Another John McCain Sunday

McCain-PaleFace Ticket
Growlers were jumping for joy this morning in the New York City (America's favorite tourist spot--and the tourists's filthy garbage is strewn all over the streets and the rooftop tour buses are gassing up Fifth Avenue, whose gutters and sidewalks are fouled with tons of trash and thrown-down gum), message texting the office, emailing us from all corners of the tri-state (NY-NJ-CN) area--a lot of Growlers down on the Jersey shore this weekend--Franny & Zoe is out at Coney Island before the seediest amusement park in the USA, Astroland, is shut down for good and Coney Island is turned over to the rich and famous with NYC's billionaire mayor Bloomingidiot rezoning it for hotels and hi-rise luxury apartments--soon the rich and famous (the Donald included big time) will be designating Coney Island as THE new place to wile away all the leisure time they have or to capture another hi-rise penthouse with spectacular views--the rich and famous are taking over our public beach lands, bye the by, or so we hear--so F&Z's out there to check out the scene--ride the Wonder Wheel and the Comet one or two more times--we hope she doesn't get kidnapped by a freak show operator--she is an unusual lady.

Text messages and emails were all making fun of Vietnam Nutjob and Failed-Mission Expert John McCain's choice of Sarah Palin (as in: You Gotta Pal in the White Man's House) as his veep running mate (maternal extension)!

Franny & Zoe tmsg from the F Train: "Sweet Sarah of Alaska is just so charming--and 5 god-damn curtainclimbers hanging onto her, one 4-months-old and one with Downs Syndrome--what's she got a whole tribe of illegal nannies taking care of her children--and the Downs Syndrome child is her child from God who she saved from the abortionist's murderous coathanger (it is Alaska--the abortion doctors don't have vacuum cleaners yet)--and, yes, she is a Christian, a Fundie freak, and she's Pro-Life, except when it comes to blowin' away teenagers in Iraq and Afghanistan or US airstrikes killing 40 or 50 innocent men, women, and children in one of those unnecessary invasions and occupations (always the children get it in war--at least, the US forces are considerate enough to blow away the kids with the parents--a part of George W. Bush's 'No Child Left Behind' policy)--Sarah's for saving the poor helpless fetuses so that they can be nurtured and fattened up for our worthless military's future needs for cannon fodder in the big dumbcluck War on Terrorism, which hasn't stopped Terrerism (I still spell it the way G.W.B. pronounces it--and he's the one who invented this 'war'); in fact, it's increased Terrerism around the world)). Karl Rove is advising McCain--so we see Sweet Sarah of Alaska as a trick to get Conservative women and stupid Dumbocrat women who were so radiated by Hillary Clinton (I mean, Conservative women know Hillary's basically a Conservative woman) they'll now be swayed by Sweet Sarah of Alaska to "come on down" into the basement with The Maverick himself who just met Sarah back in February. I also see a strong resemblance in Sweet Sarah of Alaska to Mike Judge's Mrs. Hank Hill on the King of the Hill tv cartoon show--and she's probably just as dumb, too. Also, check out this: Obama's actually from Hawaii, so Failed-Mission Jawin' John and Karl Rove probably figure Sweet Sarah being from Alaska will counterbalance the off-shore sort-of-foreign-ending up of Obama (Cokie Roberts, Disney tv's Jokie political pundit, referred to Hawaii as a foreign country when Obama took a vacation there recently). So, you're gonna hear a lot of bullshit from Sweet Sarah of Alaska (the woman who's solution to the polar bears invading the homes of the white-invader Alaskans due to global warming which is wiping out their natural habitat on the polar ice cap--and global warming is something Sweet Sarah of Alaska believes is caused by God and not man--so her solution to the polar bear problem is to shoot every one of the sons of bitches--that's what Sweet Jesus of Nazareth would do--I can hear Jesus now, 'Sister Sarah, hand me that Mannlicher over there, I want'a blast some of those fuckin' polar bears back to the Garden of Eden.' I always wondered were there polar bears on the big boat in the Noah's Ark legend that comes out of the desert religions? I've been reading Paul Bowles and just read that essay where Paul discusses the idiosyncrasies of the three desert religions--Judaism, Islam, and Christian-Judaism--I was raised a Jew so I know all about how to survive in a desert. I'm off to Astroland."

From the oldtimer Walter Crackpipe a brisk, fiesty email: "McCain's a Repugnican joke so why not put vice-presidential punchline on the joke? I think McCain shoots blanks like his bombs were blanks when he was shot down over 'Nam--he can't trot out a kid who's not an old man by now so instead he has this Alaskan housewife's kids and joke of a husband to trot around with him all over the USA. I think this fool thinks by picking a good Christian chick from Alaska he's safe in terms of picking up rightwingo and Dumbocrat-racists housewives who don't want a 'Knee-grow' in the White Man's House--unless he's going there as a houseboy or a waiter! McCain's so nutty and has so many arms up his ass pulling his strings, he'll probably blow up before November--from the look of his pale skin, he seems to be now almost on the verge of a brain-blowout similar to the one Uncle Teddy Kennedy recently suffered--'One last Chivas Regal on the rocks, Uncle Teddy?' Yep, you want to bet me: McCain will get shot by his own body out of his blue sky before the election. Oh, it will be a juicy campaign, a lot of wicked racist barbs will be hurled around by Rudi Mussolini and Uncle Joe LIEberman who are heading up the John McCain 'Obama Attack' Committee--our advice to Captain John, 'Call Obama a pigfucker, John. Let him prove he's not a pigfucker.' But then he's got Karl Rove advising him so I imagine Karl's already told him to use the 'Pigfucker Move.' What a bunch of ignorant and very foolish and dangerous white men, Mrs. Palin is just a joke to them, so that's all I've got to say about them. They're all fools and fools will vote for them and since all Americans may be fools, the winner is: President John McCain--even if he loses the popular vote, he'll win the election by stealing the votes in Ohio again--Ohio's still one of the dumbest states in the Union."

