Tuesday, October 12, 2010

thegrowlingwolf Along the Watchtower

All Along the Watchtower
The above watchtower ain't watchin' for Jesus comin' back to earth, it's watching over those human beings out for a little stroll there in what looks like a park of some kind maybe...a park somewhere in WWII-era Germany or Poland maybe? I mean it's a black and white photo, no color, so it is World War 2, a black and white mostly colorless war. In fact, the Vietnam War was the first totally colorized war--color photos were being sent by wire--or flown back to the West Coast, developed there, and then flown to the East Coast and motorcycled into NBC, ABC, CBS where they were then shown on the 6 o'clock news hours. So this little park in this WWII setting, probably in Germany or Poland, has a watchtower watching over it. Watching over humans who were made so wonderfully compatible by these great supernatural human and animal dieties who created them from the wombs of virginal angelics. Humans made so wonderfully involved with Peace on Earth and Good Will Toward Men, they need to be constantly watched over. Escape from the views of such watchtowers is the Prize. And the Prize is Freedom, which is Peace, a peace that would ruin the need for these watchtowers that never seem to go away--the fences like amoebas always popping up again and surrounding those who are trying to escape. After you've breached one fence and thought you had peace, up pops another one entrapping you--and suddenly there's another watchtower watching over you.

So, yes, OK, the above photo and that watchtower and that park and those poor condemned people being watched over by that watchtower is out of date--obsolete, but don't go concluding that silly shit about "That sort of photo can't ever be taken again."

For instance, take the case of living on Manhattan Island in New York City. Living in what we call Midtown Manhattan, the naval of this part of the world. From that naval, I look out toward the street that once was the longest street in the world, Broadway--now a comfort zone for supertourists and foreign hoarders, with tacky tacky little green tables and thin-ass-size baby chairs, some in the hot summer time with little tacky umbrellas full of commercials over them--and those ugh-ugly matching god-awful cheap tacky garbage cans that go with these tacky tables and chairs--and oh my God, some designing son of a bitch has now come up putting art down on the widest parts of that tacky Times Square comfort zone for supertourists, foreign hoarders, Capitalist pig buyers, and of course NYC's friendly hardworking winos and shysters and pickpockets and terrorists--yep, the Times Square bomber is now bragging how his overall plan was to eventually blow up the whole city of New York--and headlines in our corporate-controlled going-broke newspapers are crying out a DREAD WARNING to us New York Citians--and WE ARE SUPPOSED TO COWER IN FEAR AND STAY WITHIN OUR BOUNDARIES, OUR PERIMETERS, OUR FENCES! YET WE HAVE TO GET TO WHAT JOBS WE HAVE LEFT ON TIME OR WE GET FIRED.

My anger is choking me up to near death. I'm serious, folks--I'm having to growl fang-baring ferociously again, going for the bellies of their youngest and newest ideas for instilling fear in us--FEARS based on the pompous squealing of a jerk-off asshole whose Times Square bomb turned out to be powered by two cherry bombs that blew up and set his SUV on fire--all of those Times Square supertourists, foreign hoarders, Capitalist pig buyers and traders, and, of course, NYC's hardworking winos and media mavens and hustlers and prostitutes were saved that day by a Black man who got no credit except some after-the-fact filler time in some of the local commercial news news casts.

What I'm saying is that RIGHT here in Midtown Manhattan, on the Great White Way, Broadway, We the People can see a brace of the above kind of watchtowers up and down that great old historic street in the form of "NYPD SECURITY CAMERAS"--big mother cameras, too, whose watching-eye images go back to a huge central control room full of teevee screens--think of it--our Shanty Irish Police Commissioner (and former US Customs head under Baby Boy Bush's great leadership) says he's got 2,000 and more on the way of these NYPD Security Cameras up and down Midtown streets and on down to Lower Manhattan and especially around #1 Police Plaza. To come up upon #1 Police Plaza in Lower Manhattan and see how well fortified it is, you'd think the al-Queda ground forces were in the next street over preparing to attack our true-blue-blood cops--maybe to try and off our brave little-guy jaunty Irish former Customs boss under G.W. Bush--former investigated Customs boss, police commissioner--OK, OK, I'm repeating myself--and, yes, anyway, I'm in a jousting mood as I growl my threats to go for some throats or some soft underbellies--the areas wolves attack when they are superhungry and not for the cruelty of it.

As I walk under the huge NYPD Security Camera that is aimed at me as I go about my neighborhood business, I'm hollering, "YOU FOOLS UP THERE, HERE HAVE THE BIRD, YOU SPYING BASTARDS," and that's the human in me that doesn't like to be fenced in and constantly watched railing against the pricks who spend their waking hours WATCHING ME. My human side is my cynical side; my wolf side is my pragmatic side. As a human I feel it my duty to holler shame-on-you statements at the several creeps on the city payroll who are willing to spy on their fellow citizens--oh yeah, good jobs, too, I'm sure--jobs that seem to be plentiful if you're desperately in need of an income and you're willing to join the NYPD in its belief that We the People are their enemy and not who they're supposed to SERVE. Or humans willing to spy on their fellow man can go to City Hall where our billionaire mayor has his own city-paid-for private army of security people--plus, as one of the world's richest MEN, he has his own personal-private security force in connection with his holding companies and his foundations and his Bloomberg LD, of which he still rakes in 70% of his income. Don't get me started on this little weasel mayor. Remember, he insults the citizens of New York City by pooh-poohing the salary they offer mayors--oh my fucking ancestral gods, I'm going off my rocker on Mayor Bloomberg.

