Britney Beats Out Politicians for Headlines

...and Ralph Nader May Be Back!
Way back when in a way back post of The Daily Growler in that way-back time of 2006 I, thegrowlingwolf, gave a detailed explanation of what made Britney Spears a self-destructive timebomb. Hell, even old Doctor of Educational Psychology (Unlicensed) Phil knows Britney's self-destructing but he can't explain why--not in psyche terms. The Britney Spears he's "counseling" as "Britney Spears" isn't really the Britney Spears; nope, he's dealing with the prefabricated Britney Spears, that's the Britney Spears acting up and gaining more and more and more everyday headlines--gobbling them like she's gobbling uppers to keep up, to try and stay on top, what she's programmed to do--did'ja hear me?--this programmed maintenance of fame is what's crackin' the real "cracker gal" swamp-girl Britney up. Her grapple to stay in the public eye no matter how "ooooooh scandalous" is an addiction to which her programmed self is hooked and she's successful enough at grabbin' headlines she blows away all the political-religio bally-hooing and insider swordfighting going on--Edwards quitting; Rudi Mussolini throwing in the towel (and what a filthy towel it is too--so let it lie; let the toxic-waste squad clean it up)--why "precious" little Britney even beat out Jimm-eh Cah-ter's declaring for Obama moment (you know Jimm-eh was pissed when Unka Teddy "Chappaquiddick" Kennedy came out for Obama), Jimm-eh Cah-ter the ex-still-living president who's really not spotlessly clean, by the bye, folks--check out his record in the Sukarto history of Indonesia and its massacre-ing hundreds of thousands of East Timorans working hand in hand with Armand Hess and Chevron and Dutch Shell to wipe out the Timorans to get them out of that oil-rich area of Indonesia--yeah, check out who gave military equipment and training to build up the Indonesian Army--yes suh, boss, Mister Jimm-eh was president and his man in Indonesia was there at the time of this massacre and blah, blah, blah--all these creeps are so crooked, even Divine Jimm-eh, though he's tried to make up for his sins in this incident and in his foul up in his attempt to rescue the hostages in the Iran incident during his administration--his screw up actually leading to the election of Ronnie Raygun "Alzheimer's" Reagan, the man, "the Great Communicator," the man of great traveling magic who was going to get us from NYC to Tokyo in three and half hours, Cap'n Whacko John McCain claims was his patriotic inspiration--but, wait a minute, John, you'd already been hogtied and rambunctiously tortured before that? I don't get it? How did Reagan inspire John patriotically? I'm confused. Back to Britney Spears; she's less confusing to me than John McCain's out-of-nowhere return to frontrunning status--remember when the bleeding-heart Liberals (how about the Kansas governor representing the Dumbocrats rebuttal to Bush Baby's bullshit Intestate State of the Disunion speech; her rebuttal was weak, effeminate, boldly going nowhere, and who the fuck is she anyway?) were puffing out their predictive chests saying John McCain's campaign was so fizzled out because he was out of big bucks and moral support and his staff was deserting his ass like rats diving off a sinking ship? Wha happened? How'd he get big bucks rollin' in again? How'd he get his staff back? Amazin'. In watching a documentary on the building of the Parthenon (remember Sarah Vaughn struggling trying to say "Parthenon" correctly during one of her live recordings of "You Belong to Me"--with trumpeter Wendell Culley blowing riffs off her lines behind her--obligato, I think it's called?), I was curious to see that the Athenians posted on stone tablets outside the Parthenon construction area that gave a detailed accounting of the actual cost of building this temple to the Athenian taxpayers. How neat! Open bookkeeping!

But Britney Spears, I mean, all this poor little "created" bitch has to do is throw a temper tantrum, divorce again, marry again, have another couple of little privileged bastards that society will have to bear hearing about for the rest of their fucked up Hollywood kid lives, go off on a pill-freak freak out, check herself in and out of rehabs, driving her flashy foreign automobiles without a license, drunk, but, amazingly, no jail time for the Britney yet; hell, throw her ass in the clink like they did Paris. It kind'a cooled nutjob Paris out for a while; at least she hasn't been in the NEWS lately.

I started writing this early this morning. Now it is the next day actually, after midnight in New York City, and, man, is it still. It's so quiet it hurts. When you don't hear any noise in the streets or in the skies of New York City it causes you to go look out the window and look for doomsday or something like that. In a way this quiet is wonderful, especially for a guy with words up his ass, under his arms, like thick and wormy all throughout his brain and its waves and all across its pan, words as mush and then as nourishment--eating words out of my own brain, which I am now regurgitating out onto this seemingly endless window of a sheet of writing paper that I must fill with these crazy words, words that become so loud when it is this quiet in New York City they echo across my plain of brains. That's when a writer writes his or her best; in the still of the night. And god-damn it is so still tonight. Tomorrow must be gonna be one hell of a noisy day! Hell, it's February already.

So already this rambling "Britney" prattle is going nowhere; my words are wanting to form around another angle and write on that for a while, like thinking about parents and how they harm us with words when we're idiot kids, this after reading Jane Bowles's wonderful note written back in the early fifties about how her father berated her by saying she was a procrastinator and that that procrastination would be her death. My mother told me that same thing all the time I was growing up supposedly to her wiling away my time. "You're a procrastinator," she would predict, "and it's gonna be the death of you." Wow, thanks, Mom, I needed that! That's what Jane said, "Thanks, Dad; wow, really thanks, you creepy bastard." No, Jane did not write like that but I'll bet that's what she was thinking.

"My father predicted everything when he said I would procrastinate until I died. I knew then it was true. In America, it is very painful to know this as a child. Now that I am forty and in North Africa, it is still painful" [from "Curls and a Quiet Country Face" in The Portable Paul and Jane Bowles, published by Penguin in 1994 (from the old Viking Portable Library)].

I knew then it was true when I was young and my mother told me the same thing. I am now way past 40 and living in New York City and I still can't get my mother's condemnation out of my head. Yeah, Janey, it's painful alright; EXCEPT, fortunate for me, maybe, my mother wasn't right about a lot of things.

So Walt "Ducky" Disney Studios turn out these little tinhorn stars by the droves: J Lo, Aguilara, Ricky Martin, Justin Timberlake, Britney, all manufactured in the Disney Mickey Mouse Club Remake Salons all around the US; remember, Disney sent Britney to their "entertainment" school here in NYC where they taught her stage presence, hoofing, warbling, how to get settled in a recording studio or on a film set, how to sing, how to shake her butt, how to enhance her ass and her tits--"Use 'em, baby; those tits and ass boys out there are your meat and potatoes, Brit, so shake that booty and make that looty--of course, Unka Walt and the Mickster ask that you skip reading that fine print down there where you sell your soul to Unka Walt's frozen corpse and the Mickster--hey, Minnie Mouse made the contract up..." Squeak, squeak, squeak. Britney is babblingly promoted by the many many celebrity suck-up shows, a lot of which are shown on Disney's ABC network and their many CABLE venues. Unka Walt and the Mickster's latest teeny phenom is this phony Hannah Montana and Billy Ray Cyrus's daughter, Missy or Muffy or Moppet, whatever, and Hannah and Missy shake their little tiny undeveloped asses and budding titties into the pimply faces of their still-in-diapers fans to the tune of phenom hustling--hustling that fools us all, especially we double-foolish and easily fooled Americans. Unka Walt and the Mickster pretty much control the Broadway theater scene here in NYC now--the Mickster's white interpretation of African legend, The Lion King, is becoming a perpetual runner, being promoted to the Mickey Mouse hilt and selling out like hotcakes every night to the Iowa and Nebraskan cornshuckers and pig farmers in Disney's own Broadway Theater now--why I was reading where Disney has a whole "Broadway" department that is constantly coming up with theater production ideas. [Billy Ray Cyrus, by the bye, was a one-hit hillbilly wonder ("Achy Breaky Heart" in case you've forgotten) who then proved himself a low-grade, below-B-grade actor in Larry Pax's stupid Doc teevee series--a rip-off of old Dennis Weaver's series where he was a New Mexican cowboy cop working as a special consultant to the NYPD (yeah sure), riding horseback around the streets of New York City--remember that farce of a series? It's nice to regain your stardom through your kids.]

Any way, it was fun for a while getting rid of those nitpicking, flip-flopping, egotistical politicians whose perpetual running for president is getting so fucking boring. The candidates are all FOOLS, folks; so as fools, we Americans traipse on; Jeez, we hope our totally crooked leaders aren't leading us over the brink into the abyss! But if they are, who the hell are we to complain.

Chaos is a comin', its sails are in sight!

languagehat yesterday took a hard right that hit square-jawed into the glass-jaw mug of the New York Times--a newspaper I used to read on line when I worked for a living but now which I haven't even glanced at in 4 years since I've been unemployed as a writer and blogger and musician and cynical asshole.

Here's L Hat's complete post for your edification--I love the way this dude thinks--I've known that thinking for 25 years, folks, and I love the way he writes, too--

January 31, 2008

THE LYING TIMES.

Every time I think I'm inured to the idiocies of the press, even what are allegedly its finest representatives, something comes along to get me frothing in rage again. The latest comes via Bill Poser at Language Log, who writes:

The New York times contains a brief article entitled One Pot describing the Spanish dish known variously as cocido or olla podrida literally "rotten pot" According to the dictionary of the Real Academia Española, podrida may have an admiring connotation, similar to the use of "filthy rich" in English. Curiously, instead of the correct olla podrida, the article gives the name of the dish as olla poderida, which it explains as a derivative of poder "strength", because it gives you strength.

Reader Jim Gordon wondered about this and emailed the author of the article. Her response: she and her consultants and editors were aware of the correct name and etymology but thought that some readers might be put off by the notion of rotten food, so they changed the name a little and made up a fake etymology. It seems clear that they were not trying to deceive anyone with evil intent, but I am still taken aback that a respectable newspaper would make up a fake name and etymology.