Mr. Ed: The Daily Growler is not responsible for the comments of its "reporters, notators, scribblers, diarists, or gurus." There, I'm done.

From--Holy Yipes, Mr. Met, an email:


"Hey, you creeps, John McCain and Mrs. Palin are topnotch folks--just the kind of folks that come to Mets games. And, hey, marvelousmarvbackbiter, you baseball ignoramus, look what your stupid Yankees are doing and then check out my Mets! You haven't been saying much about the great game of baseball this year--plus, you shithead, you haven't mentioned that under a real manager, Manager Jerry Manuel, the Mets are kicking baseball ass--WE'RE in first place--oh no, we lost last night and the god-damn Phillies won?--OK, so Jerry Manuel is not really a red, white, and blue American baseball image like me, he's still a better manager than that black, dichty, arrogant Willie Randolph! You know, the only thing you can criticize me on now is that I don't speak Spanish--you've got me there, pal--sometimes I feel like when I make fun of one of our many Spanish-speaking fans I don't think they catch on to my antics because they can't speak English--like when I called one, just joshing, a pepper-belly the other day, Jesus, I got cussed out good, though it didn't hurt my feelings because I couldn't understand one word those motormouthed bastards were saying. I'm a lot of fun if you can understand me. Your baseball pal, Mr. Met. GO METS!"
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Wow, from Mr. Met, who, by the bye, was once a columnist here at The Daily Growler--but we fired his little cute ass because of his belligerence.

An email reply from marvelousmarvbackbiter: "Hey, Mr. Met, you little peckerhead, you better watch your ass or you'll soon be tossed into the foundation of the new CitiBank Stadium, sealed over, and replaced with Senor Met. Adios, Meester Met."

From The Daily HOWLER--an interesting outlook on Obama's campaign:

The times are too serious, the stakes are too high for this same partisan play-book. So let us agree that patriotism has no party. I love this country, and so do you, and so does John McCain.

The men and women who serve in our battlefields may be Democrats and Republicans and independents, but they have fought together, and bled together, and some died together under the same proud flag. They have not served a red America or a blue America; they have served the United States of America.

(APPLAUSE)

So I've got news for you, John McCain: We all put our country first.

Returning to the “United States” framework which drove his speech at the 2004 convention, Obama rejected the science of distraction. This science has driven assaults on Big Dems for the past twenty years.

It has made a joke of our discourse.

Obama spoke of patriotism, because that’s the form the assault has been taking as it gets marshaled against him. But this science has taken various forms in those past twenty years. For the most part, Democratic Party officials and “career liberal” “leaders” have responded by looking away.

Do you care to remember this science? Let’s go there:

In 1988, the attack against Dukakis involved issues of patriotism–and even alleged mental illness. Good grief! In September 1988, Charles Krauthammer wrote this in the Post: “George Bush's Pledge of Allegiance shtick, designed to impugn Michael Dukakis' patriotism, is a model of campaign cynicism.” Yes, that was written by Krauthammer! (In August 1988, President Reagan jokingly helped drive the rumor that Dukakis had a mental health problem.)

From 1992 on, the attacks against the Clintons would be endless, inexcusable, ugly–and widely ignored by our cowering “leaders.” Good God! By August 1999, two major cable programs would actually bring Gennifer Flowers on the air to discuss–first for a half-hour, then for an hour–the long list of troubling murders in which both Clintons had played a part. We complained about that–and no one else did. To this day, we have never found evidence that any mainstream journalist said a single word about this astounding misconduct–astounding misconduct on the part of Chris Matthews and Sean Hannity.

By that thing, the law was clear: You could say any g*ddamn thing you pleased–as long as you aimed it at Dems.

In 1999, they started on Gore, reinventing him as the world’s biggest liar. They lied in the public’s face for two years–and Bush ended up in the White House. As all this happened, the cowering children at your “liberal journals” piddled in their pants; averted their gaze; and let the endless deceptions roll on. Again this week, Jonathan Alter told us that Gore never said he invented the Internet. He forgot to tell us why he said different in real time, back when it actually mattered.

In 2004, they came for Kerry. After the Swift boat attacks began, Michael Kinsley managed to write one column on the topic–and that piece was whimsical, tongue-in-cheek. (Headline: “The Stiff Drink Vets break their silence.” August 29. 2004. Darlings! So amusing!)

To read the rest of this, here you go: www.dailyhowler.com/index.shtml

Tune In and Out the Rest of This John McCain Sunday--we'll get other reports we're sure.

astaffmember (I have no alias)
for The Daily Growler

A Wolf-Man Getting SERIOUS!