So I'm driven wolf-mad and human-pissed-off insane by looking up everywhere I walk in Manhattan and seeing these fucking NYPD Security Cameras mounted on every electrical pole on every fucking street. Will the NYPD come to my door one day and say they have an order to install an NYPD Security Camera in my apartment? Am I involved in a virtual reality rendition of 1984?--am I playing a Fender Stratocaster with Big Brother and the Holding Company?--oh my God, have I awakened to find I'm married to Janice Joplin (a Texan, by the bye)?

I'm rambling a bit along the Dylan Memorial watchtower here from which I'm watching the stew--the American stew. I'm ignoring the NYPD Security Cameras and now focusing on the people constantly walking up and down these sidewalks I walk up and down constantly, too, as I cruise about my neighborhood speculating and shopping for essentials, like toilet paper. Damn, I use a hell of a lot of toilet paper for a single guy who's not that much of an excrement producer. I do use toilet paper for more than wiping my ass though. (Don't you just love those euphemistic toilet paper commercials on teevee? I especially like the "Does a bear shit in the woods" one--especially the one where the cute little baby bear gets bits of toilet paper sticking to his little bare ass when he comes back after taking a shit in woods--oh our advertisers, how clever they are--AND THEY ARE! I was one of them--I was in advertising for decades in this city--and YES, I have worked on Madison Avenue, too. All ads are LIES--don't forget where you heard that. All ads are LIES. Like those many Save-the-Children ads on teevee. Did you ever notice the one where the little girl Maria ad ran for about 10 years--I mean Maria by now, if she ever existed, is 25 years old and how 'bout a report on what happened to her--did the Save-the-Children executives send them to college or were they sold on the sex slave market?--or does Save-the-Children's money ever get out of the headquarters suite of offices or out of the hands of their advertising agency in charge of making their commercials? What a scam! But a lovable scam.

I had a boss once who was saving one of these children. She showed me letters and cards she got from this child. I mean, I looked at one--it was in English. I said, you mean this little mestizo girl somewhere down in the Amazon jungle or somewhere writes in English? "Oh, I think the girl's sister rewrites her letters for her." She had a photo of this little girl, a small snapshot-size photo, a cute little girl child, yes, as a matter of fact the little poor dear looked exactly like Maria in the Save-the-Children perpetual ads. This is the cynical human in me writing and condemning the
Save-the-Children-Christian-Children's-Fund-Adopt-a-Chinese-Orphan industry.

Have you ever Googled and seen how many nonprofit organizations are thriving in this country? I mean I hear people from things called the Media Intervention Relief Fund or the Underdog Society Research Group or the Studies for Independent Reshuffling of the Caribbean Cultures in Eastern Long Island--I mean, come on--all it takes is fundraising--all you have to do is convince some grant giver you're out to do a legitimate job of not-for-profit dogooding. Remember the big scandal in the United Way conglomeration of nonprofit scammers a few years back? The CEO was living as though he were a Rockefeller or a Kennedy. Or how about the nonprofit American Corn Sugar Association's new ads in which the superslick twentyish housewife and mother starts yacking in her actress-trained cutesy-wootsy actress voice--so bouncy and sure of the lies it's declaiming: "I wanted to know the truth about corn sugar [she avoids saying "high fructose corn syrup"]. Why I found out from the real world, doctors, scientologists, people of substance that there's no difference between MY corn sugar and just plain ole pure cane sugar...." This nonprofit-produced ad is lying through its teeth. Why? Because there is a difference, folks, between high fructose corn syrup and pure cane sugar.

And oh my false god, the fatsos I can see from the Dylan Memorial Watchtower today. Overweight people have no true will power. Brought on by Freud knows what and made deadly in that it is addictive. Humans (and other animals, too) have no self control when it comes to sugar. Kicking sugar is like going through the same thing a junky goes through when he tries to throw the MONKEY off his back. That's why it's called junk food, by the bye. Junk. Great word. Definition according to the Urban Dictionary: 1. Seemingly useless rubbish which sits around for months and is inevitably disposed of the day before it is needed. 2. A reference to something of little or no value 3. The male genitalia 4. A kind of Chinese boat 5. Heroin.

OK, without going Freud on you, junk becomes the waste of obsolescence. Garbage is the lowest form of junk. Well, let me carry it a scatological bit further: SHIT is the lowest form of junk. In the Jungle (I've never before realized the name Jung is in Jungle), there is no junk--except the junk human beings have contaminated the useful Jungle with--human beings being the purveyors of junk.

for The Daily Growler

The The Daily Growler Pin-Up Girl of the Day

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