Sunday, August 22, 2010

Another Visit From the The Daily Growler Jots & Tittles Man
Let's Give a Hearty Hail Mary for YES, Barabbas Munn-Dayne, the The Daily Growler Jots & Tittles Man, From the Fecal-lined Shores of Lake Flaccid, NY

I'm in "the city," as we upstate New York transplanted New York Citians say when we're "down in the city." We still think of ourselves as city folk even though some of us haven't lived in the City for many decades now. Myself, the last time I lived in the City was, wow, almost 25 years ago.

The City is overcast today. It's sprinkling rain. Sprinkling. What a water-spritish sort of word (you dew drop the "e" and add "ish" don't you?--any editrix's read my posts?). And I'm in the city to visit my friend Cherokee Chinch and help him work on what he calls his "dying" effort at a book, tentatively titled, I'm No Fucking Indian.

I met Cherokee when I got a happenstance job as a proofreader at the law firm of Birnbaum, Baum, Baumbirn, and Rosenthal (I know, typical making fun of Jewish law firm names--but in truth, the law firm I worked at did have a name very similar to the one I used). This firm had hired me as a proofreader, which to them meant I was going to start out as a reader reading to another proofreader who had been there working already who was the marker. You worked on "appellate appendices." You worked in a far-afield back-room dungeon of their offices on Park Avenue in the Seagram's Building. I was assigned to be Cherokee's reader, meaning I read the appendix to him while he redlined or bluelined it--checking for typos and to see if the changes made by the lawyers were made correctly.

I saw right off the bat Cherokee Chinch was a Native American, though he was dressed very Western, nice shirt, slacks, and his hair was cut Beatles-style--with bangs--and no pony tail, though his facial features and his coal black straight hair gave indications that he was either a Native American or a transplanted Mongolian.

He was polite enough when we were introduced by the chief mistress in charge of the goofball proofreaders at this firm, of which I was the latest addition. "Cherokee Chinch, this is Mr. Munn-Dayne, Barabbas, isn't it?" "Yes, m'am." Here Cherokee spoke up, "Jesus Christ, man, your parents named you after the dude the Jews wanted released so they could nail up old Jesus Christ?" "Yes, my parents were Christian-opposites...that's what they called themselves. I have a brother named Baal, for instance." "Damn, man, you may be my type, have a seat and let's get started with this shit, and that's what this crap is, too, man, pure shit, the legalese ramblings of these shyster lawyers as they try and reword things in so confusing a way only their asses can interpret them and only the opposition to their asses can cut to pieces with legalese ramblings of their own making up."

To lower oneself to doing proofreading in a law office was next to admitting you were one step out of the gutter in terms of life style. It was a painful experience. For instance, there was a telephone on the desk but when I went to pick it up, Cherokee stopped me. "We're not allowed to use the telephone here." "Then why is there a telephone here?" "It goes with the cubicle design--the designer put it there for show." "Great, but it works." "Oh yeah, it's a workable phone but if you use it, you'll get fired immediately." "OK. I was just gonna call my wife and let her know I got a job and maybe I could help her with the rent this month." "Women are for losers," he shot back. "Men are for winners?" I shot back. "No, no, damn, White man, you sure dumb. Of course I meant women are for loser men. Strong men don't need a woman except for cooking, cleaning, and conceiving." "My wife would scalp you over that statement." "Funny White man make a joke." "My wife's a full-blooded Mohawk, brother, so stick your wry conclusion up where that Father Sun don't shine." "Woooooo. Great White Father, I've been cornered like the rat I am. You married a Mohawk squaw. Shit, you gonna be rich one day, Whitey, the Mohawks are getting a billion-dollar settlement out of Good Ole Uncle Sam White." "Yep, and she's a member of the tribal council, too."

This was all bullshit, of course. I didn't have a Mohawk wife. My wife was a Jersey girl, from Rutherford, her parents both professors at Rutgers, the Jersey State University. The closest she ever got to a Mohawk was when I came home with a Mohawk haircut one day in the late night after I'd been out drinking with a barber friend of mine, Sal Barbaria ( "bar-bah-reee-ah," as he used to emphasize his name's correct pronunciation). But, hey, when in the trenches with an angry Native American, why not trump his warrior-attitude ass with a lie? Come on, it's been natural for the White man to lie to Native Americans ever since we stole their lands from them and forced them on reservations (concentration camps).