"Curiously"? "Taken aback"? I guess I admire Bill's sangfroid and charity, but I'm not going to mince words: I think this is a complete dereliction of the first duty of a newspaper, which is to tell the truth. What's next, not reporting on vote fraud or covering up a slaughter in the Congo because "some readers might be put off"? Furthermore, they're not just making it up themselves, they're putting their lie in someone else's mouth:

“Olla means pot, and the original name was olla poderida, which comes from poder, which means strength,” said Alexandra Raij, an owner of Tía Pol, the tiny Spanish restaurant on 10th Avenue in Chelsea.

I presume Ms. Raij (a Spanish equivalent of Reich, apparently) said no such thing; if I were her, I'd put the fear of a lawsuit into the paper for knowingly making her look like an ignoramus.

How on earth do you justify making things up and putting them in "the newspaper of record" with such a ridiculous excuse? I think the reporter and every editor who approved this should be fired and a memo sent out to all employees of the Times that conscious deception of the readership will not be tolerated.

And don't tell me "it's only language." Language is how we communicate and how we understand the world. If you're capable of lying to me about words and etymology to spare my supposed feelings, you're capable of lying about anything, because you don't understand the value of truth. Our world is made of words, and the Times is degrading it. Shame on them.

www.languagehat.com

...and yes, last but not least, yesterday morning (Thurs.) on Amy Goodman's Democracy Now, old Ralph "Spoilsport" Nader said he was'a thinkin' of giving the old presidency another run--hey, Ralph says now that Johnny Boy Edwards is out of the race no one's spouting the "progressive" line (according to Ralph) so he may need to run again this year to get us back on the right track. Is John McCain going to win the presidency in November? Maybe. Amazing, but, hey, it's America. We're fools don't forget; even those of us who have prestigious writing jobs on The New York Times.

Selah.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

"Mission Accomplished" Again

Baby Bush, Cap'n of a Ship of Fools
I didn't watch the Bush Baby last night as he stepped up to the plate in Washington, District of Corruption, and struck out on every issue he spewed forth. So how do I know that if I didn't watch his Foolship. Hell, I read The Daily Growler posting yesterday, what the crack staff wrote, how this never-elected-honestly "president" was gonna merely resubstantiate previous lies he's already been spewing for the past days. I stop in my tracks and ask, what happened to his Israeli-Palestinian Peace Agreement? What a joke. The Israelis are laughing like hyenas as they retaliate by killing 30 or 40 Gaza Strip Palestinians a day--in retaliation in one incident for Palestinian "missiles" wounding 10 Israelis. Some Big Daddy in the Sky's "Chosen Folk" right? Therefore we should sacrifice all of humanity to protect these whacko Jews--religions versus religions--the dogs of Islam versus the Jew Dogs--Dark Ages defiances in the 21st Century--who'd a thought it?

I did tune across Bush Baby's speech. One time just as he finished speaking. I was stunned by the absolute earthshaking roar that went up after his speech. I never heard such hooting and hollering and gregarious admiration--and I thought, Wow, Fools applauding the epitome of their foolishness. Yep, folks, our Ship of State is a huge ocean liner full of fools and led by two of the eviliest (speaking in religious terms) fools (the totally ignorant Bush Baby and Pig-Jowled, Leering-eyed, nutjob-deluxe Unka Dick Cheney) ever to exist in the Land of Fools, the USA. Yes, my friends, I include myself in that manifestation of fools; I'm a fool for letting things slide; though when you're in a disaster (a catastrophe) isn't the best thing to do to take cover and wait it out? Though look what we're getting to replace this administration of fools!

Dare I say it? Obama is a fool? He is. Hillary's a big fool. She's an even bigger fool when she's appearing with her very foolish husband, the guy who cost her South Carolina. The blacks are turning on Slick Willie. "Hey, Hill, dammit, I thought I knew N-worders, especially them geechees in South Carolina, ole Strom's state; you know I loved ole Strom, don't'cha, honeychile?" "Don't you honeychile me, you phony blowhard. You cost me South Carolina. I mean, Bill, I'm losing to an N-worder! God-damn, Bill, can you imagine how that makes me feel? You bastard. I should'a divorced your ass over that Monica Lewinsky bullshit." Ah, the Clintons; they can't believe people are turning on them. "Hell, I was jus' settin' the N-worder straight; how the hell did I know the N-worders were gonna turn on me and after all I did for them! And the ladies! Damn, you know the ladies like me, baby, white and black." "Looks like the ladies have figured you out, Bill."

Anyway, the privileged little white Bush Boy said exactly what us Growlers said he would, we're winning the war in Iraq, al Queda's on the run in Iraq, and he's pulling troops out--of course, he'll send 'em over to Afghanistan to get them killed over there--MORE KILLING, Bush was shouting in his solar plexus, I NEED MORE KILLING! UNKA DICK NEEDS MORE KILLING. And Unka Dick was sitting behind Privileged George with his shotgun over his lap--ridin' shotgun for the Wild West "president." And the economy! Why, hell, it's never been better (read: "for the rich and famous")--and like his Pappy said before him, "Poverty? I don't see no poverty! Why hell, I've got two homes, don't you all?" A bank wouldn't dare foreclose on a Bush! What in the world am I going to do with the $300 Bush Baby out of the kindness of his ignorant heart is going to soon shovel my way! "Hey, Bushy, how 'bout giving me the same tax breaks and impunity you give Exxon-Mobil?" What did you do with the last Bush tax rebate? Pay your CABLE bill with it? Wow, and oh how that stimulated the economy. Fools running us into the ground. And guess what? We're fools for tolerating them. We do have under our 200-year-old full-0f-faults Constitution the right to throw the rascals out! The Preamble to the Bill of Rights ("The what?" you are asking. You don't hear it mentioned much these days) gives We the People the right of impeachment and the further right to "overthrow" any government that isn't living up to our Constitution and especially a president...whoaaaa! I forgot, Bush was never honestly elected so he doesn't have to follow the fuckin' Constitution. "I ain't really the president, if you wanna git tech-knee-cal about it."

And on the Repugnican side! Oh my Jeepers Creepers, their fools are even dumber than the Dumbocrats. John "VietNam Nutjob" McCain is their front runner! Wow. And the Repugs aren't Swift Boating Nutty John this time--remember, Bush's gang said Cap'n John's VietNam experiences had made him certifiably nuts! Cap'n John and Max Cleland (also from Carolina, too, isn't he?), the VietNam vet who was a triple amputee, were both nuttier than those fruit cakes the White House chef (a foreigner (maybe even an illegal immigrant) by the way) makes.

Mitt Romney is trying to sophisticate himself--trying to distance himself from the frontrunning fools, though when we stop and think about him being a privileged rich boy who believes in the fundamentals of Mormonism, then he, too, can't escape the fool label no matter how civilized he starts behaving. And Rudi Mussolini! What a champion! I mean Rudi's losing in every poll and comes in last in every little pissant caw-cuss or primordial election; yet the Nation's great media still roll Rudi out and follow him around and pretend he's still a viable candidate--"Rudi may not be looking good in any state he's run it yet but hey he'll score big in New Jersey where they love him and in New York where they love him, too." Come on, Rudi's only won once and that was for mayor of New York City and he won over poor ole David Dinkins, the first black man ever to be elected mayor of this huge predominantly brown city--and the last, I might add for clarification. Everything else the Rude Man's run for he's lost; why he lost to carpetbagger Hillary Clinton in his race for the Senate from New York State.

Hey, you wanna become a millionaire and not have to sell your identity to Hollywood, or play sports or take steroids or follow Carlton Sheets's path to filthy riches? Do you wanna just be your foolish silly self yet become privileged and powerful and able to leap tall appropriations with a single bound while pocketing millions in lobbyist money? Then become a politician! Either that or get into crime. One thing American politics teaches you, Crime, my friends, is about the only thing that pays these days.

thegrowlingwolf--treading where angels fear to tread
for The Daily Growler

Shards Gleaned From Extradigging

The State of the Disunion Address
Tonight's the night! The little spoiled rich brat Bush baby will spin several big-time yarns tonight in his last but not least State of the Un-Union Undress. The first big yarn he'll spin is that the US economy is doing just fine. The stock market is crashing simply because Bush's insider-trader Yale Skull and Bones boys (these include John "War Hero" Kerry, who is a filthy rich bastard, too, don't forget--married to an ever filthier and richer woman--heavily invested in the stock market--invested soundly in war stocks) are taking their gains and losses at the end of the fiscal year--"Hell, folks," our phony "president" will say, "mine and Pickles's stocks is doin' jest fine, y'all, what the hell you talkin' 'bout a stock market crash! The economy's never been better, yeee haw"--and he's right-on in that sense, from the filthy rich man's perspective things ain't never been better. Exxon-Mobil is soon to release figures showing the greatest profits ever made by a Capitalistic corporation. Halliburton is up; Wal-Mart is up (did you know the Walton Family owns almost 5% of all the wealth in this country?); KBR is up; AT&T has to be up; General Electric must be up; so hey, nonny-nonny, no more bitchin' about our falling economy--that's bullshit, the economy was never better for the rich and famous.

Another yarn Bush baby will spin tonight will have to do with hinting at redeploying US troops from Iraq (we've pretty much won in Iraq Bush will say and he'll give figures showing the number of roadside bombings is down and al-Queda is pretty much decimated, blah, blah, blah) to Afghanistan. Oh, yeah, the righteous war, the War on Afghanistan, who, by the way, did not attack us, had nothing to do with blowing up the World TRADE Center; yet, they are now the evil enemy because the Taliban (Bush equalizes them with al-Queda) are kicking NATO asses there. NATO, at the same time, is spouting off about being able to deploy nuclear weapons in this "never-ending" war on terror in Afghanistan (I predict, Bush and his phony warriors will detonate a nuclear device in Kabul in the coming weeks and blame it on the Iranians--hey, you never know). Baby Bush, our only never-honestly-elected "president," a "president" who told over 900 lies to get us into this never-ending war on terror that is literally wrecking both our economy and our armed forces, which according to the Constitution should be guarding our borders rather than playing world policeman and now world conqueror; yet, the Dumbocrat leadership says we can't impeach this most-impeachable president in US history. I mean, come on, stealing two elections! That's not criminal intent enough to put this dude in handcuffs and carry him off to Leavenworth? Also Bushy Boy (the biggest loser in the loser Bush family) will hint at taking his mighty warriors into Pakistan. Oh boy. How bad do these white men want a nuclear war!!!