Fuck, Scott Fitzgerald, I'm Using Exclamation Marks!!!!!!
F. Scott Fitzgerald drunk or sober could write unbelievably beautifully and with such great churning skills he left his words and sentences smooth as rich cream, a buttery fine prose crammed full of every second of every day of memory and feelings about those memories and the mental health of the characters he developed out of those feelings, this ordinary Minnesota small-town boy transforming (transcending?) himself into equals with the privileged class, that dominant new-England-East Coast inherited-wealth privileged class, the ideal class for mid-American bright boys like Scott, mocking these privileged characters while envying them; and Scott never got rid of his country-bumpkin ineptness--even in marrying his own rich girl he married a high-strung loser (I've read Save Me the Waltz--good book, but it pales compared to Tender Is the Night and Gatsby)--characters right out of his life and his thinking about his life, his true Him, a small-town American-Dream (getting filthy rich and accepted by back-East society) dreamer movin' on up to an Ivy League college and getting acquainted in that Ivy League school with that Eastern old-line-legal-reserve privileged class willing to let you fall at their feet in adoration if they saw the least spark of what they'd been privately schooled to call genius in your country-bumpkin but beautiful writing.

Scott Fitzgerald avoided newspaper work to zoom all the way on ice into Princeton where he was suddenly bunk buddies or club buddies with publishers's sons or future publishers, the blossoming critics, the future editors, and even the future men-and-women-about-town about who he wrote stories about--all the contact you would ever need to get published, if you could just write as damn well and swiftly interestingly enough--writers were heavy into psychoanalysis in those days--and Scott sure was, especially in Tender Is the Night--and drunk or sober, Scott Fitzgerald managed to write as naturally smooth as the icy plains he grew up on, which is the way you instinctively write no matter how hard you try to acclimate to another environment of writing, a learned way of writing where if you're not careful you end up writing journalism or letter writing--Pal Joey by John O'Hara is a prime example of using letters to form a novel. John O'Hara was born a scrub-poor, small-town Pennsylvania bright-boy who lied about attending Princeton, starting off as an almost-Commie Liberal, writing a brilliant novel, Appointment in Samara, but then going on to let his belief that he was in that Ivy-League-college privileged class of writers drive him into the arms of commercialism, and from there into the clutches of Hollywood, afterwhich he came Back East rich enough to buy his clothes on Saville Row in London and rich enough to hang out and pretend to be Princeton graduate fiction writer with his drink in hand at his special place in the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel (now Ivana Trump's private living quarters--thanks to a convenient marriage)--and John went on to end his days writing a way-out John-Bircher-type right-wing syndicated newspaper column, still a damn small-town bright boy with very little respect left at all for him as a writer and none at all as an Ivy-League phony. [John O'Hara is still an interesting literary figure.]

All of this "writer babble" in me trying for a brief moment to be a serious social observer, you know, do away with the scumbag vernacular and the low-down riverbank and riverboat cursing in natural everyday American English, or even giving up using the board-room swearing of a bunch of always-watching-their-backs gogetters trying to find ways to steal every dollar that was ever printed in the USA and now in all the countries of the world, or giving up the roughhouse swearing you'd find say in a college football team's locker room, with a cussing coach riling up his cracker players--like the venerable old redneck Bear Bryant who made his holy name coaching the University of White Alabama used to cuss 'em out with some good ol' South mud-spewing expletives--or old cussin' Woody Hayes at Ohio State who used to whack his players over their heads when they didn't please him--or, hey, a closer-to-home example would be being in a basketball team locker room with Bobby Knight when he's thinking he's a basketball God and lettin' loose with the crudest of American-Immigrant English--or what about Tommy Lasorda's language when he managed the Los Angeles (Traitors to Brooklyn) Dodgers? "What the fuck are you fuckin' doin' out there?" Tommy once went out to the mound and ask his pitcher--"You're fuckin' killin' my ass--you can't throw strikes, you're fuckin' up, you're fuckin' killin' me"--I'm gonna try and avoid writing like those in-your-gutter-face American heroes--I'm suppose to avoid neologisms, contractions, vulgarisms, the vernacular, street speech--I'm supposed to fall into a "SERIOUS" style--like such serious writers as Noam Chomsky--or all these tv pundits who write for the NYTimes or The Rupert Murdoch Wall Street Journal or The Washed-Out Post--like David Brooks, a serious writer even though what he's writing is bullshit--and I see more and more writers using "bullshit" now in their serious writing. Getting serious so that one day the writing in The Daily Growler may be taken as serious [yeah sure!!].

I was just reading an interesting book by Texian journalist Chet Flippo and in it Chet has a piece he wrote for The New Yorker, when it was still under American editorship, on the night "serious author" John Henry Abbott stabbed to death Richard Adan, a poet and almost-happening playwright who was working at his soon-to-be father-in-law's deli/cafe on the Lower East Side of New York City, on the corner of Second Avenue and Fifth Street--all about this serious author who was actually a hidebound professional criminal--a jailhouse author--and this jailhouse author was praised by the Ivy-League privileged editors and publishers and by Harvard-Bright-Boy Norman Mailer, who at that time had just made his best money ever off his Executioner's Song, a copycat trip into the world of Truman Capote's invention in In Cold Blood, the journalistic novel, and I never was able to read a Norman Mailer novel (Deer Park; Why Are We in Viet Nam? (a novel set in Texas, by the bye)), though in a way I did like Executioner's Song, though I thought In Cold Blood was much better written; hell, let's face it, Truman Capote was a better WRITER, a more natural writer, than Norman Mailer.

