Down in the Blogs
I'm hiding out in one of my hideouts, of which I have many, but this one is special to me. It's the trailer house of an old friend of a mine, a crazy cat (he insists he's a cat)--and what's so crazy about that, I think I'm half wolf? We're all crazy maybe. I'm not crazy though; I like old Henry Miller am too sane to be insane though I am recently having battles with some interpretations my mind is making of some of my gut feelings--and I'm talking about my mind interpreting these feelings flipping my energy meter backwards, going minus, which is a warning, an alarm that my stupid mind is favoring depression over expression. We used to say the condition I'm suffering was like being "down in the dumps," at one time in human history, about as far down classwise as a person could get. "Man, I been down in the dumps the past three days." That meant "low"-- as low as you can go--and down in the dumps, and literally in those days there were people who lived in the city dumps--it was the Great Depression, ya see? So, "going down in the dumps" was where you had to sink to kick depression and rise back up to the surface and back to your suffocating digs or your lonely big empty Beverly Hills ass-kicking mansion and start the depressing cycle all over again. Many a Hollywood star has actually been living down in the dumps--the dumps being inside those mansions they have made of their careers.
My Man Godfrey, a great old-timey Hollywood film, is about a rich bitch, Irene Bullock (Carole Lombard), who has been challenged by her family to find a proper manservant for the house--a gentleman's gentleman, except for this one she has to go down to the dumps and find one of those dudes and turn him into a gentleman's gentleman. Catch on? The old Galatea story. And she finds her man, Godfrey, who's played by a Daily Growler Top Ten Great American Actors actor , William Powell, who, too poor Miss Bullock's ignorance is already a rich dude who one day decided to go live in the dumps with people beneath him--a place in which he found great happiness and relief until Irene Bullock's challenge came along. It was the pursuit of sex with Irene that propelled otherwise happy as hell Godfrey to leave the dump and return to the good life. No good lookin' babes like Carole Lombard down in those dumps.
Once when asked how he stayed so thin, William Powell replied, "I highly recommend worrying. It's much more effective than dieting."
My Man Godfrey is the first movie ever to have its 4 leading actors nominated for Academy Awards--William Powell, Carole Lombard, Alice Brady, and Gail Patrick.
Another actor in My Man Godfrey is one of my personal Hollywood heroes, Eugene Paulette. Eugene is described in current bios as a "Gargantuan-bellied, frog-voiced character actor...." And that he was. He was one of the great ones. He was later Friar Tuck in the movie The Adventures of Robin Hood starring another personal Hollywood hero of mine, Errol Flynn--whose bestselling autobiography, My Wicked, Wicked Ways, was one of my bibles during my intellectual years in college. I've lately been reading Malcolm Lowry's biography and I see many similarities between Malcolm and Errol Flynn--both British rich boys--Errol actually was from Australia--both consumed by alchohol at the height of their primes--both ending up committing self-suicide by drowning their insecurities in gin bottles--or in vodka bottles with Errol. Errol once commented he didn't much care when he woke up in the mornings whether the person in bed with him was a man, a woman, or an animal, as long as his vodka bottle was in there, too; his true love.
Eugene Paulette, originally from Kansas, was a gung-ho right winger, and during the early fifties he got so afraid of communists taking over the country, he went into the wilds of Oregon and built himself a fort--with weapons, ammunition, a food supply--you know, total right-wing paranoia set up. Eugene finally died in L.A. of cancer safe at last from the communists that never took us over. One of the overlooked greats of Hollywood. A real American actor; before the European-Lee Strasberg method of method acting took hold of our actors and now they're all Marlon Brando and James Dean impersonators or Marilyn Monroe impersonators with the chicks, though poor actresses have to be so much more actors than males.
Look how these actresses (and those with actor husbands, too) adopt all these children--isn't that strange? Married or not they get to adopt babies--like one of our Daily Growler patron saints, Saint Mia Farrow. Take a look at Mia's sordid family life and then marriage record.
50-year-old Old Blue Eyes claimed he took her virginity and then married her when she was 19, though I doubt that young Mia was a virgin when Frank first boffed her--I mean she'd been acting since she was a kid, then as a young babe she got herself more attention by going to India and living on an ashram for almost a year with the Beatles, Mike "Nutjob" Love, and another nutjob, Donovan, and her nutjob sister Prudence, who John Lennon wrote a song about. What a life! All at the expense of their sanity--of their identities--most of them with phony names, like Mia's real name is Maria de Lourdes Villiers-Farrow--her father was a Hollywood director and her mother was Tarzan's Jane, Maureen O'Sullivan. She was raised a strict Catholic. As a young girl, she spent a year in an iron lung with polio. Like I said, then she married Frank Sinatra when she was 19-- Old Blue Eyes served her divorce papers on the set of a movie she was making right in front of cast and crew--he was pissed 'cause she wouldn't leave the movie she was making and come star in one of his Frankie Baby failures--a movie where Blue Eyes played a dectective. Mia knew that would ruin her career so she told Frank F-him.