We've said here at The Daily Growler that this may be the White Man's last attempt to hold power in his slowly-becoming-the-minority lily white male hands. He's got his women voting for Hillary in the Dumbocrat primordials or caw-cusses but strangely enough too a lot of Repugnicans are voting for Obama, which sends up a Maggie's Drawers flag (a warning flag) in our book. How vicious will the Repugnicans get when Swift Boating Obama (we're sorry, they'll call him Osama)? we say extremely vicious; just flat downright racist! McCain's a white nutjob; we're sure being from Arizona he hates Native Americans and Mexican-Americans--there aren't many of either, if any, in Arizona politics. We're sure, too, he hates blacks, 'cause he was a white flyboy captain--blacks were way beneath his ass in that skulduggery war based on a big prefabricated attack Lyndon "Big Balls" Johnson called "The Gulf of Tonkin." Mitt Romney, hell, he's a Mormon; the Mormons are notorious racists when it comes to blacks--they were banned from joining the Mormon Church as few as 25 years ago when Oren Hatch was the leading Mormon nutjob in Congress--and he's still the leading Mormon and human nutjob in Congress. If we could just get these crazy ass white men out of Washington, District of Corruption; not that anything would change, you're retaliating--and oh how sad a retaliation that is.

thestaff
for The Daily Growler

Shards Gleaned From Reading
I've taken a big liking to the writing of Paul Bowles here lately. This morning I was reading a piece of his he calls A Man Must Not Be Very Moslem--from a compilation of travel articles he called Their Heads Are Green and Their Hands Are Blue. This little piece I was reading is about Paul traveling from Morocco, his home for 30 years, to Istanbul and bringing along his Moroccan Moslem friend Abdeslam, a strict Moslem. Bowles writes,

"When I announced my intention of bringing Abdeslam along to Istanbul, the general opinion of my friends was that there were a good many more intelligent things to do in the world than to carry a Moroccan Moslem along with one to Turkey."

This story takes place in 1953 after Kemal had tried to make Turkey into a Western-style democracy forbidding women from wearing veils and banning Islamic laws and political philosophies.

Bowles writes, "Sometime after we [Paul and Abdeslam] had gone to bed, following a long silence during which I thought he had fallen asleep, Abdeslam called over to me: 'That Mustapha Kemal was carrion! He ruined his country. The son of a dog!'"

A very interesting paragraph: "He [Abdeslam] knows how to deal with Moslems, and he has the Moslem sense of seemliness and protocol. He has also an intuitive gift for the immediate understanding of a situation and at the same time is completely lacking in reticence or inhibitions. He can lie so well that he convinces himself straightway, and he is a master at bargaining; it is a black day for him when he has to pay the asking price for anything. ... he is wholly deficient in respect for law. If you mention that this or that thing is forbidden, he is contemptuous: 'Agh! a decree for the wind!'"

While on the ship from Morocco to Turkey, Bowles notes, "I glanced at a biscuit that I was about to put into my mouth, then stopped the operation to examine it more closely. It was an ordinary little arrowroot tea-biscuit, and on it were embossed the words HAYD PARK. Contemplating this edible tidbit, I recalled what friends had told me of the amusing havoc that results when the Turks phoneticize words borrowed from other languages. These metamorphosed words have a way of looking like gibberish until you say them aloud, and then more likely than not they resolve themselves into perfectly comprehensible English or French or, even occasionally, Arabic. SKOC [with cedilla] TUID looks like nothing; suddenly becomes Scotch Tweed. TUALET, TRENCKOT, OTOTEKNIK and SEKSOLOJI likewise reveal their message as one stares at them. Synthetic orthography is a constantly visible reminder of Turkey's determination to be 'modern.' The country has turned its back on the East and Eastern concepts, not with the simple yearning of other Islamic countries to be European or to acquire American techniques, but with a conscious will to transform itself from the core outward--even to destroy itself culturally, if need be."

I love good writers, I don't care if they are bisexual hashheads who can write damn good music, too.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

From the Huffington Post: Mike Gravel on Dennis Kucinich

Dennis Kucinich deserves the praise and gratitude of all Americans who want our government to promote peace and justice at home and abroad. On all the issues, Dennis took brave, honest positions that reflect his great courage and decency.

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While Clinton and Obama continued to support funding the Iraq war, Dennis said the war was simply WRONG and worked to cut off funds and remove our troops before more Americans died in vain.

While many of his fellow Democrats hope the Bush administration just quietly fades away, Dennis wants to impeach Dick Cheney right now and expose his high crimes before the American public.

We don't need more Congressional hearings on Cheney, the record is clear. It's time for the Democrats to follow Dennis' lead and make Cheney an ignominious example to future leaders who contemplate lying to the public to get us into another war.

While Clinton, Obama and Edwards claim their "morality" prevents them from supporting gay marriage, Dennis takes the truly moral position: All Americans deserve the right to marry regardless of their sexual orientation. Anything less than full marriage equality is immoral discrimination!

I congratulate Dennis for his brave campaign and I wish him great success in his congressional race. I will do anything I can to see him reelected because we need his stalwart voice challenging his fellow congressmen and fighting for the America that he and I both believe is possible.

I promise to stay in the presidential race and continue promoting our shared ideals so that one day our party and our government will be as committed to peace and justice as Dennis Kucinich.

Mike Gravel, Jan. 28, 2008

Flittering Away a Sunday

Images of Things Collected From the Past
In case you've never seen a "Dewey" button! No, not a Tom Dewey button but a Commodore Dewey button commemorating this "Admiral of the Navy's" victory at the Battle of Manila during that lustrous Spanish-American War, a "bully of a war," as Fearless Teddy Roosevelt put it.
How about an El Paso, Texas, streetcar? This style was call a PCC streetcar, for Pacific Coast Car. These streetcars were introduced as "streamline" cars in Los Angeles in the 1930s. Later after the LA system was destroyed, these PCC cars showed up all over the USA and Mexico, especially in Mexico City, El Paso, Dallas, Washington, D.C., and Philadelphia.
In case you ever wanted to know what the great American writer Philip Wylie looked like. Autographed to boot.
In case you've never seen a famous French "girly" magazine. Note, Bing Crosby is on the cover of Pour Lire a Deux; that's kind'a quaint. From 1938.
How about a shot of Mezz Mezzrow (he wrote the great book Really the Blues) playing his clarinet? Mezz (a word meaning good marijuana) Mezzrow (a rewording of "mezz roll," a marijuana cigarette, a "stick" or "joint") was a nice Jewish boy from Chicago who so wanted to be "black" that he passed most of his life as black, living out his life residing on the Chicago Southside and when he came to New York City living up in Harlem (currently being taken away from blacks by white developers--can you imagine a 55-story luxury hotel on 125th Street? It's a coming, believe it or not!).
In case you've never seen a piece of skin from the 1924 Graf Zeppelin (named after Count von Zeppelin). This is a 1" rectangular piece that was cut out of the 1st Graf's skin by Dr. Hugo Eckener, the designer of the zeppelin, and given to his friends as souvenirs after the big ship was dismantled and the Graf Zeppelin #2 was built. The Hindenburg was one of Dr. Eckener's designs, too. Dr. Eckener remained in Germany during A. Hitler's devastating rule though he is said to have been very vocally anti-Nazi during that time.

Here's the original Graf Zeppelin in flight.

The "Sunken Garden" at Springs Park in Enid, Oklahoma, in 1940. This is the park in which our own thegrowlingwolf "played" as a just-starting-to-remember child.
In case you've never seen a Bowman's Baseball Bubble Gum card. This is from 1948 and features Andy Pafko, an outfielder, who at that time was a lowly Cub, though at one time, he'd been a Brooklyn Dodger.

All of These Items (except the photo of the Graf Zeppelin in flight) Are From The Great The Daily Growler Collectibles Collection

Hope you enjoyed.

thestaff
for The Daily Growler

A Pause in the Rushing Toward the Blinding Light

A Few Rushed Thoughts (using primate ways of thinking)
A Monkey, Impersonating a Homo Sapien, Looks Back on His Birth

That got me to thinking—first off,

--just how dumb Americans are

--and you’re thinking, how the hell did you jump from thinking like a monkey to how dumb Americans are?

--how Americans and most humans think backwards toward the womb—that that was really paradise, the heaven we imagine is there but is not

--how Americans think upwardly always as if afraid of “slipping backwards”—like talking about life as if we are all climbing a hill—“It’s an uphill climb…”

--thinking backwards is bad for our health—think about that

The amazing thing is how we are created—from just sperm piercing an egg—like a key it unlocks the whole process—a cell, then it divides, then from the blah-blah—and soon a fetus is floating in the amniotic fluid, the blue fluid, like the ocean is blue—and as fetuses we are floating in this water until we are gushed out at birth and we start functioning as human beings…

--we come out crying usually; isn’t that interesting? It was to early studiers of human habits and foibles. That first-breath crying clued those old early psychiatrists into thinking about the traumatic—how minds (computers) handle this first-mental decision, the show of fear and the cry for help with that fear from that instinct that has genetically caused this newborn immediately to cry for help upon conception’s traumatic slide down a shute and shot BAM out into a flashing blinding light

--and then like being caught in the jaws of a predator as the catcher, the doctor or whomever grabs this newcomer to the world

—you know, some minds start the system working just fine while others start up and find a lot of glitches and errors, bad configurations in their operating systems—this is where our health starts…

--even supposedly smart Americans are dumb!

--so after we’re born we start striving upward like scared cats—talking about “moving on up”—looking upward for some imaginary salvation on high

--striving meanly for the highest floors

--the highest steeples

--the highest cathedrals of industry

--the oligarchical skyscrapers

--salvation from what? Is the trauma of being born of such force it scares the hell out of us for the rest of our lives?