I'm struggling to write serious. Like, I'd like to write serious like Baltimore Bob, proprietor and chief Sociologist at The Daily Howler. Baltimore Bob writes clean, slickly constructed sentences with good inside punching going on in his repartee (he says he a comedian now so he uses a lot of comedic punchlines in his reasoning, pricking the sores of our media pundits with dead-on reasoning, showing the pus oozing out of those sores; yet, he writes about what he writes about--the idiocy of the "so-called" Liberal press, the education system and how it's measured, and how "so-called" Liberals in general consistently shoot themselves in the foot--so pinpoint precisely and wittily responsive--where it takes me several trips around Robin's Nondimensional Barn, BB skirts it in a matter of a paragraph or two--bolding the statements that are totally inane and in most instances ignorantly WRONG--as to where I might paraphrase something a fool says or writes about for 2 or 3 huge paragraphs, like I got vexed by Uncle Joe Biden last night as he was spieling out how wrong it is for us to be involved in Bush's Folly (the occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan--and currently, I see our rose-showering thankful Iraqis are trying to tell us now to vamoose out of their country (uh-oh, I'm not being serious!)(uh-oh, Scott, I used an exclamation mark!!! (I am laughing at my own joke))--yes, the Iraqis are telling us to get the Christian Hell out of Moslem Iraq and leave them to their own situations--Iraq does have a surplus budget it was revealed several weeks back--which is something the USA can't say--and Uncle Joe Biden went on to blather that "Barack Obama knows we must reduce our troops in Iraq, our brave and wonderfully heroic troops and reordain them to go fight in the Holy of Holies war the War Against the Terrorists in Afghanistan, our righteous WAR, which Obama will continue, 100 years if it takes that long!"-- and these soldiers are fools to me--and then Uncle Joe Biden went on to heap piles of holy insane praise on the heroic families, the husbands and wives and sweet children of these supersoldiers--supersoldiers with superequipment who can't seem to make any military tactic they try work--and then you begin to see these clowns aren't serious so why should I be?--these same failed military tacticians have convinced "Shot Down on His Mission" Cap'n John McCain that the infamous Commander-in-Chief Bush's military tactic referred to as "the Surge" has been successful--"the Surge" actually means "an unexpected increase in raiding and in the killing and maiming of innocent men, women, and children"--forcing innocent civilians against firing-squad walls to decide to live as a Christian American Invader or be shot as an "insurgent," that famous invisible enemy who now the instigators of WWIII say is all over the world, no longer contained in Iraq or Afghanistan--the hypocrisies surrounding this World-Wide War on Terror (a Bush invention) are enough to make you curse. I mean you suddenly remember that the votes from the US Army were used in Florida to push Bush barely past Al "Bore" Gore to successfully steal the election of 2000--so I'm sorry, I have to say, what in the fucking hell is wrong with these privileged bozos and bimbos and Beezers and Yahoos? most of them Ivy-League-trained privileged little already rich boys (like Bore Gore, John "Skull and Bones" Kerry, Johnny Boy "I Love My Cancer-Riddled Wife" Edwards, G.W. "Georgie Porgie" Bush, G.H.W. "Pappy" Bush--and now here comes one of those country-bumpkin (Southside of Chicago) American-Dreamin' his way into Harvard, that privileged place where American Dreams (getting filthy rich without working too hard) are made reality--what the hell?, I'm screamin', and soon I am growling, as though guarding a big pile of fresh baby elk belly meats--these small-town fools coming off the plains and from the mountainsides and La-La Land and from hoary old New England and out-of-work Michigan and backward-thinking Colorado are two-faced, hypocrites, FOOLS, humans reverting to monkeys-in-the-zoo tactics--and there still are the Old South bozos who would vote for Mickey Mouse if he were running as a ruin-the-USA Conservative nutjob--and now there are the New South Conservative bozos--and the New Texas Conservative bozos (like the phony Ron Paul), and what a damn dumb speech that Texan from Crawford, Texas, Obama almost picked for his veep gave--Texas white politicians still guilty about stealing all that land from the Republic of Mexico oh those many years ago now; yet that fear of Mexicans is still in the DNA of those "real" drugstore-cowboy Texans, those conservative crooked-as-snakes-at-night oilmen, and the Veterans of the White Citizens Council, and NRA charter members and Death Penalty advocates--excuse me, I drift like the tumbling tumble weeds that roll across the dusty dry and sunny horizon of where I was conceived [wtp--Thanksgiving Eve seemed so unromantic--and knowing my father, he was more likely to try and gain permission to reenter his castle from his queen at a more dramatic time of year than Thanksgiving--or maybe I'm rationalizing like my old man used to rationalize all the god-damn time] and where my environmental thinking started, a mixture of high-plains north-central Oklahoma, small-town and big-city Texas, and the literary trip I started out on in New Orleans that eventually led me to New York City via way of the Florida Keys, San Francisco, and Santa Fe, New Mexico.

