brightest in his class at Harvard Law.

And you know how I love editors! From editors did I come and with editors will I go. I once heard a publisher at a publishing seminar at NYU say that editors had to decide at some point in their lives whether they were satisfied being editors or whether they were becoming editors only to advance themselves toward getting published as writers. The best editors, he said, were writers who couldn't finish novels or books of poems; writers who were Strunk & White strict with themselves with their prose but not creative enough to turn that correct prose into great tales! Are editors incapable of writing bad whatever their language! Are they so strict with their prose correction they are incapable of breaking the laws of language like writers can so easily do, like writers can so naturally do?

I came to New York City as a writer. I became an editor out of financial desperation. It was the only job I could get with writer credits.

I had always had intentions of being a writer since I was 11 years old and one afternoon after school my maternal grandmother taught me how to type--or started teaching me how to type--it was either her teach me how to type or her enduring me destroying her pride-and-joy typewriter on which she wrote her books of poetry and her novels. By teaching me how to type because of my fascination I had with the typewriter, she also made a writer out of me. I always said my fascination with the typewriter came from my same (earlier, too) fascination I had with the piano--and I've always said both typewriters and pianos are keyboards--typewriter keys are used to write out your songs--piano keys are used to sing out your songs. Oh how romantic I can be. Is that the Irish in me?

So after a slug of Jameson's Gold and after I'd hugged and kissed all the pretty lassies and gone the round of los abrazos with los senores, I came home, back to the stillness of my apartment and conked out. Belly full. Hunger oversatisfied. Gut glorying with gusto. With great respect, I passed out reading a Charles Bukowski novel, Ham on Rye, thedailygrowlerhousepianist gave me to read a'couple a'weeks back. I didn't wake up until I had missed "The Mentalist," a Thursday night CBS teevee show that several times I've found rather amusing--one episode in particular done wonderfully surprising--well written and well acted--when they got a confession out of a murderer by showing him a guy he thought he had murdered being interviewed and being told the guy was confessing everything, blaming him for trying to kill him, blah, blah, blah. Turned out the confessing guy was really dead. They were propping him up like they did Bernie in the Weekend with Bernie movies--but the guy was stiff as a board dead. That one got my ass. Caught me flat by surprise. I missed it last night though.

Today. Oh I'm sailing on intuitive waters today. Let come what may. So far, everything of mine is going my way. It's a la-ti-dah day with me.

Black Friday! Oh how desperate our Walmart-like chain stores are this year. God, they want customers! All the big come-on ads are running on teevee. 50% off of everything including the kitchen sinks. Hell, here's an ad offering me if I get there early Timberland boots at 75% off. Of course nobody ever gets there early enough to get those fantastic deals. "Hey, how come this Vizio piece of shit is the one you've discounted--it's a discounted item anyway--and this Sony over here is $35 higher than what they're sellin' 'em for downtown at K-Mart? What's going on, you desperate bastards?"

If you don't understand how a store can make a profit out of selling discounted items, here ya go, it's simple. Say the average mark up on an item is 50% over cost--and you then discount that mark up 50%--that means you are still making a 25% profit. Discounts are usually bullshit. Discounted merchandise is usually merchandise manufactured to be discounted. Wal-Marts started as discount stores--stores that sold overstocks--you dig? Say Timberland made too many Alaskan Musk-lined boots and they didn't sell for shit. Old Sam Walton then took cash from his safe in Arkansas over to the Timberland headquarters and made a deal to buy all their remainders of Alaskan Musk-lined boots, which old Sam took back to Bentonville, Arkansas, and sold 'em as NEW Timberland boots but at way-low prices. The hillbillies in that part of the world didn't give a shit that these boots were a style of boots Timberland couldn't giveaway they were so unpopular; to them, they were high fashion clodhopper at Chinatown prices. Also, old Sam Walton had the bright idea to ask, while he was at Timberland headquarters, "What the hell do y'all do with yur seconds, you know, boots you jerk off the line as mistakes?" "Why, Sam, we destroy them and recycle as much of them as we can salvage." "Why, partner, that's plumb foolish, when I tell ya what I'll do, I'll buy yur seconds from you for let's say 10 cents on the dollar." For years people bought seconds at discount stores as new items, not realizing they were seconds till they got home and tried them on and found one sleeve longer than the other, or the collar a little crooked and unfitting, or perhaps, Jeez, what are these big holes under the arms? Sure you could take 'em back and get credit--which means you simply were given another second as a replacement.