--perhaps it’s in our instincts (our program) to stay cautious

--so we still think like primate human beings

Stick Around and…

--soon everything we thought was written in stone crumbles into sand and then dissolves back into the ocean

That’s thinking beyond the “supposed” reality, which, of course, is not reality at all—reality remains a constant unknown. What we call reality is simply what is “at the moment.”

No, please, don’t start crying.

harrysimian
for The Daily Growler

A Tribute to Heroes & a Villain Who Have Worn Hats

Thanks to languagehat's Post Today www.languagehat.com
We're Celebrating the Hats Worn By Some of Our Fav Folks
The Prez--one of the very greatest individual jazz stylists ever in his signature porkpie hat.
Alex "Rice" Miller, Sonny Boy Williamson #2. A proponent of the derby and the bowler hat.
Another pose--from the Final Sessions album.

John Lee Williamson, the original Sonny Boy Williamson, looking snazzy in damn fine hat and a double-breasted suit.
Henry Miller in 1938, at the Cosmococcic Telegraph Co.
You never saw Jimmy Joyce without a cap or hat.
Nope, you never saw Jimmy Joyce without a hat. Here he is wearing a fedora in 1938.
Rahsaan Roland Kirk was a hat man; a top hat here.
And Mac Rebenack is a hat man--wow, his hat matches his coat and his hatband matches his shirt. That's one-time wear, isn't it? Nice bein' rich if you're a hat man.
Yep, Al Capone was a hat man. He was bald under that hat so it seldom came off; not even when he whacked some deserving stoolie.
Ernest Dale Tubb of Crisp, Texas, was a hat man. Said he felt naked without it.
Charlie Ives, the world's greatest composer, was a hat man; he, too, was bald under that hat.
And W.C. Fields was a man of many hats. A half-topper like he's wearing here was always a part of his juggling act--he juggled cigar boxes and threw the hat in all the time among the cigar boxes as though it accidentally got trapped in the circling cigar boxes--at one time Fields was said to be the world's finest juggler.
Bud Abbott and Lou Costello used hats as devices in many of their routines--the Susquehanna Hat Company routine for instance where Lou Costello destroys at least 12 or 13 straw boaters (prop hats I guess though they looked real) during the routine.

I had an aunt named Hattie Lee.

thehatlessgrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler (not to be mistaken for The Daily Bowler)

Hat Men, a Hat Pig, and a Famous Hatted Babe We Overlooked:
Slammin' Sammy Snead, for instance. How could we have forgotten Sam Snead? Later he wore a certain kind of summer straw with a certain kind of wildish hatband that became synonymous with him.
"Yoo-Hoo, it's me, Pinky Lee." And how the hell could we have forgotten the great Pinky Lee? Pinky was pretty wild during his kiddy act and a part of it was he jumped up and down sort'a nonstop--until while doing one show, the Pink Man jumped for his last time--he had a massive coronary--and there went Pinky off to Kiddy Clown Heaven--John Wayne Gacey's up there, too. Pinky's character was the prototype for Soupy Sales and later Peewee "the Wanker" Herman.
Willie "the Lion" Smith always had his derby on.
And this famous photo of the Duke in a topper.
Ed Wynn the old vaudeville comic used this silly hat in most of his routines.
We remember Porky Pig wearing a lot of hats in his cartoons.
And last but not least, the hat made famous by Madame Matisse.

Our hats are over our hearts.

thestaff
for The Daily Growler

Photographs by tgw

Photographs by tgw
I mean since mw at wood s lot (he is mr. wood s lot way up in cold-asssssss Canada) has been opening his posts with his own photographs (check them out, they're cool (they're god-damn cold), especially the "Private Property" one he put on yesterday's post), I, thegrowlingwolf, have become jealous--to the point a few posts back The Daily Growler staff talked me into showing a few of my own photographs along with an explanation of how I came to photography and how I feel it's all in your third-eye perspective--D.H. Lawrence said it was in everyone's solar plexus and I feel it down there, too--and my third-eye perspective has been aimed at the New York City skyline as seen out one of my windows that overlooks a southwesternly downtown Manhattan--the Manhattan out-west skyline, the skyline between my apartment window and the Hudson (North) River that is west of me and over the Hudson River and into New Jersey, just above Jersey City, just into Hoboken, over where the Maxwell House Coffee Plant used to sit with its famous "Good to the Last Drop" neon sign, gone now, long gone now, though it was still alive when I first moved the New York City. I was sad to hear, too, recently that in remodeling the Chelsea Pier area west of me over on the Hudson they've demolished the great old railroad ferry docks and taken away the old ferry boat that had been turned into a party, entertainment, eating, and drinking venue, with the ferry boat wheelhouse a disco area and a huge barge tied alongside one end made into a stage and around back of the stage a promenade-like area where you could sit and drink beers and eat great hot dogs and great garlic french fries and look out over the right-there constantly lapping and barking waters of the old Hudson across over into Jersey or off down the wide river to the far point where it widens the most and opens onto the Statue of Liberty that from there looks like its wading out in the deep Harbor and if you squint your eyes and look way off far down that river and out across the Harbor toward the Atlantic you can see the Verrazano Bridge sitting foggily and vague but there on the curving horizon--and I hear that's all gone now. Such a shame. Ah, but progress demands the old must go, especially the old and patina-ed lovely wrecks of that old Hudson river traffic of yore--just as so is the Maxwell House Coffee Plant and the "Good to the Last Drop" sign. There are, however, great photographs to remember all of that via.

I have no modesty when it comes to my photography--it's all improvised--it amazes me when I get the shot I perceived in the first place--when I saw the photograph right before it happened and I caught it in the camera just as it happened.

Photographs from December-January 2007-08:
Lying on My Back and Looking Up--the Empire State Building from my building's roof.
Lying on My Back in the Early Morning and Looking Up--the Empire State Building engulfed in a fog--from my building's roof. Dig that one light on up around the 80th floor!
Lying on My Back and Looking Up--at one of my walls--one of my lonelier walls. The art: UL going clockwise: Felix Valloton, 1898 woodcut, "In Memory of Puvis du Chavannes"; Carl Van Vechten, photograph, 1936, "Peach Tree in New Rochelle, New York"; California-based artist Geoff "Tex" Greene, oil on canvas, 1972, "Landscape"; Rockwell Kent signed lithograph, 1930, illustration from Kent's Moby Dick 1930 Lakeside edition illustrations. The closet door is from 1875, when the building was built. The building originally was a Federal Prison Hospital.

theimmodestgrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

An Interesting Item From The Daily Growler Private Collectibles Collection:
One of the greatest rejection notes to a fan asking for an autograph we've ever seen--from The Daily Growler Hall of Famer, Clyde Tombaugh, the man who discovered the once-planet Pluto. It's still a planet to we here at The Daily Growler:
from the Daily Growler Collection

The Wolf Man's Jazz Stories, #1 Full Read!

"A Guy Called Whitey"
The 1st Take
"It never don't bother me none if it's called jazz. It's just the music to me. It's just the music to me like you white guys got your music, you know, Perry Como, those dudes, that's white music to me, but, hey, it don't make no matter to me if you call Perry Como jazz, dig?"

I sat in the 9-out-of-ten spot by W.L. Lee, that's Washington Lincoln Lee, as he drove his big Detroit-iron Cadillac at about 80-rolling-coaster-miles-per-hour after I had bussed down from Santa Fe to meet W.L. in Roswell and we were now barrel-assing out of Roswell on 285 heading for Midland over in Texas where W.L. Lee and his Advance Quartet were booked to play in the Downtowner Inn there, in the Flame Lounge, at 9 o'clock showtime and it was 6 o'clock when we left Roswell; I had gotten there on time, W.L. though had a lot of trouble gettin' out of Roswell, his home, you know, like he got us all in the Caddy and he got in and it looked normal like he was startin' the engine and, you know, hittin' the road, but then he said, like, "Did I turn that oven off after I made breakfast this mornin'? I sure better go see 'bout that." And he got out of the Caddy and ambled into the house and he was in there so long the other members of the band, they were sittin' in the Caddy's backseat, started jokin' about when's he comin' back and what else will he have to check before we finally get out of here.

I was delegated by the rest of the Advance Quartet to ride in the 9-out-of-10 seat--the front right seat, called "ridin' shotgun,' 'cause that's the seat on the old Wells Fargo and Butterfield stages that the guard carrying the shotgun sat in, up there at the right of the driver in case the stages were attacked by banditos or Indians, which they were all the time, and the outlaws and the Indians knew to kill the shotgun-carrying guard right off the bat; therefore it became known as "ridin' shotgun" in the dead man's seat--and then that was carried over into ridin' in automobiles and then after automobile causality statistics started coming out showing that people ridin' shotgun were killed 9 out of every 10 wrecks so then "ridin' shotgun" meant you were riding in the "9-out-of-10 spot," the dead man's seat, and these two other members of the band, Carmine Pico the drummer and Little Johnny Speed the guitarist, had quickly piled into the backseat of the Caddy sayin', "White boy, you rides with Washy up there in the 9-out-ah-10 spot--that's where white boys ride in a black man's Cadillac." And then they were laughin' like Cheshire cats and slapping each other's palms. Then W.L. came back finally from checking to see if he'd left his oven on, got in the Caddy, acted like he was starting it up, sayin', "You boys ready to do some travelin'?" and, by God, it looked like we were finally movin' but then all of a sudden he says, "Damn, son of a bitch, I'll be damned if I didn't leave the fridge door open" and out of the Caddy he climbs again and he ambles back into his house. The boys in the backseat were laughin' their asses off again now between sips of whiskey. "Whooo boy, there goes old Washy again. Man, is that cat paranoid. We'll be here another hour just you wait." These guys were calling W.L. "Washy" because of his name being Washington; I, like the white boy I was, thought it was odd W.L. was named after Lincoln and Robert E. Lee, though, of course, his last name being Lee probably was a coincidence--his mother and father thinking more in terms of George Washington and Abe Lincoln than they were that their last name was the same as the Confederate commander in chief--I guess I was assuming black people got to choose their last names, too, when they were freed. When I posed this subject later to the other Advance Quartet members, they laughed and said, "Damn, Whitey, who told you the black man was freed? Who told you that? You think I'm free? No sirreee, boy, I ain't free, you's the one who's free, you free, white, and twenty-one, baby, and that's what being free in this country means, white boy." Then they went through the palm slapping ritual again accompanied by the great round of guffawing.