This was an attempt by me to get serious. I cast my eyes of Scott Fitzgerald's statement that using exclamation points was like laughing at your own jokes--'cause I know what he means--you should make you emphases in your writing and not via punctuation marks--and I cast my eyes back on fellow Texan, Chet Flippo, and an essay he "typed" (we once said "penned") about "the deal and the pitch," opening the essay quoting John Gregory Dunne (from Dunne's book The Studio), "The deal, that's all this business is about....Listen, if Paul Newman comes in and says he wants to play Gertie Lawrence in Star!, you do it, that's the nature of the business." Then Flippo writes: "In the beginning was the pitch, and while it was not necessarily good, it was certainly effective....'Have I got a deal for you!'"

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

This Is the Third Anniversary of Katrina Flooding New Orleans--and Now Another Hurricane Is Headed Their Way--Nagle Is Still Mayor--There Are No Evacuation Plans--And Now New Orleans Is Filled With Illegal Immigrant Laborers! Bush Gets Away With Letting a Whole American City Go Under--"Fuck 'Em! Again"
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Bush Did a Fly By Over This and Said, "Hell, that doesn't look so bad."

Conventional Yahoos Continue to Convene

Saint Hillary Is Lifted Up Onto Her Cross of Envy
OK, another gathering of Growlers for last night's hubbub at the Dumbocratic Convention. All hands were on deck for the appearance of America's current "superwoman"--and, yes, we Growlers were on pins and needles waiting for Hillary's PR-twist on herself. We ignored the first bunch of caterwauling self-promoting mayors and former mayors and House members and governors--boring as hell, with the exception of Governor Brian Schweitzer of Montana, the governor who has made Montana the ethanol-producing capital of the world and has even promoted using cowshit for fuel in order to save Montana from the wildcatters and mining corporations--and old Brian was in his best old rabble-rousing Dumbocratic style last night--it reminded us older Growlers of old Senator Alben Barkley, a giver of fiery, funny, and anti-Repugnican speeches back in the days of Hairy Ass Truman [Mr. Ed: "Sorry, folks, crudely insulting our crude presidents is house style here--it says in the The Daily Growler Manual of Style--always refer to Harry S. Truman as "Hairy Ass Truman." If you are politically correct, please tune to another blog! and hide your children!"].

But after Brian Schweitzer's hoopla got the Yahoo delegates and guests (mostly guests) all wilded up and giving forth with "Obama, Obama" chants--all quickly hushed as they then fucked up the beginning of Hillary's expensively made promo video, it came on after it had already started, with jerky for a second and then started tracking and the Hillary show began, with the charming Chelsea Clinton narrating. That's when the hooters in the The Daily Growler office (with the analog tv) started in--"Hey, Chelsea," Macy D. Store (our resident Hip-Hop Nation representative--just back from some topless sunbathing on P Diddy's private beach in Saint Tropez) "Ask your mother if reparation payments for your father's not being able to keep his speckled dick in his pants around young women were that he get her elected president?--first him picking New York State as the easiest place for 'carpetbaggers' like Hillary to get herself elected--based on the sympathy vote for her--poor dear, suffering under her exhibitionist husband's continuous penis-related shenanigans." Then The Texan In New York said, "Hillary looks so pissed. She's so envious of that South Side Chicago N-worder who trumped her Chicago workingclass background--hell, Hill, you listened to your stupid Hillbilly husband and his old school advisors, that's why We the People decided we wanted the N-worder Chicagoan rather than your honky privileged big ass." The Texan In New York is usually more proper than that--all the Growlers are in their worst cynical moods--these politicians are such bullshitters--look in their faces when they're reading their prepared speeches--all of 'em running for something--you all dig? All of these governors and House boys and girls and Senators and Hillary in her speech are campaigning for their next elections and Hillary for her next shot at the presidency.

Then when Chelsea made her in-person appearance on stage, walter crackpipe, sipping with Helen Highman-Klein-LaCloos of The Daily Growler Poet's Nook fame on a bottle of cheap Paul Masson brandy, hollered out, "Hey, Chelsea, show us your horse face--those teeth--horse 'em out!" And then from Mr. Ed, our editing horse, in his basement stable-like office, came a memo, "Hey, Crackpipe, you almost got fired, you goof! That makes you a jackass, which is ten times lower than a horse."

And Chelsea introduces her mother and Hillary starts her condescending speech--"I'm Hillary Clinton, more voters want me than that South Side Chicago N-worder--my old daddy told me about N-worders ['Hill, ya give 'em an inch and they'll take a mile'] when we used to drive down Cottage Grove with the windows rolled up even on hot days 'cause we were so scared of those savage-like South Side Chicago N-worders. But, hey, though I think I got screwed on the delegate count, I'll go along with this high-yellow kid--damn, I'm pissed--what happened to all you white ladies who promised to back me all the way?...." And Bill was up in the balcony bigwig area grinning like a "a 'possum eatin' shit."

In the middle of Hillary's speech we suddenly flipped off the analog tv and listened to some of thegrowlingwolf's records he'd left behind--we were listening and dancing and jiving to Frank Motley and His Crew--the original Motley Crew but a black band so Motley Crue, the white band, had to change their last name to get away from the black identity--we don't know this for sure--we're just making a legend out of dual-trumpeter Frank Motley--from Philadelphia--a master of post-bop r & b--a shake 'em on down kind'a band leader with a shake 'em on down kind'a band. So we ended up Hillary's night at the circus by getting drunk and dancing for joy to Frank Motley and His Crew...on into the night...whether we'll be awake for tonight's bullshit speech from Slick Willie with the cum stains on his pants is yet to be seen, except we are cynically hoping old Slick One divides the convention into Chaotic polemnity with his anti-Obama slurs and his pro-McCain and George H.W. Pappy Bush (Bill's best friend remember) way of politics as usual.