For years, we had in New York City an infamous department store called Alexander's. It was right across the street from the famous ritzy overpriced Bloomingdale's (named for the old Bloomingdale meadow that once was that area) Department Store. I mean my first trip to Alexander's Mens Department, I found the coolest hottest cashmere shirt, with an Italian designer label, too, and for only $12.99--yes, at the time, steep for a pullover shirt but this one was cashmere--and Italian! I was hooked. I wore that shirt proudly to work the next day. I wore it out that night and partied all night in it, and then put it in the cleaners a day or so later. When it came back from the cleaners, I unwrapped it and put it on and went out on the town. I had noticed it was a little tight fitting on me but I paid that no mind. I was out on the town with this frequent mileage girlfriend when she suddenly said, "What's that, a moth hole in your shirt?" Whaaaa! I immediately ran to the men's room and checked it out. Jesus X, she was right. There was a big hole just under the shirt's pocket. I went back to my date, embarrassed as hell. "Where did you buy that shirt?" she asked me. "Alexander's," I innocently confessed. "Why, hellfire, no wonder your shirt has a hole in it. Everybody knows Alexander's sells seconds."

One other time, I gave Alexander's a shot. This time I bought my secretary at Time, Inc., who, I admit, I was hitting on she was so preciously young and Midwest naive and pretty to boot, a fiery sapphire gemstone set in a 22 karat gold mounting. It looked magnificent. She later shyly confessed to me that she'd had the ring cleaned and the jeweler told her the stone had a flaw in it. That was it. I learned my lesson and stayed away from Alexander's after that.

Alexander's was the child of a guy named Alexander. The store was a gem of a department store in terms of the old building. I believe Donald Trump bought Alexander's after the Alexander's heirs sold it.

Today, I've got no problems. The sun is showing itself. It was foggy all day yesterday. Now, wow, the sun is breaking loose--either that or it's Jesus on his big White Horse coming through that stargate in the clouds.... Ah, how easy it is to be dumb.

for The Thankful Daily Growler

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Happy Thanksgiving From the Daily Growler
Happy Thanksgiving From Those Who Made It Possible

LIKE Squanto, for instance:

Many of the Indians were looked down upon by the whites, but some Indians helped the whites survive. Squanto was one of those Indians. He helped the Pilgrims survive in the New World, through his compassion and good witted spirit.

Squanto was born somewhere in New England in the late 1500s. He was a member of the Patuxet tribe, and spent some time with the Wampanoag tribe.

He spent three years in New England working as a servant for John Slanie. Squanto still wanting a way home asked Slanie to help. Slanie found a ship captain who was making a voyage to the New World. It was 1619, when Squanto arrived back in North America. Squanto acted as an interpreter in the dealings between the Indians and the captain of the ship. He was finally allowed to begin his journey home. Squanto was away from the Patuxet tribe for 10-12 years.

When Squanto went to where his village used to be, his family was nowhere to be found. He later learned that a great sickness had struck his people, and everyone had died. He was the last of the Patuxet tribe. He was invited to live with the Wampanoag tribe. The chief of this tribe was Massoit. Squanto lived with the Wampanoag tribe until he heard that the white men were building a city nearby. The year was 1620 when the Pilgrims arrived. It was not until December when the Pilgrims decided to settle at Plymouth. The Pilgrims had no idea that the Patuxet tribe once flourished there.

In March Massasoit thought that it was time to meet the Pilgrims. So Massasoit and Squanto arranged for a meeting between the Pilgrims and themselves. The meeting lead to a treaty that was a sign of mutual peace, friendship, and would also become a military alliance. This meant that if one of them was getting attacked the other would come to their aid. The treaty was in effect for over 50 years. None of the Pilgrims ever got hurt or was even attacked by an Indian. When the Indians left from the meeting, Squanto decided to stay and live with the Pilgrims.

Squanto taught the Pilgrims how to farm. He taught them how to plant Indian corn and other vegetables. He also taught the women how to cook the corn. Squanto helped Pilgrims to make friends with other Indian tribes. He was such a great help, William Bradford declared him a special instrument sent from God to help them survive.

Squanto stayed with the Pilgrims for 18 months. When he returned to his tribe he challenged Massasoit for leadership of the tribe. He did not win, and all it did was make most members angry with him. After the election he was considered to be an enemy of the Wampanoag tribe. Squanto died of a fever in 1622, but is still remembered today as a key figure in American folklore. He is a symbol of Thanksgiving. If Squanto had not been there to help the Pilgrims, it could be possible that none of them would have survived. [Mr. Ed: And a lot of Native Americans are saying, "Fuck You, Squanto," today as they rake in the White man's money at their gaming casinos--it's Thanksgiving Special time at all the Native American casinos.]