We finally got to rolling a little after 6. We had 200 miles to go. It was gonna be tight, I was thinking, until I realized W.L. was driving like I'd heard Chuck Berry drove his Caddies with the pedal to the metal. I mean that big clumsy Caddy was going so fast the highway was ribboning up at us, coming toward us just like riding on a roller coaster. It didn't bother me; I was used to driving fast; at that time back in Santa Fe, I drove a 1962 Jaguar Mark VI sedan--and I always tooled that Jag along these wide-open New Mexico-West Texas highways around 80 mphs--so W.L.'s doin' 80 and 90 didn't bother me a bit.

"By the way, Whitey," one of the guys in the backseat yelled, "if the cops waylay us, you're drivin', dig?" W.L. laughed at that one but he didn't say anything. He'd been exceptionally nice to me and since I was the only white man in this band, I kind'a leaned on him for support. I was sure I wasn't gonna get any support from Carmine and Speed; hell, they hadn't even offered a drag on their bottle, man. W.L. finally told me to open the glove compartment (what the hell are they called now--I've never thought of it 'til this minute) and take a nip out of his bottle I'd find in there. It was 151 rum. I took a long sip and damn, it almost blew my stack--"Holy shit," I cried, "that's the demon rum alright." The boys in the backseat liked seeing me takin' a slug of that rotgut rum like a man and they eased up a lot on me before we zoomed into Midland with time to spare, by golly--like we hit town a little after 8, amazing.

I had heard of W.L. Lee up in Santa Fe when I first moved there and got to hangin' out in the Santa Fe main scene, which at that time was The Forge in the Inn of the Governors in deep downtown Santa Fe. This was before Santa Fe was invaded by the California and Texas rich farts and the money-grubbing white developers when Santa Fe was a relative peaceful town, turistas out the ass, yes, but they had limited places to stay around Santa Fe so the really rich stayed up at Bishop's Lodge and the regular tourists hung down in the downtown area and the Inn of the Governors was just a nice modern phony adobe-style motel--a Holiday Inn with vigas and farolito hanging lamps and serapes and Navajo blankets mounted on the walls of the lobby on into the main lounge that was called The Forge. They had a piano bar in the Forge and my first night living in Santa Fe I looked in the paper and saw that starting a long-run engagement at The Forge that very night was a guy I knew from my hometown, a piano player and singer who'd gotten his musical training at Howard University, then in the US Army, and then later working as an intermission pianist on 52nd Street in New York City during the height of the golden age of jazz that happened on that street--now taken over by a huge lummox-like building that was originally built by the Equitable Life Insurance Company, though they did memorialize the old jazz street by putting plaques all along the sidewalks in front of that Equitable Building (I think someone else puts their brand on it now)--plaques honoring Diz and Bird and clubs like the Onyx or the Three Deuces or the Embers--Birdland was around the corner on Broadway, directly across from the Alvin Hotel in which the great Prez lived his last days sitting in front of his hotel window drinking his famous gin and port wine drink--his "up and down" as he called it--and smoking his muggles while staring down at the Birdland neon sign and lit-up marquee--Lester Young was a kind'a bitter dude who never thought he got his just rewards as a jazz innovator--he would say sometimes, "That club should be named 'Prezland' not Birdland." So my friend from my hometown had gotten to play intermission piano--in the Embers and he talked about meeting Marian McPartland in there and that's where her trio played for years; plus he'd gotten kind of palsy-walsies with Cannonball Adderley and his brother Nat in there, too.

As a result of this chance meeting--I had not seen Jimmy Boland in at least 15 years before that night--and then thanks to Jimmy, I got to hangin' in the coolest Santa Fe scene going at the time and then Jimmy and I started jam sessions at The Forge on Saturday afternoons and these became the hottest ticket in town and we had marvelous jams for several years and I got to sittin' in on piano during the jams and then I took up learning to play the flute, too, which to my amazement Jimmy knew how to play and taught me the tricks of correct fingering and how to tune it--by twisting the mouthpiece around until you registered the right key--and soon thanks to JimBo I got pretty good on the flute, good enough that I started sittin' in on flute at the jams and not playing much piano at all.

So it was JimBo who'd first told me about W.L. Lee and then W.L. came to one of our jam sessions, he and the pianist Freddie Redd showed up together from Albuquerque, and, damn, he was a fine bass player, reminding me very much of Mingus in the way he played--you know, cuttin' times in half or doublin' 'em up suddenly. He'd complimented me on my flute work--and believe me, I wasn't really a good flute player but I'd learned several melodies and I could improvise fairly well on those tunes--"It Might As Well Be Spring" was my showpiece--that's the one I had down the best. But while W.L. was still up jammin', JimBo had to go to the phone so I took over the piano and damn if I didn't cool out double-cool with W.L. behind me. We slapped palms and traded skin afterwards. After that jam, I never saw W.L. again though I heard he was workin' on a motel circuit and was out in Southern California giggin' around.

One afternoon JimBo called my house. "My man, you in'trested in a gig?" "What'cha talkin' about?" "W.L. Lee called me last night. He lost his piano player and he offered me the gig but I can't do it and I reminded him of you and he said OK would I ask you were you int'rested." "What's it involve?" "He's workin' Highway 80 startin' in Midland, Texas, and endin' up in Southern California, L.A., I guess. It's six weeks of gigs with a guaranteed $245 a week, 'cept you gotta chip in on the gas and pay you're own room rents and get your own meals." "What kind'a music, man?" "Come on, Wolf, you can play anything they play--bop, shit, then mostly
r & b. He's got a guy who sang with the Hi-Los or some group like that, an L.A. Spanish cat, so you might have to learn 'Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries,' shit like that, but hell, man, you know the Circle of Fifths, you can fake those things--besides, W.L.'s probably got sheet music and fake sheets and shit. Get you away from your old lady for a spell." "Yeah, so you bastards can hit on her while I'm on the road." "Hey, you take your chances when you're a workin' musician--besides, don't worry, there's plenty of strange to be had on these gigs."

That's how I got the gig. W.L. called me the next night with the details--"We'll be hittin' the road this comin' Friday--you gotta get to Roswell by 4 0'clock--we got a 9 o'clock gig in Midland, Texas, 'bout 200 miles from Roswell. It's a cool lounge--we play for rich whiteys--so it'll be cool, man." So I gave my word I'd be in Roswell by 4 pm Friday.

The 2nd Take
By the time we got to Midland, W.L.'s big blue Caddy was smokin' and getting sluggish. "Washy," Carmine said, "did you forget to change your oil again?" "Lord'a Mercy, Wash Man, look at this bitch...shit, man, look at that oil light, blinkin' red, ain't that bad shit?" We chugged our way into downtown Midland and found the Flame Lounge. W.L. pulled the smokin' Caddy into the motel parking lot. He got out of the car and walked around it, dropping his large bulk down every now and then to look under the car. "Why ain't he checkin' under the hood, man?" Speed asked. Carmine and Speed acted worried but in a snide, jive manner. "How the hell we s'pose to get to El Paso by tomorrow night in this piece of shit?" "Don't worry," Carmine said, "it always seems to work out with this cat." Finally, W.L. stuck his head in the door and said, I'll go in and find out where we unload--let's see, we've got 30 minutes--hell we can go on fifteen of 'em late, who the hell's gonna know." "Right, 'sides, niggahs is always late," Speed jived. "CPT, baby," Carmine chimed in. "Hey, Whitey, ain't niggahs dumb?" "I never said that," I weakly defended my indefensible whiteness and its inherent racism. "No, but you thinkin' it, boy, you thinkin' it."

W.L. came back and said we could unload on back around in the alley behind the joint. He drove us around there and sure enough there was the kitchen door. "Goin' through the kitchen again. We always goin' through the kitchen," W.L. said as he pulled the Caddy up by an overflowing garbage dumpster. We all bounded out of the smokin' Caddy. I hadn't noticed but Speed had his guitar case with him in the backseat. Then I saw him haulin' W.L.'s electric bass out from the backseat, too. Carmine's drums, it turned out, fit perfectly in the trunk of the car including the two amps for the guitar and bass. "Come on, Whitey, help me with these drums, piano player, you bastard, never have to carry an instrument." "I will soon as these electronic pianos and keyboards catch on."

We carried the instruments in through the kitchen. The kitchen staff was all black except for a little white fat man wearing a chef's hat and he was wheezing like hell around that kitchen, cursing, hollering; a mad house it was. We banged our way out to the club area, a small intimate space, about 20 tables and a long bar behind the tables, with a tight little stage sat in one of the corners of the place. All behind the stage were windows that looked out onto Highway 80 that flowed alongside a string of railroad tracks just to the north of the Highway.

I helped haul in Carmine's drums, him bitchin' all the way, "Hey, Whitey, careful with that snare, man, that cost me an arm and a leg." Or, "Jesus, Whitey, that's my best cymbal, dammit, careful with that."

Once in the club, I noticed the piano. An old Baldwin console that looked to be in pretty good shape, just off to the deepest window side of the little bandstand. "Help me set my drums up over here, Whitey," Carmine called from the other side of the stage. "Fuck you," I hollered back at him, "I ain't your god-damn roadie." He didn't say anything. I was just pissed. So what if my instrument was already at the club. Fuck him. Then Speed hollered at me as he was prancing in with his guitar to set it up on the stage, "Hey, Whitey, drag my amp outta the Caddy will ya?" "Fuck you, too," I crabbed at him, "I ain't your roadie either, man." "Hey, Whitey, take it easy, cat," Speed hollered back. "Yeah, take it easy, Whitey, we just jivin' you, man," Carmine hollered from settin' up his drums--not a full set, I noticed, just a snare and a bass drum with a hi-hat and a big ride and that was about it, no floor toms, or if there were, I hadn't seen him put them up yet. I couldn't believe how much shit they'd gotten in that Caddy and I hadn't noticed how much stuff they had jammed into that backseat. My concern throughout the trip down was had I made a mistake taking this gig because these guys seemed to hate my ass, resent me being white, and were being openly rude to me, openly meanly jivin' me--not just jive, I can take a little kind-hearted jivin', but this was cold jive, see?