After we finished the gig, Cherokee Chinch invited me to join him for a drink. And where did he take me for a drink, up the street to the Waldorf-Astoria bar. "I like going into this stiff-ass bar and ordering firewater. It entertains these swellheaded creeps who stay in this overpriced hotel that is built over sacred Manhatto soil."

Turns out Cherokee Chinch wasn't a Cherokee. Nor was he a Chinch. "My Lakotah name is Racing Deer That Eats Smoke. Chinch came from my mother once saying while drinking an RC Cola that it tasted like chinch bugs. So when I started writing, I chose that as my White name, Cherokee because the White man used the Cherokee as his enemy and reason to march my people from the East Coast out to that stinkin' fucked-up Oklahoma Territory, where when oil was discovered the White man once again trick-bagged my people not only out of their oil but out of their land and today Oklahoma is a White hick state that votes against anything that is tinged with any kind of color or progress. White to Whites is purity. Red to Whites is blood and blood scares a White man. He sees blood he cringes. I see blood I recognize life. Black is sin. So Blacks are truly on the bottom of the White man's list of impure races, though my people are lower than Blacks today--we are still relegated to reservations and a bureaucratic White aristocracy is still telling us what we can and cannot do, what Jesus Christ-thing we're supposed to believe in, what limits we have off the reservation...." After that evening, Cherokee Chinch and I became friends. Later he met my wife and knew right off the bat she wasn't one of his people. "God-damn, you White motherfuckers are the best damn liars ever brought down upon the true civilized of this world, the people White people refer to as savages. The savage is simply closer to reality than the civilized White man." And that's how I got to helping him with his book. He called it I'm No Fucking Indian meaning he wasn't born in India and he didn't recognize Christopher Colombo--"he was an Italian Jew, man, that bastard"--as the discoverer of America. The very title is a total lie. "Colombo the Italian Jew never discovered America. He was sniffing through his heavy nose for gold--where he found no gold he infected the indigenous population with small pox and syphilis, all those fine clean European diseases, and wiped them out--like the my Carib brothers and sisters. The bastard. Fuck him and the ships he rode into town on."

But Cherokee Chinch is now dying. That's why he called me down to the Isle of the Manhattoes. He's dying and he wants to finish his book before he dies. "Not that many more moons to live, my White friend." "What's wrong with you, Cherokee?" "Nothing. My doctor says I'm healthy as a horse, but the spirits tell me I'm soon to be dying. I want to finish my book, put it out for publication, and then go back to my people's nation and die in style."

The first paragraph of Cherokee Chinch's book is "When my father rose on his hind haunches and mounted my seduced mother and I became their first born, at first they wanted to name me Jesus Christ, but the BOIA didn't allow Native Americans to use that name, so my father, who never converted to Christianity, by the way, said to name me Shit, but my mother insisted and she named me for her father's people. My dad was real Lakotah. He still went out alone into the wilds and shot a grizzly and held long prayers over its dead body whose life was infiltrating him while he was letting the grizzly's spirit free to go on high and from those heights watch over him and his people. My mother converted to Christianity though she still respected the old ways and still did little things like leaving food out for the spirits at certain times of year--like ears of corn--but at the same time, she wore her crucifix religiously and she read her Lakotah-language bible devotedly, though I know deep down in my Lakotah soul that she was using Christianity as a mask, a mask to hide her still-devotion to the Lakotah spirits so that she could at least carry on with her interest in teaching old customs of weaving and telling tales and such to Lakotah children at the reservation social center."