And Here's the Respectful Native American Look at the White Man's Holy Day

NCAI president issues statement for Thanksgiving

Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Filed Under: National

National Congress of American Indians President Jefferson Keel released the following statement on the eve of Thanksgiving Day. Indian Country was here at the beginning of our first national holiday, and we are still here four centuries later -- grateful that we stand proud of our tribal cultures and contribute their strength to the sustaining diversity of America. Indian Country is grateful on many, many counts. A President and his Administration have heard our concerns and priorities, acknowledging the nation-to-nation relationship, at the first annual White House Tribal Nations Conference. The Embassy of Tribal Nations has opened its doors in the nation's capital. Congress is working in partnership with us to advance the priorities of Indian Country as seldom before. And a national museum on the Washington Mall bears witness to us for all who visit it. We also have much to contribute to this great nation. Above all, our cultural heritage has positioned us to spearhead the historic task of restoring a human connection to the land, air, water, all living things and one another. We give thanks that the Creator has safeguarded our message of oneness in the web of life, for it is instrumental to restoring the global environment and good will among nations. We must give thanks for other safeguards -- the warriors who guard our homeland, many of them far from home on this holiday of gratitude and reunion. Native men and women have steadfastly fought and died defending this country as the highest serving minority group in the U.S. armed forces. We give thanks for all who defend our country. Also this year, we give thanks for the harvest that inspired the first Thanksgiving. Abundant as the harvest has been this year for many, for many others it is a lean year. We've known that unemployment is high and that household hunger is a growing concern. As always, Americans give thanks this day for their individual and community harvest. But especially this year, NCAI calls on them to join the many tribes and individuals in Indian Country who are going the extra mile to help their needy neighbors, just as they did on that first Thanksgiving.



Or You Could Look At It This Way:

Why Some Natives Don’t Celebrate Thanksgiving

The National Day of Mourning kicked off in 1970 quite unintentionally. That year, a banquet was held by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to celebrate the 350th anniversary of the Pilgrims’ arrival, according to UAINE. The organizers invited Frank James, a Wampanoag man, to speak at the banquet. Upon reviewing James’ speech—which mentioned European settlers looting the graves of the Wampanoag, taking their wheat and bean supplies and selling them as slaves—banquet organizers gave him another speech to recite. Only, this speech left out the gritty details of the first Thanksgiving, according to UAINE.

Rather than deliver a speech that left out the facts, James and his supporters gathered at Plymouth. There, they observed the first National Day of Mourning. Since then, UAINE has returned to Plymouth each Thanksgiving to protest how the holiday’s been mythologized.

In addition to the misinformation the Thanksgiving holiday has spread about Natives and Pilgrims, some indigenous peoples don’t recognize it because they give thanks year-round. During Thanksgiving 2008, Bobbi Webster of the Oneida Nation told the Wisconsin State Journal that the Oneida have 13 ongoing ceremonies of thanksgiving throughout the year.

Anne Thundercloud of the Ho-Chunk Nation told the journal that her people also give thanks on a continual basis. Accordingly, marking one day of the year to do so clashes with Ho-Chunk tradition to a degree.

“We’re a very spiritual people who are always giving thanks,” she explained. “The concept of setting aside one day for giving thanks doesn’t fit. We think of every day as Thanksgiving.”

Rather than singling out the fourth Thursday of November as a day to give thanks, Thundercloud and her family have incorporated it into the other holidays observed by the Ho-Chunk, the journal reports. They extend Thanksgiving observance until Friday, when they celebrate Ho-Chunk Day, a large gathering for their community.

Wrapping Up

Will you celebrate Thanksgiving this year? If so, ask yourself just what you’re celebrating—family, food, football? Whether you choose to rejoice or mourn on Thanksgiving, initiate discussions about the holiday’s origins by not just focusing on the Pilgrims’ point of view but also on what the day meant for the Wampanoag and what it continues to signify for American Indians today.

A Little Native American Truth About Thanksgiving

When Frank James (1923 - February 20, 2001), known to the Wampanoag people as Wampsutta, was invited to speak by the Commonwealth of Massachusettsat the 1970 annual Thanksgiving feast at Plymouth. When the text of Mr. James’ speech, a powerful statement of anger at the history of oppression of the Native people of America, became known before the event, the Commonwealth "disinvited" him. Wampsutta was not prepared to have his speech revised by the Pilgrims. He left the dinner and the ceremonies and went to the hill near the statue of the Massasoit, who as the leader of the Wampanoags when the Pilgrims landed in their territory. There overlooking Plymouth Harbor, he looked at the replica of the Mayflower. It was there that he gave his speech that was to be given to the Pilgrims and their guests. There eight or ten Indians and their supporters listened in indignation as Frank talked of the takeover of the Wampanoag tradition, culture, religion, and land.

That silencing of a strong and honest Native voice led to the convening of the National Day of Mourning. The following is the text of 1970 speech by Wampsutta, an Aquinnah Wampanoag elder and Native American activist.

I speak to you as a man -- a Wampanoag Man. I am a proud man, proud of my ancestry, my accomplishments won by a strict parental direction ("You must succeed - your face is a different color in this small Cape Cod community!"). I am a product of poverty and discrimination from these two social and economic diseases. I, and my brothers and sisters, have painfully overcome, and to some extent we have earned the respect of our community. We are Indians first - but we are termed "good citizens." Sometimes we are arrogant but only because society has pressured us to be so.