I went over and tickled the ivories on the Baldwin. Not bad. Seemed tuned OK. Keys were all working, no stucks, no missing keys, no "ivories" missing, not bad at all; I thought, shit, I think I can handle this baby easy, and then the devil in me said, 'Unless they call all their tunes in E-flat or B-natural or something,' but the jazz in me said, 'No, man, this band's lead instrument is the guitar and I don't know any guitar players who don't usually play around E or G, never F, and they all could always play in C or A and I could hold my own in those keys--the less accidentals the best, as the beginners all say. Then I was suddenly feeling good and cool and like, hey, dudes, I'm the piano player in the W.L. Lee and His Advance Quartet, check me out!"

I went back out to the Caddy to get my clothes bag. The clothes bags had been piled high in the back window of the Caddy; mine was on top. I'd brought a pair of black slacks, a white shirt, a tie, and a cool light blue sport coat I'd just bought; damn it looked cool.

W.L. came out and I asked him where the restrooms were so I could change into my gig clothes. "Did you bring black?" W.L. asked me. "Black slacks, yeah...." "Damn, Whitey, I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you we wear black, solid black, with black shirts even, white ties--I forgot to tell you, man, I apologize." "Shit, man, I've got a white shirt, a black tie, but a blue sport coat." "Hey, man," W.L. jived, a good jive, you see, "You gonna stand out like a sore thumb in there." He chuckled. That was the second time he'd laughed since the trip began. "By the way, Whitey, I hope the boyz ain't buggin' you too much. They ain't worked with no white man since joining me. My old pianist was Sleepy; did you ever know Sleepy Frank?" "Sure, he's been up to our jams a lot, especially when he was workin' the Coach and Six in Albuquerque last summer." "Yeah, that gig's why he quit me." He took a flask from his inside coat pocket and handed it to me. "Heah, man, take a slug'o this...and don't worry, man, this is class shit...the little 151 rum thing was just some...." "I dig, W.L., don't worry 'bout it." I took a slug from the flask. "Whoaaa, is that smooth." "Four-star Remy Martin, baby." "Remy Martin?" "Yeah, a new cognac outta France." "Damn, now that's booze." "Damn right it is," W.L. said, offering me his palm up. I slid him some skin and felt suddenly really damn sweet and cool and relaxed and wondering when Carmine and Speed would break out the muggles so I could have a couple'a viper hits on the muggles stick 'fore we went on--and shit, we were on in a minute or so, damn, it was 9 then. W.L. said, "Don't worry, cat, black dudes are always late to gigs--the white man expects it."

I changed into my contrasting clothes in the men's room of the Flame Lounge. When I came out and went into the club the band was no where to be seen. This young punk stopped me and asked me if I had a reservation and I said I was with the band and he looked at me like I was crazy and said, "The band has to stay in the kitchen or out back 'till the show starts and the show ain't startin' ever on time when those damn niggers play here, but, hey, they're good and draw the crowd, man." Then he skipped off to check something else and I headed for the kitchen. The club was packed. I was excited. I found the boys out in the alley--just finishing a doob--"Damn," Speed let out a swoosh of smoke, "Whitey, you a snowflake in a coal mine here, look at you, dude!" They were all smiles. Then W.L. came from around the corner of the building from parking the Caddy and pulled me aside. "Whitey, we got a problem." "Wha's that...and, hey, can I have a hit off that joint?" W.L. continued as I took a drag off what was left of the joint--it was a solid roach by then, "No, Whitey, I'm serious. Mister Charley says you can't appear with us; he don't allow it." "What?" "He don't want a white boy playin' with a bunch of niggahs, cat, that's it." "Where's the motherfucker, let me talk to him." "Naw, man, don't cause no scene, this is a good gig, man, so let's see what we can work out."

The 3rd (and Final) Take
So W.L. rolled his big frame off back through the kitchen to go and check with the bossman about me playing with them that night. I was pissed about this whole thing. Really pissed. I ripped my tie open. I went up to Speed and said, "I need a fuckin' drink." "Wha's'a matta, Whitey?" "My name's fuckin' Wolf, dammit." "Well 'scooze my ass, Whitey." "OK, OK, call me what the fuck you want to, I don't give a fuckin' shit." "Shit, Whitey," Carmine hollered over at me, openly taking a slug off a hooch bottle as he did, "what the fuck's up y'ur ass?" "Come on, Motherfucker, give me a drink out'a that bottle." Carmine handed me the bottle. "You shure you wanna drink after a niggah, Whitey?" "Fuck you." I took a long drink out of the bottle and I didn't even wipe the top off either. God I was pissed. "Thanks," I said to Carmine. "So why you so pissed, Whitey?" Carmine asked me. "These motherfuckers don't want a white boy playin' with you guys." "Yeah, we talked about that before we came here, about whether they'd like us bringin' a white boy in here to Midland, Texas. There's a whole bunch'a white supreemists in this town. Whitey, you know this is the richest city in the USA. Everyone of these motherfuckers is a millionaire, even the bitch cleanin' out y'ur room, brother." I checked that; I caught he called me "brother." I'd been puttin' Carmine down in my mind, you know, his acting like he really was a black man bugged me. I was thinking, shit, he's a Mexican from Los Angeles, hell, Carmine Pico; yet, he was black, too, black as Speed who really wasn't that black at all, more light tan, though neither one of them were as black as W.L. who reminded me so much of the blues singer Howlin' Wolf, tall, he must have been six-three or -four, and broad, a real cool kind'a big man, like a lot of bass players, big dudes, big enough to handle the big sounds of a bass, even though W.L. played an electric bass, a Fender Jazz bass as I later discerned, those electric bass strings were heavy metal even in those days, as heavy as the metal strings on an upright acoustic bass.

I didn't tell Carmine I was born and raised just 30 miles back east down Highway 80 from Midland, Texas. Yes, I knew Midland had more millionaires than any city in the US; in fact, only the oil-rich Arab nation of Kuwait was said at that time to have more millionaires than Midland, Texas, which was also oil-rich from the Permian Basin days, the Permian Basin one of the richest oil discoveries in US history--glutted by the floods of oil exploration and leasing companies that hit the area and eventually overdrilled it and overproduced it and dried the huge field up, except it still left plenty of producing wells and the rich of Midland had stayed rich and famous and stayed in Midland. Midland's first Republican-ever politician to get elected to eventually Congress and eventually to become president was George Herbert W. Bush, but I said nothing about knowing all of this or that I had wooed a Midland girl one time, a rich oil-man's daughter, and had shot my wad in Midland on many an old teenage evening of unbounded pleasure and fun, right there in Midland, by God, Texas. But boy was I mad as hell at Midland that night standin' in that alley behind that motel where I thought I'd be playin' the piano with W.L. Lee and His Advance Quartet to a fucking packed house and instead here I was standing in this alley drinking booze straight out of a bottle having sucked hard on a doob roach, high, a little whoozy from the booze, pissed as hell, gettin' crabby and vicious, thinking, "fuck this shit, I'll just hike my ass over to the Greyhound station and head on back to Santa Fe, to my hot little Tex-Mex wife and my hot little bed...." I was pissed. And then here came W.L. back out of the kitchen. It was already fifteen after nine. CPT, I supposed.

"Speed, Carmine, y'all go on in and sit and then Johnny L's gonna bring us on," I heard W.L. talking to the other cats. "Hey, what about my ass?" I hollered. Boy was I pissed but out of respect for W.L. I cooled it as he came over to me. "Whitey, look, man, the boss is thinkin' it over. He wants for us to go on on and he'll let me know after he consults with the big boss about whether he gonna let you play or not. Sorry, man, but this here's your people." He stood there. "So, what the hell do I do, W.L.?" "First of all, straighten your tie up, look good, cat, always look good. Comb your hair, straighten up, stay cool, and then come on in here." And he headed back into the kitchen.

When we got through the kitchen to the kitchen door that led into the club area, I could see the lights were down in the room, it was dark. "OK, Whitey, now you just stand right here firm, you see? Don't move. Don't go off hot headed. Let me get the show goin' then the boss'll know by the end of the first number--we just be startin' off with a up tempo thing, you dig? So just stay here, man, and cool out and we'll see. If the boss don't allow you to work, then I'll understand if you ready to bail on me fo' the rest of the circuit, OK? Trust me?" "OK, man, I'll be patient." "That's the way I like it, man." And he was smiling, dammit, he was smiling big time. "Hey, Sweetheart," he then said to one of the female kitchen workers, "give this white boy a piece o'fried chicken, you got a wing or somethin', help calm the boy down; he's nervous." And then he went through the door and off into the club.

This cute chick did bring me a piece of fried chicken, a breast, huge, and I told her thank you but no thank you I wasn't hungry and she laughed and said she understood and went back to her work. Then I saw a spot come on in the club and a white dude in a red sportcoat hit the microphone and I heard "Ladies and Gentlemen, a big howdy welcome to all of you to the Famous Flame Room and tonight's entertainment. Let's get on with the show, Ladies and Gentlemen, without further adieu here's one of your favorite bands, brought back here to the Flame by popular demand, Double...Uuuuuu...ellllllll...Lee and His Advance Quartet...." And the joint went wild; raucous applause and Texan whistling and yahoooing; and the backlights came up and W.L., Speed, and Carmine were then playing "Chicken Shack"--and they were good; they were rockin' with just the guitar leading and playing the lines, and Carmine was a hell of a drummer, too, and W.L.was...shit, they were swinging pro pure and I was standing there wantin' to play so bad--dammit I knew "Chicken Shack" like the back of my hand and it sounded like they were playing in E--my natural key is F so I'm pretty good at remembering what E sounds like--no, I don't have perfect pitch but I played with this alto player one time who had perfect pitch and told me there was nothing to it, it was just memorizing the note sounds based on your natural vocal pitch key, mine's F like I said, and you memorize the other keys off that. Yes, it's hard to memorize all the keys, 88 on a piano, but it's possible; at least I think I can tell if a band's playing in E or F or G or F# or E-flat, too; whatever, I guessed they were playing in E; besides, like I knew, too, guitar players don't like playing in F, but they don't mind G or E, but especially E, which is like playing in C on a piano for them.

