Existing in the Police State of New York City: Expecting a Winter of Discontent

Foto by tgw, "The Atlantic Ocean," Coney Island, New York 2010
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Commander Mikey "El Billionario" Bloomberg and Ray "Shanty Irish" Kelly Rescue Wall Street From a Flooding in of "Terrorists" Occupiers
All over New York City commercial-pap television for the past two days, the scroll-reading pretty heads are reporting a triumphant victory of our billionaire mayor and his military-police force under his little man police commissioner, the mighty Ray "I Spy" Kelly, a pair of little men (short people), in their rescue of Wall Street from these "out of control" punks who have the nerve to believe that We the People of the USA have the power to disrupt and overthrow a system that HATES We the COMMON People of the USA--a system that is WHITE CONTROLLED, a WHITE REVENGE MOVEMENT, the wealthiest WHITE MEN in the world live here in New York City (including the Koch Brothers). And these wealthy WHITE MEN have no mercy on those they screw in order to cover their bankrupt ideals. How dare the common herd think this country, this city, this or that neighborhood, or this or that home and land belongs to them!

And early yesterday morning (Thursday), I got up with intentions of moseying down around Wall Street to check and see if the Occupy Wall Street effort to shut down Wall Street had any validity--their intention being to encircle the area and keep the stock market from opening on time and hopefully not at all. This turned out to be a great idea! It pissed off our divinely inspired mayor (if you are as rich as Mikey "Shorty" Bloomberg, you feel absolutely divine, surely blessed by the higher beings)--I mean, this little prick originally from Boston, a small town compared to New York City, owes his divinity to his Wall Street gods and benefactors--especially those gods at Merrill Lynch and Goldman-Sachs and J.P. Morgan-Chase (these Rockefeller-Morgan pirates contributed millions to the New York City Military Police Department)--I mean, come on, all these divine bastards know each other. They all belong to the same clubs and breakfast groups and luncheon groups and real-estate combines and hedge-fund and private equity pools (as do their siblings (the mayor's daughter is NYC's ambassador to the UN) and wives and brothers and brothers-in-law)--they all can call each other up on their personal private phone numbers and arrange back-room dealings, all of which are aimed at fucking the common man, the millions and millions of New Yorkers who these idiots divinely believe have NO FUCKING POWER at all. Especially these upstart occupiers with the gall to intentionally disrupt WALL STREET (invasion and occupation being the good old American way).

The NYC commercial-pap teevee puppets were especially proud of showing over and over this one Wall Street junior exec-type who was inconvenienced getting to his hi-floor corner office t'other morning who was shouting at the Occupiers, "You're the terrorists...you are terrorists!" Shouting this at people getting their faces bashed in and being shoved to the concrete and then having their faces rubbed into that concrete or having their throats being choked by a hard hickory wood or solid hard-rubber (probably lead filled) baton--yes, New York City's Finest (big fat Irish-red-faced bulls) were doing their best to please the FBI and Homeland Security and Billionaire Mayor Bloomberg by cleansing our most sacred of Capitalist streets, that street too big to fall, of these heathen, these anti-American punks, these little spoiled brats, these ingrates, these TERRORISTS.

And yep, folks, the New York City Military Police did a good job and they should be proud--especially those cops who were beating a bunch of school children trying to get to school--or those brave blood brothers who were wailing away and knocking to the concrete old grannies and stomping on 'em a bit to make their vengeful point.

Cops hate citizens because they themselves aren't citizens of New York City, most of them living outside the city proper.

Besides, it was a dundrearied lousy day here in NYC. Rainy and getting colder by the hour. A chilling kind of weather, a fooling kind of weather--it lures you into wearing thinner clothes since it was in the high 60s for the past few days and then once you're out in it, it chills you to the bone.

As For Me: All at once this past Tuesday, I was on-line most of the day but then in the afternoon, I suddenly kept getting "Authentication Failed" in the pop up that tells you why you can't connect to the Internet--over and over I kept getting this bloody pop up, to the point I called my ISP--and son of a bitch, I was told by this ISP I have been with for 10 years now my account had been canceled and they were no longer providing me with Internet service. I was the last of the dial-up accounts, I was told--me and one other poor obsolete jerk were the only dial-uppers left in the New Jersey, New York, Connecticut area, so being cost-efficient finance majors, they dumped our accounts and left us evicted from the 'Net.

When you've been living on the Internet for 20 years as I have (my first computer was an IBM PC running DOS) and suddenly you are DEAD to the Internet--can't get on it--and trust me, I'm too arrogant to go to an Internet cafe--you suddenly realize how absolutely embedded your life is in virtual reality rather than real-time reality. Without the Internet to "play" around on for hours, I found myself sitting here totally bored. Television was totally boring. I tried playing Free Cell on one of my laptops--Free Cell and Hearts--but that got boring, too. I kept coming down to my big computer and pulling down the Internet Connect icon and trying to dial up only to get the "No Dial Tone" pop up. So I did something I'm ashamed of, which I capitulated to--I called Verizon and signed up for their special offer of high-speed Internet service for $19.99-a-month (trust me, by the time they add on the taxes and surcharges and connection fees and extemporaneous fees, the bill's gonna be up over $30.00-a-month). Finally, after three days of being off-line, I got my $35 router and hooked everything up and the Verizon people called me and told me I was ready to connect and I clicked on my Ethernet connect and BOOM, just like that, I am back on line. Able once again to start spewing out my diatribe--glad to be back embedded on this marvelous piece of virtual reality called the Internet.

My reality space. The Daily Growler. Possibly with only a handful of readers--one never knows, do one? I know of 12 regular readers; I know of 2 consistent readers; and according to this blog's statistics, we get over a thousand hits a day--most of them, we assume, being the 25 or 30 spammers who try and infiltrate us through the comments section but which Blogspot (Google) has so far effectively filtered out--mostly Russian and Chinese sex sites--sex being the most popular subject all around this virtual reality world.

SEX. That verboten subject that our ignorance and repressing of are causing frustrations galore--if you can't fuck anymore, what do you do? Go to war maybe? Become a serial killer maybe? Become a common whore maybe? Become a cold housewife/mother maybe? Become a cheating husband/father maybe? On the other hand, say you are a superstud or object of great sexual attraction--think of how frustrating that must be--like our Hollywood fops and darlings are represented to us--my point being, these Hollywood affairs (marriages, couplings, studio-designed hook ups) aren't based on supersex--these couples hate each other and are most of the time impotent--they marry and divorce or just simply fuck around with impunity, every little admiring fool believing these men and women represent our highest form of sexual glory. Can you imagine a drunken drug addict like Charlie Sheen being good in bed! He plays superstuds in his grade B roles; yet, it's obvious this pretender isn't that at all--he's a frustrated impotent. Wanna bet me?

Idolatry is so stupd.

thegrowlingwolf
occupying The Daily Growler

A Little Taste of American Art:

Frank Stella’s “Severinda” (1995), mixed media on Fiberglas, is part of “Frank Stella: Painting Into Architecture,” at the Met.