Today, by the way, yes, it's Sunday in my world, down two blocks away from Ground Zero, that White sacred ground, a group of ignorant totally foolish White people are gathering, most of them not residents of New York City and certainly not Manhattan,--the teabaggers are thick down there already--to protest the building of an Islamic Center up on Church two full blocks away east from the still-being-built Freedom Tower. It started in 2002--what's that, 8 years in the building and still there is no building there. And still Whites are saying that earth is not contaminated, but it is, and should be condemned as such. It's a burial ground, a burial ground of human flesh, blood, teeth, skulls, melted steel, melted asbestos, melted fire-retardant materials, melted carpets, melted ceiling tiles (made out of asbestos), melted rats and mice--all melded into that ground they're calling Ground Zero. To build a high-rise building on that earth is an abomination to the spirits of those lives lost on that former Manhatto Native American ground, a ground filled with stories of hate, hate against the freed Blacks that once were trying to start a Black neighborhood down there--the first Black church was on Williams Street--in fact, one could say, Blacks built New Amsterdam and later New York--they tilled the land, built the buildings, dug the canals, built the walls, built the streets, formed the chain gangs. That land has been abominated since it was stolen from the Manhattoes back in the 16th Century. Manhattan Island when the Native Americans ran it was a paradise. Now I look at Manhattan and I see change. Change in the skyline. A whole raft of new buildings on the East River side of Lower Manhattan. Looking over from Brooklyn, for instance, the Woolworth Building is no longer distinct. It is coffined in by a wall of new buildings, one which has its outer covering to look like a building within a building--monotonous architecture--architecture coming out of Europe--the Europeanization of Manhattan--one of the ideals Mayor Mike "I Stole a Third Term" Bloomberg put into motion with his desire to turn Manhattan into a European-style city of bike lanes and outdoor comfort zones with tables and chairs sitting under umbrellas--one comfort zone's tables and chairs and umbrellas in the dead middle of the huge traffic coming together at Broadway and Fifth where Broadway X's across Fifth--Broadway, ironically, the original Native American trail that traversed from lower Manhattan all the way up into the high hills of the lower Catskills--that's the reason Broadway has never conformed to the grid layout the rest of Manhattan streets are laid out on. Bloomberg and his woman city planner are catering to tourists. Bloomberg, like all the world's wealthiest men, hate poor people. He can only really communicate with his own kind. The tourist industry is taking over Manhattan--not entirely, because the real estate industry still owns Manhattan, but the tourist rippers-offers are flocking to Manhattan by the droves. Times Square once the center of New York City's true cultural nightlife is now a Disney World, a Warner-Brothers World--office buildings housing communications companies and now network television studios and tacky hotels like the overpriced Marriott (I just read where there's a bedbug epidemic in NYC now). And now Times Square looks like a development project, with these intruding buildings replacing where used to be the entertainment crossroads of the world, Broadway, the Great White Way, cutting through the heart of the theater and music and cultural district that used to hug Times Square.... As the Wolf Man has been writing of late about obsolescence, that's suddenly what I'm writing about, which was not my intention today but I got sidetracked by the visit to New York City and my dying friend, who is healthy as a horse, Cherokee Chinch.

So the Bozos are gathering en masse, Christian Bozos and Jewish Bozos, gathering to protest the Constitution's guaranteeing freedom of religion in this country. These Bozos say that putting an Islamic Center this close to Ground Zero (it's two blocks away from that sacred (in the Christian sense) site) is an abomination, an insult to the many Christians and Jews who died in the crazed-Islamic-terrorist, yet amazing, military feat, one as great as the Trojan Horse incident in ancient Greece. These night-before-drunk attackers who blew down 5 buildings in the World Trade Center complex using two airliners hitting precisely the two main towers. The World Trade Center, which to Muslims represented the Capitalist pigs wanting to secularize the World--a move that should upset Christians, too--turning the world into a Global Marketplace with the down-and-out reduced to slavery--turning the world into a New World Order of Capitalists from all over the world--check out the world's richest men: White men--Warren Buffett, Bill Gates, and Senor Slim. Cell phones and mobile networks made Senor Slim the richest man in the world, more money than the constantly upgrading Windows software nerd and his pal the junk-bond-trading-financial pirate, Warren Buffett, both now worth several billion dollars less than Senor Slim. Boo-hoo-hoo.

But these Bozos believe that those people who died in the 9/11 tragedy were all Christian Whites--disregarding the fact that a load of Muslims were killed in that mess, too. A mess that could have been prevented had our military been serving us by performing its proper Constitutional role, that of defending our borders from enemy surprise attacks. That's why we have a supposedly early warning alert system where jet pilots are on 24/7 readiness at specified air bases to take off at any moment to track down an illegal blip on the radar or a call from the airlines saying that terrorists had boarded 4 or 5 American airlines planes and were intending.... But, no, our defense system let us down big time. But, hey, Muslims are the same as dogs to Christians--like Palestinians are dogs to Israelis. But anyway, Whites vs. the Rest of the World goes on--and our wonderful White people are down there now babbling out their misguided hatreds against these anti-Christian-Jew terrorists. In the meantime, our US forces are killing Muslims by the 100s every day--and Muslims are still killing Muslims every day in the streets of Baghdad and in the whole country of Afghanistan and now over into Pakistan where those wonderful good ole USA-invented drones just killed a father and his 3 sons, as suspected Terrorist Dogs, yesterday. Ah, the lust in killing. We the People of the USA love killing. We allow the most despicable ways of killing people to be broadcast as "OK for Kids" over our television and in our movies. You notice love on teevee and the movies is always lust--the love affair leading to some kind of brutality--even that stupider than stupid show "The Bachelor"--I mean...OK, I give up. It's time for some Jots & Tittles.
Jots & Tittles