At the end of the tune I started applauding--then I heard applause coming from behind me; the kitchen workers were up close behind me; they'd been diggin' the scene through the kitchen door with me. "Damn, the boyz are hot tonight aren't they?" one of the kitchen guys said. "Yeah, but where's that piano player they had last time?" "Yeah, man, they ain't got no piano player, I just noticed, damn."

After the thunderous applause died down, W.L. lummoxed up to the mic. "Thank you, thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen of Midland! Yes, we love Midland, and we especially love playin' here at the Fabulous Flame and for the fabulous Mister Charlie Barnes--let's give a big hand to the Flame's on boss of the entertainment world here, Charlie Barnes...take a bow, Charlie."

A thin rather rakish looking white guy stood up right center stage at a table full of men wearing Western clothes and three very hot babes, one a black chick...whaaaaaa! Wait a minute, I'm thinkin', that son of a bitch won't let me play with these black dudes yet he's sportin' around town with that black chick. I assumed, white like, she was a whore. That excused her. Shit I was mad; shit I wanted to be a part of this show--I was supposed to be out there gettin' my star to shinin', too, dammit, and damn I was getting really pissed again. Then W.L. went on.

"Now I'm shure y'all noticed I have no piano player tonight." A big question came up from the crowd, you know, like moans, groans, and yeahs, and one "Yeah, where's your piano player?" "Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm about to take care of the situation. I've got a treat for you all tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, all the way from Santa Fe, New Mexico, where's he renown for his flute playin'...." My heart got stuck in my throat. Motherfucker, I suddenly thought, this son of a bitch, those sons'a bitches, those motherfuckers.... "Ladies and Gentlemen, the newest member of the Advance Quartet, the Wolf Man! Put yo hands together for The Wolf Man."

Sweat was pouring from under my arms tackying up my new blue sportcoat as I ran out on stage. I hadn't noticed the piano was set up so the audience could see me and was mic-ed, too, damn, I hadn't noticed that. And the joint was standin' and clappin' and shoutin' and Charlie Barnes was clappin' and smilin' and the black chick with him, I swear, was diggin' me right into my eyes, the pretty thing, Jesus. And soon W.L. called "Night Train" in C, and I was off; I was wailin'; I was showboatin'; and the first set went on for over an hour and at the first break Charlie Barnes invited the band over to his table and I heard the first champagne cork going off as I sat down by the black chick who introduced herself to me and holy shit she was a singer from Dallas I knew in college, she was workin' with some guys, one a close friend, I knew from college over at another Midland club--holy shit...suddenly I felt right at home.

After the show, W.L., Speed, and Carmine, Carmine had hooked up with the cutest little cowgirl I'd ever seen, started laughin' big time at my ass, with Speed going, "Lord, Whitey, we fooled your dumb white ass, baby, you gotta admit it." "Oh yeah, that's one of the best ones Washy's ever come up with." "Whoaaa," I said, taking my arm from around the waist of the black chick, "you motherfuckers, W.L. set my ass up?" "You got it, Whitey. We set you up. You white folks are so full'a guilt around black folks you lets yourself git gull-a-ble." I looked over at W.L. He was full of total smiles, laughin', jawin', drinkin'. "You motherfucker," I thought looking at him, "you crazy good ass Motherfucker. What a ball I'm gonna have from now on; I'll show your ass." And then the black chick said we were all going over to her room at another motel and we were gonna party the rest of the night..."Unless...." she said, winking at me as we went out and piled in W.L.'s smokin' Cadillac, except the Caddy didn't smoke at all when he fired it up; in fact, it purred like a kitten--like Z.Z. Hill sang in his "Shade Tree Mechanic." Plus, damn, it had been washed, I just noticed that as we pulled away from the Downtowner parking lot and headed up Highway 80.

thegrowlingwolf

OH NO! BOBBY'S BEEN CHECKMATED!

Bobby Fischer's Dead (Too Bad It Wasn't Amy Fischer)
I had just settled down in my swell new hotshot apartment on the East Side of New York City with my luscious raven-haired beauty wife; the year was 1972, and suddenly on PBS I saw a message that they were going to cover the World's Championship Chess Match between Boris Spassky, the Soviet chess master, and America's own and Brooklyn's own nutjob genius the Great Almighty Bobby Fischer (he was born in Chicago; his mother was a Russian-German Jew and his father was said to be one man but time reveals Bobby might have been the bastard son of a famous German biophysicist) being held in September of that year in Reykjavik, Iceland, a place I'd always wanted to visit since as a kid in high school having met one of the most beautiful girls ever in my life, a blonde Venus who was Icelandic.

I had heard of Bobby Fischer years before when I was a dopey kid who worked in a magazine shop and started reading Chess magazine off the shelf out of curiosity. I had a great chess set my brother had given me, handcarved wood jobs from Italy, plus a laminated chess board; yet, I knew not a damn thing about chess except I knew how to play, make the right moves with the various pieces, learning that simply from reading the rules, just like little Robert Fischer had done when his sister gave him his first chess set when he was six. I knew how to play chess, but, I mean, I couldn't command the concentration that was needed to get pro at it, like thinking moves ahead; that was very difficult for me. One day I read an article in Chess about this amazing young kid from Brooklyn who was wiping out old masters in the New York City chess clubs, amazing in that he'd been playing serious chess since he was 7, and then he was a teenager and couldn't be beat and then he became a phenom and I got terribly interested in him, at the same time reading Emanuel Lasker's (won his first World Championship in New York City from Walter Steinitz) chess book, reading it not really understanding the meanings of the various openings and middle games and closings Lasker was writing about; I learned to open with the Ruy Piano opening just because I liked the name. Then I read where Little Robert Fischer played the same opening all the time much to the frustration of his learned opponents.

Little Robert Fischer, the little bastard.

So in 1972 I watched Bobby in action; they showed the place where they were playing in Iceland, the table--and I got into it, watching the moves posted on this cardboard chess board they had at the PBS studios--moved by various chess masters from the Manhattan Chess Club led by a dude named Shelby Lyman. I mean Bobby didn't show up for the first match; forfeited. Then, the son of a bitch didn't show up for the second match. He forfeited again. So Bobby was 2 down to Spassky from day one. And it rattled Spassky; oh how Bobby's antics rattled that poor bastard. And Bobby went on to win the championship. Then several years later in Sarajevo he signed a multimillion-dollar deal to play Gary Kasparov for the championship but ended up refusing to play and thus losing the championship by default.

NOTE: from the smartass thedailygrowlerhousepianist who's also a pretty good chess player:

[I hate to do this] but I must nevertheless correct an editor:

Bobby Fischer *lost* the first game against Spassky in
'72, not forfeit.

Also, he did play, and won, the rematch in the 90s.

We stand corrected. Like Bobby, we love to be reprimanded!

Then Bobby turned paranoid and got political and said some politically incorrect things like anti-America statements--the IRS got after Bobby's ass and the World Chess Federation claimed he owed back the millions they'd paid him to play Kasparov and Bobby said Fuck You and then he made some anti-semitic remarks--come on, Bobby's mother was part Jewish and he grew up in the Jewish part of Brooklyn and went to Erasmus High, but anyway, the world came down hard on Bobby and he spent the rest of his life dodging the US Feds, getting arrested a few years ago with his Japanese wife in Japan but Bobby pulled a fly job on the Japanese cops and ended up being welcomed in Iceland where he became an Iceland citizen and that's where good ole Bobby Fischer died. Checkmated at last. The boy put chess on the map--hell yes they owed him big time for that. Where's the interest in chess today?

And here's how Old Bobby looked recently.

Goodbye, Bobby Fischer. You were quite a different kind of splash on the scene. Bobby's an official The Daily Growler Hall of Famer, our kind of individualist in this totally now corporatism/fascist world, the world Bobby Fischer hated.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

The Wolf Man's Jazz Stories 1st Story (cont'd)

Jazz Story #1 (cont'd) "A Guy Called Whitey"

So W.L. rolled his big frame off back through the kitchen to go and check with the bossman about me playing with them that night. I was pissed about this whole thing. Really pissed. I ripped my tie open. I went up to Speed and said, "I need a fuckin' drink." "Wha's'a matta, Whitey?" "My name's fuckin' Wolf, dammit." "Well 'scooze my ass, Whitey." "OK, OK, call me what the fuck you want to, I don't give a fuckin' shit." "Shit, Whitey," Carmine hollered over at me, openly taking a slug off a hooch bottle as he did, "what the fuck's up y'ur ass?" "Come on, Motherfucker, give me a drink out'a that bottle." Carmine handed me the bottle. "You shure you wanna drink after a niggah, Whitey?" "Fuck you." I took a long drink out of the bottle and I didn't even wipe the top off either. God I was pissed. "Thanks," I said to Carmine. "So why you so pissed, Whitey?" Carmine asked me. "These motherfuckers don't want a white boy playin' with you guys." "Yeah, we talked about that before we came here, about whether they'd like us bringin' a white boy in here to Midland, Texas. There's a whole bunch'a white supreemists in this town. Whitey, you know this is the richest city in the USA. Everyone of these motherfuckers is a millionaire, even the bitch cleanin' out y'ur room, brother." I checked that; I caught he called me "brother." I'd been puttin' Carmine down in my mind, you know, his acting like he really was a black man bugged me. I was thinking, shit, he's a Mexican from Los Angeles, hell, Carmine Pico; yet, he was black, too, black as Speed who really wasn't that black at all, more light tan, though neither one of them were as black as W.L. who reminded me so much of the blues singer Howlin' Wolf, tall, he must have been six-three or -four, and broad, a real cool kind'a big man, like a lot of bass players, big dudes, big enough to handle the big sounds of a bass, even though W.L. played an electric bass, a Fender Jazz bass as I later discerned, those electric bass strings were heavy metal even in those days, as heavy as the metal strings on an upright acoustic bass.