Tune in, turn on, and drop out and see!

thestaff
for The Daily Growler

A Convention of Yahoos

From Yahoo City (Denver, Colorado)
OK, the fun started when all the Growlers ganged around the office analog tv and began getting ready to watch the Dumbocratic Convention--"Time for the puff pieces," Franny and Zoe sneered. "They're trotting brain-blown Uncle Teddy out tonight," walter crackpipe yelled from the back of the room by the Heineken keg. "Mother Obama, Saint Michelle, is trying to prove she's not a savage tonight before all those white Yahoo delegates," erupted Dismal Dan Dove, the Growler sanitation man. "Trash is trash, you should know that Dan," said someone, perhaps an NRA spy amongst us. That was the chatter before the Dumbocratic Convention began--a lot of cynical whacks at the Jim Lehrer News Hour Convention coverage team--really lamebrains sitting smugly around tv host Jim Lehrer and pontificating, especially the Dumber-than-Dumb Mark Shields who was there with his flat and boring punditry--and then there was haughty but still Yahoo David Brooks, the nothing-suits-me guy who leaves you to believe he has the solution to everything troubling mankind at the moment--and we're all thinking, this dude's nothing but a god-damn journalist, a hack, a balderdash hack, full of himself and his own visions of dreamland.

We all horsed around--sorry, Mr. Ed--you see, Mr. Ed wasn't invited; the office where the tv is is too small for a horse, editing horse or race horse--there's just not enough room. Like the tv talking horse, Mister Ed (our Mr. Ed doesn't talk, he just edits), like Wilbur did for him, we tried to put mirrors up in a way our Mr. Ed could dig the tv--you know, from down in his stable-like office in our horse-barn-like basement--he snorted a lot of whinnying protests, which we all up in the human office ignored--"Give us two hooves if you're happy!" chided Colonel Sing the Singing Seeker from his perch on the bust of Pallais above our chamber door. Mr. Ed sent back a memo (he can write), "Next time I catch your ass bending over I'm gonna stallionize you! You'll sing then, you Seeker bastard!" We all got a stable full of good horse laughs over that reply. The Colonel wasn't offended--in fact he sang a little diddy about the situation:

Saddle him up and ride him fast
See how long his horse's ass can last
When he falters, then he's haltered
Then he's altered to a horse's lass.

OK, so it's forced rhyme--who cares? The Colonel got a kick out of that!

So out comes first Nancy "Rich Bitch" Pelosi. She was dull from the get go. Jesus how vapid. "That's what I was thinking," Franny and Zoe said, "Sawdust-brain thinking--like the Scarecrow in the Diddler of Oz." "He was a man," Uncle Charms-for-Harm chimed in. "Well, don't you think Rich Bitch thinks of herself as a female man?" Franny and Zoe came back.

Nancy Pelosi chirped on for a short time but it was made long by how boring and mundanely PR it was--all Dumbocrats are the greastest--all Dumbocrats are perfect--all Dumbocrats know what's best for us even though we don't think they do--all Dumbocrats are for the "little guy" and all Dumbocrats hate Lobbyists--all Dumbocrats hate the War in Iraq--all Dumbocrats are saints even when they vote against the wishes of We the People--even when they vote for more funding for Faux President Bush's "invasion and occupation" of Iraq (illegal--worthy of impeachment--though there was no mention of impeachment anywhere in the air).

The Network scare spinners after Rich Bitch's speech got busy trumpeting their constant reference to the big division in the Dumbocrat camp with trumpet blares like "Does Obama have enough Convention support to withstand an attack by Hillary Clinton's forces?" (Then they always show that same white woman who says she's so pissed at the Dumbocratic Party for the way it dissed Hillary she is going to vote for John McCain)--and this idiocy is parroted by every commercial faux-news coverage--and then there was the majestic Katie Couric there in her little cheerleader skirt--looking perky--looking like she may be getting banged pretty regular now--some of her pimples have cleared up--anyway, there was her majesty Katie Couric talking as though she had her finger on the right button when it came to punditry--ex-cheerleader, newsreader, Katie, talking as though this Dumbocrat Party division might spell a soon a deflated-balloon-type situation for Obama--the Darkie Candidate--ooops, we're thinking like Katie Couric and the white lady who's voting for John McCain, really because she hates blacks and not for what the Dumbos did to Hillary (you notice she dropped the Rodham when she was running for president?)--Hillary's wacko charming husband brought her down with his stupid interference in her campaign, I'm sure at her advisers's request--these advisers the action behind these candidate puppets.

"Nancy Pelosi is such a Yahoo wimp...look at her phony ass," cried Franny and Zoe. "Cry-baby Mother Cindy Sheehan is running against Rich Bitch in San Fran," added walter crackpipe--back by the beer barrel.

"Where's Wolfie?" somebody asked.

"He's off somewhere drinking with thedailygrowlerhousepianist--who he's incorporating into the film he's STILL working on--how long is it now? And where's that other story he promised us? Is the moon full yet?" somebody answered.

We spotted the Texan in New York in the audience. "Where have you been, Tex?" somebody hooted from the back of the room, back by walter crackpipe and the Heineken keg. "Nowhere," somebody hooted back from the front of the room.