--the amazing African woman, Abbey Lincoln
just left the mortal coil earlier this week. Abbey was an amazing woman. A strong woman. "Men," as she would say were the reason she sang, wrote poetry, and acted. Her concepts were geared toward what she called her African self. She even said very beautifully in an interview with NYC teevee interviewer, Gil Noble, and she was an extremely beautiful woman, that she was getting into polygamy, sort of coyly hinting that it took more than one woman to satisfy all the love needs a real man has--and she would be cool with that since men cheat like crazy now--why not just be a man's lover among many of his lovers, each woman giving one man the certain kind of love he needs--it's a reactional idea--she said it was a very African idea. I'm not a fan of NPR, but here's a damn good page on Abbey (she preferred her African name, Aminata Moseka), if it's still working, on the NPR Website:

---also, same week, we lost Herman Leonard--here's a copy of the official The Daily Growler Herman Leonard photo--what a photo it is--if you understand the subject matter, this pretty much captures Prez's existence without Prez's actual being being in the photo--but Prez is there--the magic of a good photographer:
---Souvenirs of the Wedding of the Century: I was piloting through Rhinebeck yesterday morning and I noticed quiet a few Wedding of the Century souvenirs being offered--one guy had some flowers he swore were from the wedding floral leftovers--he had a basket of wilted daffodils he wanted a buck a piece for. "Did Chelsea sign any of these?" I snidely asked, to which this guy replied, "You're too late. I already sold those."

---And Out-of-Nowhere Jack Horkheimer the Star Gazer has left the mortal coil. You gotta remember "The Star Gazer" shows on PBS. Where Jack sat at his desk in the stars and told you all the heavenly events happening in a certain period. He was head of the Miami Planetarium. Oops, there goes Jack Horkheimer off into space.

---And YET Another Death, that of Rodolfo Enrique Fogwill, the Argentine businessman turned writer and poet. Here's a long poem--side-by-side Spanish to English--by Brother Fogwill--forgive me; it's Google translated; it's gotta be screwed up, but if you read Spanish, it's a damn feisty mad-Latino poem:


Se necesitan malos poetas. Bad poets are needed.
Buenas personas, pero poetas Good people, but poets
malos. ill. Dos, cien, mil malos poetas Two hundred, a thousand bad poets
se necesitan más para que estallen more are needed to explode
las diez mil flores del poema. ten thousand flowers of the poem.

Que en ellos viva la poesía, Let them live poetry
la innecesaria, la fútil, la sutil unnecessary, the useless, the subtle
poesía imprescindible. essential poetry. O la in- Or the in-
versa: la poesía necesaria, versa: poetry necessary
la prescindible para vivir. dispensable for the living.

Que florezcan diez maos en el pantano Maos flourish ten o'clock in the swamp
y en la barranca un Ele, un Juan, Canyon and a Ele, a John
un Gelman como elefante entero de cristal roto, Gelman as a whole elephant, broken glass,
o un Rojas roto, mendigando Red or broken, begging
a la Reina de España. the Queen of Spain.

(Ahora España (Now Spain
ha vuelto a ser un reino y tiene Reina, has come to be a kingdom and has Queen
y Rey del reino. and King of the kingdom. España es un tablero Spain is a board
de alfiles politizados y peones of bishops and pawns politicized
recién comidos: a la derecha, negros, paralizados, fuera del juego). just eaten: on the right, black, paralyzed, out of play).

Y aquí hay torres de goma, alfiles And here is rubber towers, bishops
politizados y damas policiales politicized and police ladies
vigilando la casa. watching the house.