It is with mixed emotion that I stand here to share my thoughts. This is a time of celebration for you - celebrating an anniversary of a beginning for the white man in America. A time of looking back, of reflection. It is with a heavy heart that I look back upon what happened to my People.

Even before the Pilgrims landed it was common practice for explorers to capture Indians, take them to Europe and sell them as slaves for 220 shillings apiece. The Pilgrims had hardly explored the shores of Cape Cod for four days before they had robbed the graves of my ancestors and stolen their corn and beans. Mourt's Relation describes a searching party of sixteen men. Mourt goes on to say that this party took as much of the Indians' winter provisions as they were able to carry.

Massasoit, the great Sachem of the Wampanoag, knew these facts, yet he and his People welcomed and befriended the settlers of the Plymouth Plantation. Perhaps he did this because his Tribe had been depleted by an epidemic. Or his knowledge of the harsh oncoming winter was the reason for his peaceful acceptance of these acts. This action by Massasoit was perhaps our biggest mistake. We, the Wampanoag, welcomed you, the white man, with open arms, little knowing that it was the beginning of the end; that before 50 years were to pass, the Wampanoag would no longer be a free people.

What happened in those short 50 years? What has happened in the last 300 years? History gives us facts and there were atrocities; there were broken promises - and most of these centered around land ownership. Among ourselves we understood that there were boundaries, but never before had we had to deal with fences and stone walls. But the white man had a need to prove his worth by the amount of land that he owned. Only ten years later, when the Puritans came, they treated the Wampanoag with even less kindness in converting the souls of the so-called "savages." Although the Puritans were harsh to members of their own society, the Indian was pressed between stone slabs and hanged as quickly as any other "witch."

To read the rest:

Comment from frequent commenter Horatio Parker:

"AFAIK Massasoit made a deal with the Pilgrims because disease had decimated his people but left their enemies, the Narragansett, intact.

So it was a deal with the devil.

If the Pilgrims had landed a few years before, the Indians wouldn't have allowed them to stay. And the stored corn from deserted Indian villages enabled them to survive. Champlain explored Cape Cod a generation or so before, but decided it was too thickly settled. Viral meningitis they think it was..."

Thanksgiving in New York City
The streets are empty. Hot damn. The city is boneyard quite. There is a fog over Manhattan. In the fog the skyline looks ghostly. There is nothing open except the certain places that are always open. I am alone. I don't mind. Every Thanksgiving I do the same thing; the same thing I've done for the past 27 years--I go up to my favorite Irish Pub and I have Thanksgiving dinner with the kitchen staff and their families. The chef cooks a big bird up and has stuffing and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie with twin peaks of vanilla ice cream topping it. Most of the folk I'll be gobbling down the gobbler with today speak Spanish. Three are from Peru; one is from El Salvador; several are from Mexico. I'll leave there with full belly, a little wobbly from the cervezas, my face tired from eating and smiling a lot and laughing a lot and having a fine old time with good workingclass people.

When I eat at my fav Irish pub, which is just about every day, my table is back where the staff hangs out. Though I eat in restaurants every day, most people who eat in restaurants I want nothing to do with. Restaurants crowds here in New York City can be overboistrous, irritating you with loud cell phone conversations, pestering you with stupid questions, or coughing up loogies or sneezing without putting their hands in front of their mouths, or constantly staring at me. You see, I'm the kind of character people stare at in restaurants.

The Macy's Day Parade is about to begin. It ends just up the street from me. This year for the first year in its history it's taking a new route. It will still start on West 79th and come downtown down Central Park West onto Broadway. Before our Mall-mad Mayor redesigned Times Square and pretty much turned the stretch of Broadway from Times Square down to in front of Macy's into a pedestrian mall, the parade could traverse straight down Broadway to end in front of the store. Not how however; because now the main artery of uptown traffic files right in front of Macy's, so the parade will have to break off Broadway at one point and come down Sixth Avenue and then turn up 34th to get in front of the department store. The parade this year has turned into a big commercial bullshit parade. They are adding Ronald McDonald as a balloon this year. The balloons are no longer made like the original balloons were made. The Woody Woodpecker balloon used to be the pride of the parade, but now, Woody's buried in some landfill somewhere and the balloons in the parade now are helium filled nylon balloons. Disney will be well represented in these cheap ass balloon characters; plus there'll be plenty of Disney floats promoting their conquest of Broadway theaters. My growls are getting weak. My growls are growing deeper and more cynical.

Happy Thanksgiving. Here, have a shot of turkey on The Daily Growler

for The Thankful Daily Growler, a Wild Turkey of a Blog!