Nancy Pelosi was shuffled off to Buffalo by a low-keyed rather dull applause.

And then, up popped Caroline Kennedy--looking pretty snazzy for her age--looking like her mother--oh no, one of our graphic arteests is flashing photos of a very naked Jackie O up on the big Mac's screen. Shame! Wow, look at Jackie O's ass! "Hey, I agree with you, she does have a great ass, " said Franny and Zoe. "Your ass ain't so bad either, F & Z," sang Colonel Sing the Singing Seeker.

Your ass in the glass
Pulls me from the morass
And makes me feel like a man again.
Your ass to the touch
Fills me up with much
Hot, strong, streaming, gay desire.

"Somebody stuff a turban in the Colonel's mouth, please," Ann Remington-Rand screamed from her perch near the fountainhead.

And Caroline spieled out a plethora of Kennedy Klan taglines, mentioning her saintly father in a crispy way, the guy who fucked Marilyn Monroe in the White House while Jackie O was probably banging some security Marine in another "green or blue or purple" room at the same time--her father, the little sex-maniac prick who fucked the Chicago mob boss's best moll--Sammy Giancana's babe--Sammy the Nutcracker--Sammy the Weasel--Sammy the Pissed Off--again, we would asked Caroline, "Who killed your father?"--you think Caroline really knows who killed her father? That would be quite a Convention stopper if she revealed who had killed her father. Instead, she started talking about her dear ole sweet and saintly Uncle Teddy! Why, Uncle Teddy is such a lovable old Uncle--why he taught Caroline how to sail! Whooooo! Then Caroline says Uncle Teddy is so good in his fight for young women's rights and someone in the room kept hollering, "Hey, Caroline, what about Mary Jo Kopekne?"

Good Ol' Uncle Teddy's Legacy--"Any of you gals need a ride back to my hotel room?"
"Hey, Caroline, what about Uncle Teddy drunk out of his mind down in Palm Beach while your cousin William was raping the girl out on the Kennedy Private Beach!" "Hey, Caroline, what about good ole Aunt Joan--whatever happened to her?"

Ah, the Couple That Drinks Together Stinks Together
"Hey, Caroline, what about your grandfather, old Joe the Bootlegger, zapping out the frontal lobes of your hidden aunt?"

Caroline's Aunt Rosemary. Old Joe said, "Hell, cut her lobes out and maybe that'll calm her down--she's a dud--and Bootlegger Joe Kennedy can't stand duds!"
Cruel questions being slung at the tv by the feisty and getting-drunk Growlers.

Sam Giancana--------------------and Judith Exner, the moll who Caroline's father banged. Privilege, Caroline. You are a privileged person, sweetheart!

And then, here he came--looking pretty good for a guy who's got one foot in the grave--and brain cancer to boot--old Uncle Teddy, his head looking rather bloated, like he has a lake of water on his brain--Jesus, what a fat pig sort'a head's on Uncle Teddy. And he starts spieling in his Kennedy know-it-all manner. He's spieling nonsense but the Yahoos are clapping madly and women are crying--how do the cameramen know just where these crying women are in that big crowd?--they go right to the crying women, like the evangelical tv shows always go right to the crying whining women wringing their hands in an adoration of saintly MEN--and so far this Convention has been all about saintly MEN! The privileged. How out of touch they are. How in cahoots they are. Uncle Teddy mentioned his accomplishments--they were hard to distinquish--he takes credit for Medicare and Medicaid--he takes credit for bringing the races together--he takes credit for being against the "Iraq War"--is that true? Didn't he vote for appropriations for the "invasion and occupation" of Iraq? Didn't Obama and Hillary and all those rats vote for appropriations in the billions for this Bush folly? This impeachable offense!

There was so much hooting and ridiculing of Uncle Teddy's brain-drained words from the Growler delegation--"Send him back to the hospital!" we heard someone shouting--a memo from the basement read, "If you want a horse's opinion about this--Uncle Teddy looks more like a jackass's ass than anything I can think of." "So the god-damn horse can see the tv! Why've we got a fucking horse for an editor?" "Hey, we got a Wolf-Man for our Guide." "Yeah, our Virgil, boating us right straight down to Holy Hell!"

The popcorn was snacked down to the bottom of the big bowl. The Heineken keg was emptied and rolled toward the front of the room and another keg put in its place. "Who's paying for this beer?" asked Franny and Zoe. "We took money out of the Christmas fund...or was it the United Fund contributions?" said marvelousmarvbackbiter who had popped in before he was headed out to cover the Yankees/Boston (the first game was dismal for the Yanks) series this week. "Actually it was donated by the Royal Family of Dubai," Ziggy Ishmael the The Daily Growler freelance bookkeeper informed us.