A la caza del hombre, A man hunting,
por hambre, corren todos, saltan by hunger, they all run, jump
de la cuadrícula y son comidos. grid and are eaten.

Todo eso abunda: faltan los poetas, All of this abounds: Missing poets
los mil, los diez mil malos, cada uno the thousand, ten thousand bad, each
armado con su libro de mierda. armed with his book of shit. Faltan, Missing
sus ensayitos y sus novela en preparación. his little essay and novel in preparation.
Ah.. Ah .. y los curricola, and curricola,
y sus diez mil applys nos faltan. and his ten thousand applys we lack.

No es la muerte del hombre, es una gran ausencia It is not man's death is a great absence
humana de malos poetas. bad poets human. Que florezcan Flourish
cien millones de tentativas abortadas, hundred million aborted attempts,
relecturas, incordios, rereading, nuisances,
folios de cartulina, ilustraciones cardboard pages, illustrations
de gente amiga, cenas friendly people, dinner
con gente amiga, exégesis, escolios, with friendly people, exegesis, scholia,
tiempo perdido como todo. time lost as a whole.

Se necesitan poetas gay, poetas It takes gay poets, poets
lesbianas, poetas lesbian poets
consagrados a la cuestión del género, devoted to gender,
poetas que canten al hambre, al hombre, poets who sing to the hungry man,
al nombre de su barrio, al arte ya la industria, the name of your neighborhood, art and industry,
a la estabilidad de las instituciones, the stability of institutions,
a la mancha de ozono, al agujero the stain of ozone, the hole
de la revolución, al tajo agrio of the revolution, the bitter pit
de las mujeres, al latido women, to the beat
inaudible del pentium ya la guerra Pentium inaudible and war
entendida como continuidad de la política, understood as a continuation of politics
del comercio, trade
del ocio de escribir. leisure to write.

Se necesitan Betos, Titos, Carlos Betos are needed, Titos, Carlos
que escriban poemas. to write poems. Alejandras y Marthas Alejandra and Marthas
que escriban. they write. Nombres para poetas, Names for poets,
anagramas, seudónimos y contraseñas logos, nicknames and passwords
para el chat room del verso se necesitan. chat room for verse needed.

Una poesía aquí del cirujeo en la veredas. A poetry here from cirujeo on sidewalks.
Una poesía aquí de la mendicidad en las instituciones. A poetry here begging on the institutions.
Una poesía de los salones de lectura de versos. A poetry reading rooms of verse.

Una poesía por las calles (venid a ver A poetry in the streets (come see
los versos por las calles...) the verses on the streets ...)

Una poesía cosmopolita (subid a ver A cosmopolitan poetry (go up to see
los versos por la web...). verses the web ...).

Una poesía del amor aggiornado (bajad a ver A poem of love aggiornamiento (go down to see
poesía en el pesebre del amor...) poetry in the crib of love ...)

Una poesía explosiva: etarra, ética, An explosive poetry: ETA, ethics,
poéticamente equivocada. poetically incorrect.

En los papeles, en los canales On paper, in channels
culturales de cable, en las pantallas cultural cable, on screens
y en los monitores, en las antologías y en revistas and monitors, in anthologies and magazines
y en libros y en emisiones clandestinas and books and emissions underground
de frecuencia modulada se buscan FM is looking for
poetas y más malos poetas: more bad poets and poets:
grandes poetas celebrados pequeños, great poets held small
poetas notorios, plumas iluminadas, well-known poets, feather lit
hombres nimios, miméticos, petty men, mimetics,
deteriorados por el alcohol, impaired by alcohol,
descerebrados por la droga, brainless by the drug,
hipnotizados por el sexo hypnotized for sex
idiotizados por el rock, stupefied by the rock,
odiados, amados por la gente aquí. hated, loved by the people here.

En las habitaciones se buscan. The rooms are searched.
En un bar, en los flippers, In a bar in the flippers,
en los minutos de descanso de la oficina, minute break in the office,
entre dos clases de gramática, between two kinds of grammar,
en clase media, en barrios in middle class neighborhoods
vigilados se buscan. monitored sought.