I didn't tell Carmine I was born and raised just 30 miles back east down Highway 80 from Midland, Texas. Yes, I knew Midland had more millionaires than any city in the US; in fact, only the oil-rich Arab nation of Kuwait was said at that time to have more millionaires than Midland, Texas, which was also oil-rich from the Permian Basin days, the Permian Basin one of the richest oil discoveries in US history--glutted by the floods of oil exploration and leasing companies that hit the area and eventually overdrilled it and overproduced it and dried the huge field up, except it still left plenty of producing wells and the rich of Midland had stayed rich and famous and stayed in Midland. Midland's first Republican-ever politician to get elected to eventually Congress and eventually to become president was George Herbert W. Bush, but I said nothing about knowing all of this or that I had wooed a Midland girl one time, a rich oil-man's daughter, and had shot my wad in Midland on many an old teenage evening of unbounded pleasure and fun, right there in Midland, by God, Texas. But boy was I mad as hell at Midland that night standin' in that alley behind that motel where I thought I'd be playin' the piano with W.L. Lee and His Advance Quartet to a fucking packed house and instead here I was standing in this alley drinking booze straight out of a bottle having sucked hard on a doob roach, high, a little whoozy from the booze, pissed as hell, gettin' crabby and vicious, thinking, "fuck this shit, I'll just hike my ass over to the Greyhound station and head on back to Santa Fe, to my hot little Tex-Mex wife and my hot little bed...." I was pissed. And then here came W.L. back out of the kitchen. It was already fifteen after nine. CPT, I supposed.

"Speed, Carmine, y'all go on in and sit and then Johnny L's gonna bring us on," I heard W.L. talking to the other cats. "Hey, what about my ass?" I hollered. Boy was I pissed but out of respect for W.L. I cooled it as he came over to me. "Whitey, look, man, the boss is thinkin' it over. He wants for us to go on on and he'll let me know after he consults with the big boss about whether he gonna let you play or not. Sorry, man, but this here's your people." He stood there. "So, what the hell do I do, W.L.?" "First of all, straighten your tie up, look good, cat, always look good. Comb your hair, straighten up, stay cool, and then come on in here." And he headed back into the kitchen.

When we got through the kitchen to the kitchen door that led into the club area, I could see the lights were down in the room, it was dark. "OK, Whitey, now you just stand right here firm, you see? Don't move. Don't go off hot headed. Let me get the show goin' then the boss'll know by the end of the first number--we just be startin' off with a up tempo thing, you dig? So just stay here, man, and cool out and we'll see. If the boss don't allow you to work, then I'll understand if you ready to bail on me fo' the rest of the circuit, OK? Trust me?" "OK, man, I'll be patient." "That's the way I like it, man." And he was smiling, dammit, he was smiling big time. "Hey, Sweetheart," he then said to one of the female kitchen workers, "give this white boy a piece o'fried chicken, you got a wing or somethin', help calm the boy down; he's nervous." And then he went through the door and off into the club.

This cute chick did bring me a piece of fried chicken, a breast, huge, and I told her thank you but no thank you I wasn't hungry and she laughed and said she understood and went back to her work. Then I saw a spot come on in the club and a white dude in a red sportcoat hit the microphone and I heard "Ladies and Gentlemen, a big howdy welcome to all of you to the Famous Flame Room and tonight's entertainment. Let's get on with the show, Ladies and Gentlemen, without further adieu here's one of your favorite bands, brought back here to the Flame by popular demand, Double...Uuuuuu...ellllllll...Lee and His Advance Quartet...." And the joint went wild; raucous applause and Texan whistling and yahoooing; and the backlights came up and W.L., Speed, and Carmine were then playing "Chicken Shack"--and they were good; they were rockin' with just the guitar leading and playing the lines, and Carmine was a hell of a drummer, too, and W.L.was...shit, they were swinging pro pure and I was standing there wantin' to play so bad--dammit I knew "Chicken Shack" like the back of my hand and it sounded like they were playing in E--my natural key is F so I'm pretty good at remembering what E sounds like--no, I don't have perfect pitch but I played with this alto player one time who had perfect pitch and told me there was nothing to it, it was just memorizing the note sounds based on your natural vocal pitch key, mine's F like I said, and you memorize the other keys off that. Yes, it's hard to memorize all the keys, 88 on a piano, but it's possible; at least I think I can tell if a band's playing in E or F or G or F# or E-flat, too; whatever, I guessed they were playing in E; besides, like I knew, too, guitar players don't like playing in F, but they don't mind G or E, but especially E, which is like playing in C on a piano for them.

At the end of the tune I started applauding--then I heard applause coming from behind me; the kitchen workers were up close behind me; they'd been diggin' the scene through the kitchen door with me. "Damn, the boyz are hot tonight aren't they?" one of the kitchen guys said. "Yeah, but where's that piano player they had last time?" "Yeah, man, they ain't got no piano player, I just noticed, damn."

After the thunderous applause died down, W.L. lummoxed up to the mic. "Thank you, thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen of Midland! Yes, we love Midland, and we especially love playin' here at the Fabulous Flame and for the fabulous Mister Charlie Barnes--let's give a big hand to the Flame's on boss of the entertainment world here, Charlie Barnes...take a bow, Charlie."

A thin rather rakish looking white guy stood up right center stage at a table full of men wearing Western clothes and three very hot babes, one a black chick...whaaaaaa! Wait a minute, I'm thinkin', that son of a bitch won't let me play with these black dudes yet he's sportin' around town with that black chick. I assumed, white like, she was a whore. That excused her. Shit I was mad; shit I wanted to be a part of this show--I was supposed to be out there gettin' my star to shinin', too, dammit, and damn I was getting really pissed again. Then W.L. went on.

"Now I'm shure y'all noticed I have no piano player tonight." A big question came up from the crowd, you know, like moans, groans, and yeahs, and one "Yeah, where's your piano player?" "Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm about to take care of the situation. I've got a treat for you all tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, all the way from Santa Fe, New Mexico, where's he renown for his flute playin'...." My heart got stuck in my throat. Motherfucker, I suddenly thought, this son of a bitch, those sons'a bitches, those motherfuckers.... "Ladies and Gentlemen, the newest member of the Advance Quartet, the Wolf Man! Put yo hands together for The Wolf Man."

Sweat was pouring from under my arms tackying up my new blue sportcoat as I ran out on stage. I hadn't noticed the piano was set up so the audience could see me and was mic-ed, too, damn, I hadn't noticed that. And the joint was standin' and clappin' and shoutin' and Charlie Barnes was clappin' and smilin' and the black chick with him, I swear, was diggin' me right into my eyes, the pretty thing, Jesus. And soon W.L. called "Night Train" in C, and I was off; I was wailin'; I was showboatin'; and the first set went on for over an hour and at the first break Charlie Barnes invited the band over to his table and I heard the first champagne cork going off as I sat down by the black chick who introduced herself to me and holy shit she was a singer from Dallas I knew in college, she was workin' with some guys, one a close friend, I knew from college over at another Midland club--holy shit...suddenly I felt right at home.

After the show, W.L., Speed, and Carmine, Carmine had hooked up with the cutest little cowgirl I'd ever seen, started laughin' big time at my ass, with Speed going, "Lord, Whitey, we fooled your dumb white ass, baby, you gotta admit it." "Oh yeah, that's one of the best ones Washy's ever come up with." "Whoaaa," I said, taking my arm from around the waist of the black chick, "you motherfuckers, W.L. set my ass up?" "You got it, Whitey. We set you up. You white folks are so full'a guilt around black folks you lets yourself git gull-a-ble." I looked over at W.L. He was full of total smiles, laughin', jawin', drinkin'. "You motherfucker," I thought looking at him, "you crazy good ass Motherfucker. What a ball I'm gonna have from now on; I'll show your ass." And then the black chick said we were all going over to her room at another motel and we were gonna party the rest of the night..."Unless...." she said, winking at me as we went out and piled in W.L.'s smokin' Cadillac, except the Caddy didn't smoke at all when he fired it up; in fact, it purred like a kitten--like Z.Z. Hill sang in his "Shade Tree Mechanic." Plus, damn, it had been washed, I just noticed that as we pulled away from the Downtowner parking lot and headed up Highway 80.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

The Daily Growler Highly Recommends
David Cay Johnston's Books, Free Lunch and Perfectly Legal
These books show you how snotty little rich brats, like Georgie Porgie Bush (yep, our never-really-elected "president") get filthy rich off the backs and sweat of us geniune poor folks (what used to be called the "middle class" in this country. Georgie Boy bought the Texas Rangers from his buddy Eddie Childs for chicken feed--the Rangers were a losing-money team--for his original investment of $600,000--he and a group of his asshole buddies bought the Rangers. Bush later through a 1-cent extra-tax added on the taxes of the people of Arlington, Texas, and through eminent domain, Bushy boy got the City of Arlington build him a first-class baseball stadium (and it is a beautiful baseball park)--this was all done off the taxed back of the Arlington citizens and the grabbing of land from old Arlington families through eminent domain--then he turned around and sold the team for hundreds of millions of dollars--all profits for the stupid "president"--who by the way, Johnston says, misrepresented this capital gain on his income taxes. Read these books; it's cool scary shit; Johnston's from Rochester, New York, and a baseball fan.

He also comes down on asshole Capitalists like the Donald and George Steinbrenner. It gets really interesting when Johnston starts writing about how We the People are subsidizing Donald Trump's everyday growing Empire and all Major League sports, all of which under our current non-competition set up are nonprofitable; yet all these sports owners are filthy rich and it's all done with Congressional impunity--Wow, this book's enough to make even a kitty cat growl!