Then this little Hollywood princess up and married old lucky-rich-boy Andre Previn--she wooed his old cheatin' ass away from poor little old Dory Previn who got a little stardom herself by writing a damn sad but very popular song about Mia being a stone bitch and breaking up her "perfect" marriage to Andre.
It was while Mia was shacked up with Andre that she had their precious twins--never a problem in those twins's lives--though I'd bet they're both a couple a F-ed up kids now--but then the Hollywood guilt of growing up with lousy parents and that maybe you, too, are a lousy parent was too much and she and Andre so they started adopting ethnic babies--you know, started their collection of world children--it's a Hollywood obsession; it has to do with their rectifying their loose-wing-nutted growing up--Previn grew up in Hollywood, too, a special kid. This kind are very dissatisfied with the way they were raised and by adopting all these foreign kids they are experimenting as though acting as universal parents-- in order to gain attention from their own worthless (my probability) parents, though in reality they're nutty-as-fruitcakes parents, too, except for their being considerably wealthy, though that's no reason to allow these incompetent people to adopt babies--but it is--except here again, they are both wealthy people so these babies will be spoiled with nannies and tutors, I mean, the best that money can buy. I mean what a bunch of lucky little bas...;oh my gracious goodness, I pull in my claws and retract my snarls--but you know what I mean. Adoption is a big business, let's face it; it needs celebrity clients to get rid of those children it has in its system who'll never be as lucky as--well, I'll give you an example of a lucky adopted kid, taken from the war-torn ruins of Southeast Asia--Andre Previn and Saint Mia are the ones who adopted Soon Yi --aha! So, you see, Woody was right--his boffing Soon Yi and taking naked pictures of her, legs spread and all, when she was a little underage was perfectly sanctified--oh, my goodness, but Woody was right, she wasn't his daughter--hell no, she was his mistress. Plus, it's been a better marriage than Woody's marriage to Mamma Mia. Poor ole Saint Mia. Oh, poor hurt baby. F her.
God, I hate Hollywood people. But I love My Man Godfrey -- which got me off on this diatribic detour.
Hey, I've been praised for my rants! Therefore let me rant on.
Yessir, tomorrow is when the Yahoos stumble half-asleep towards their nearest polling station--or the polling station in the district where they registered--oh, you forgot to change your voter registration address--"Sorry, you can't vote here--why, dearie, you have to go to Pelham Manor to vote."
It's a beautiful thing to watch how crooked the Republican National Committee is. How sleazy they are. They always have been sleazy. Look at Nixon's insulting ads against Helen Gehagan Douglas in his first mudslinger rat bastard campaign in California. God how Nixon lied. Right in front of his dear old stupid Quaker mother. While his charming wife Pat was home drunk as a Lard.
And the Willie Horton ad. That was the Republican National Committee, too.
The Swift Boat assholes; yep, that's a rich Republican behind them--he's spending more money on his Swift Boat Ship of Fools campaign than George Soros is contributing to Dumbocrat politicos. It's all about money and making money, being rich and getting richer. That always amused me about the rich--and I have living proof of this since my brother was a millionaire and hung exclusively with other millionaires, in several cases billionaires, and even a nest of ex-millionaires, and everyone of these privileged dudes was always worried about their money. Always worried about going broke. And all of 'em had ulcers, too.
The robo-phone call is the latest device being surreptiously used by the Repugnican National Committee--calls you get early in the morning or late at night that lead you to believe they are from the Democratic National Committee, just as crooked, just a little more under the table with it than the numbskull Repugnicans. Just think of the billions of dollars that are blown in elections in this country every year, not just every four or six. Billions spent to get jobs that pay $300,000 at the top--does our "president" steal that much from us every year now? Senators make less, around $150,000--and Reps even less; yet, these slick flim-flammers bribe millions of dollars out of these rich assholes that seem to be in the business of financing political campaigns.
Then there's voter ID cards and fingerprinting and people being branded felons and knocked off the voting roles--lessons well learned from old salty Kathy Harris who gave Georgie Porgie his first presidency--the one the Supreme Court had to appoint him to. Oh, by the way, Brother Jeb (named after a Confederate General (one of Old Pappy's heroes)) was goobernor of Florida back then wasn't he?...oh no, no shennigans could have happened...I just won't hear it.
It's gonna be tough for the Dumbocrats to win though I must admit they're coming up with some very clever ads against Bushy Boy lately. Ned Lamont, another spoiled rich boy, has a cool "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" ad against Uncle Joe Lieberman.
Unka Dick's going pheasant hunting tomorrow. I think I'll go with him; I need a new face.
"Hey, Judge, you goin' with us this time?"
I'm not down in the dumps, I'm down in the blogs. This is our 202nd post--since April 6th--it's enough to drive an old newsman bonkers. Blogged down in a blog.
for The Daily Growler