¿Habrá en la tropa? Will the troops?
¿En los balnearios, en los baños What spas in the bathrooms
públicos que han comenzado a construir? public have begun to build?
¿En los certámenes de versos? What poetry contests?
¿En los torneos de minifútbol? What mini-football tournaments?
¿Bajo el sol quieto? "Under the sun still?
¿A solas con su lengua? "Alone with his tongue?
¿A solas con una idea repetitiva? "Alone with a repetitive idea?
¿Con gente? How people?
¿Sin amor? "Without love?

No es el fin de la historia, es Not the end of history is
el comienzo de la histeria lingual. the beginning of hysteria lingual.

Todo comienza y nace de una necesidad fraguada en la lengua. It all starts and comes from a need in the language forged.
Falsifiquemos el deseo: Fake desire:
Te necesito nene. I need you baby.
Para empezar te necesito. To start you need.
Para necesitar, te pido To need, I ask
ese minuto de poesía que necesito, necio: minutes of poetry that I need, fool:
quisiera ver si me devuelves el ritmo de un mal poema, I would like to see if me back the pace of a bad poem
que me acarices con sus ripios, I acaricides with rubble,
que me turbes la mente con otra idea banal, disturb me with another idea mind banal,
y que me bañes todo con la trivialidad del medio. and I bathe all the triviality of the media.

Y en medio del camino, en el comienzo And in the middle of the road, at the beginning
de la comedia terrenal, quiero vivir earth's comedy, I want to live
la necedad y la necesidad stupidity and the need
de un sentimiento falso. a false feeling.

Se necesitan nuevos sentimientos, It takes new feelings,
nuevos pensamientos imbéciles, nuevas imbeciles new thoughts, new
propuestas para el cambio, causas proposals for change, causes
para temer, para tener, to fear, to hold
aquí en el sur. here in the south.

Y arriba España es un panal And Spain is a hive top
de hormigas orientales: Eastern ant:
rumanas, tunecinos, Romanian, Tunisian,
suecas a la sombra de un Rey. Swedish in the shadow of a king.

Riámonos del Rey. Let us laugh del Rey.
De su fealdad. In its ugliness.
De su fatalidad. From his fate.
De Su Graciosa Realidad. Graciosa Your Reality.
La realidad es un ensueño compartido. Reality is a shared dream.
La realidad de España The reality of Spain
es su filosa lengua pronunciando la eñe uttering his sharp tongue is the eñe
y su mojada espada pronunciando el orden wet bar and saying the order
del capital y la sintaxis. capital and syntax.

¡Ay, lengua: Oh, language;
aparta de mí este cuerno de la prosperidad clavado en tu ingle, away from me this horn of prosperity stuck in your groin
suturada de chips, y cubre chip sutured, covering
nuestras heridas con el bálsamo de los malos poemas..! our wounds with the balm of bad poems ..!
You mixed-language freaks ought to enjoy figuring that poem out--bad poets--exploding--into flowers. Muchas gracias to the following blog:

---"They'll Build That Mosque Over My Dead Body"--so said a guy wearing a construction worker helmet with an American flag design. I can remember when the rightwingers condemned the hippies for wearing American flag shirts. They said it desecrated the flag. But, boy howdy, the do-gooders were desecrating the flag like mad today down around Ground Zero. There were two groups, those for the mosque and those against it. New York City is such a racist city. It has been since it was founded by the slavetrading Dutch and the wealth-stealing British. There were firefighters there waving their bloody shirts and there were a couple of guys who claimed they were almost killed in both of the WTC buildings that those amazing Muslim-terrorists, drunk out of their minds the night before, so accurately hit at so exactly the right spots that those two main towers fell straight-as-arrows down to fall flushed straight down past street level, as if they were imploded...oh but we patriotic Americans can't ask questions about that. One of the more patriot of the idiots against the mosque down there said it wasn't about Muslims in general, it was that these Muslims were practitioners of Sharia in terms of morals and law, and as this GI-looking character got more patriotic he fervently cried, "Everything in Sharia law is against every freedom we have in our Constitution." Well, then damn right we don't want a bunch of towelheads whose mission it is to spread Sharia the hell are they gonna do this? Looks like we truly believe in this country that all Muslims are terrorists. Too bad. Hell, 1/5 of us believe Obama's a Muslim. Fools rush in....

Just thought I'd say hi while I was in town.

for The Sunday Daily Growler
"Serving the Lords With Factual Fiction"

1 comment:

Marybeth said...

Happy Birthday, sweet Wolf. I'm happy to know you in this virtual way. You have enriched my life.