And then here came out into the spotlite a big tall dude who we already knew was Michelle Obama's brother Craig, the basketball coach ("Men's team coach," as he politically correctly said) at Oregon State U, and he brightly lit up the podium and started adorationally spouting the wonderments of his little sister Michelle. It got kind'a sexy for awhile when he said their parents divided a bedroom in half for them and he slept on one side and Michelle on the other--and he said they used to lay in bed and talk all night. "I'll bet they talked all night! Like my brothers used to talk to me sometimes all night!" claimed Franny and Zoe. And the perfect brother Craig babbled on and on about his sister and then it was time, the big event of the night--Michelle Obama (and don't say "Mama") came out and was going to set us straight about what kind'a real man her husband really is. What we got instead was a long sort of bullshitty mean sort of praise of herself--unwittingly pitching into the middle of the mix suddenly Hillary Clinton's name--toning that down by immediately bringing Uncle Joe Biden's name into the mix--she was meaning to say that Hillary was brave like Obama in that she was the first serious woman candidate (they ignored Shirley Chisholm's run for the presidency back in those lost times of the 70s) like Barack Obama's so courageous for running as a black man (they mostly ignored Rev. Jesse Jackson though they did let his Congressman son rattle on with a sort of a nonsense speech)...the blacks all in high praise of Obama, their moment in the hot Dumbocratic sun.

Michelle Obama, a very photogenic babe, she's very pretty, has a rather odd body, a really big ass--"Holy Cow!" a rather sodden Colonel Sing started yowling, "Look at the ass on that woman! Wow. Reminds me of my Punjab beauty of a wife's ass--Mrs. Obama has a Punjab ass! I love it--it goes on and on..." Then the Colonel broke into song.

There's nothing like an ass
That's a lovely ass
An ass that's alluring and round
But an ass that is grand
Is the best for the hands
Of a man holding steady to his love.

That got the Colonel a huge round of applause from the rowdy Growlers--even some very loud hoof stampings from our basement Growler.

A The Daily Growler Kind of First Lady
After Michelle ended her glorification of herself and her husband--she really didn't tell us much that was new about her husband--"Have you ever caught him cheatin' on you?" walter crackpipe wanted to know--suddenly up on screen popped Barack himself. He fucked it up but no one caught it maybe--it was a minor thing--he told Michelle he was with a workingman's family in Saint Louis when in fact he was in Kansas City--they are hard to tell apart--they both are on rivers, you know, that sort of thing--plus, they're both in Missouri, so he got part of it right.

They were still sort of startled that they are in this position of movin' on up! I mean, this is big time for this dude who does have the charm and personality to go all the way--I mean all blacks like him and a lot of white women like him, too--the black Slick Willie!

The gang shut off the analog tv after Obama came out stuttering and stammering and his little girls show-boated, what we thought was a little too much--"Hi, Daddy" "We love you, Daddy" "Hi Mister Italian Man." and more "We love you, Daddy." Jesus, by then the fun was over--there was nothing more to do than to wait until tonight when Hillary hits the podium for some trumpeting of her own--that'll be funny if she trots old Slick Willie out!

Did you notice how they dissed poor old Jimm-eh Cah-tah--really dissed ole Jimm-eh. You know why! Because he dissed Israel over their cruelty of the Palestinians, who the Israelis consider lower than Hitler considered Jews.

thestaff
for The Daily Growler

The Pangs of Writing

The Pangs of a Righter (Writer)
I've been writing since I was eleven when my grandmother taught me how to type on her 1925 model L.C. Smith typewriter, a writing instrument she loved and cared for like it was a child. I was living in Dallas, Texas, when I was eleven--and my grandmother had just moved to Dallas from my hometown out on the lone prairie after she resigned as head librarian at the Carnegie Library there and married a Dutchman from New York City. When I was eleven, I was in my first year at Long Junior High, which was over behind my grandmother's house several blocks, and once my grandmother started teaching me how to type I started missing my school bus at three thirty on purpose and instead I would run over to my grandmother's house where I'd indulge in a plate of her teacakes and some hot cocoa (we never called it hot chocolate) and then just a minute or two of practicing on her typewriter.

My grandmother was a writer--so I had seen her typing away at her own writing--she wrote every morning of every day from the crack of dawn until her new husband began gruffly demanding his lunch around noon. So I knew my grandmother was a writer, and by that time my brother was a newspaper reporter--and I saw my grandmother's books in her little bookshelf that sat next to her desk with the typewriter on it in what should have been a dining room but was her office instead-- "my room," as she called it, paying respects to one of her favorite writers, Virginia Wolfe. So I had heard her typing away--and that's why at eleven I begged and pleaded with her to teach me how to type. The first thing I learned to type was my name, the date, and a brief biography of me, like "My likes: baseball, running, my bike--masturbating..."--no, of course I didn't know that word at eleven--the deed yes, but not that word that described the deed. Besides, we boyz called it "jacking off"--I thought it was called that because when you did it it was like you did when you "jacked up" a car with one of those jacks where you take the tire iron and put it in the thing that jacks the jack up and then you use the same motion you use to jack off in order to get the jack to jack up the car. I thought that's where the term "jack off" came from--I damn sure didn't know the word "ejaculation" then--hell no, that to me and the rest of us boyz was "coming" and we knew about cum, too, though if we'd'a had to spell it, we'd'a spelled it c-o-m-e. We did talk about shooting our wads, too, but none of this occupational crap would I have had my grandmother teach me to type--no, it was mostly sports things, like "What I Want to Be When I Grow Up: a Hockey player. I had just seen my first hockey game when they tried to bring professional hockey to Dallas--I saw Dallas play Tulsa, Oklahoma, that day--it was weird--it was around 90 outside while inside these weird Canadians were playing on ice and the joint was a little frigid--but I was intrigued by the sport, so I then started talking about I was going to be a pro hockey player when I was grown enough. Shit, later I tried to ice skate and I was so ridiculously inept at it, I gave up on sports having to do with ice--except for the ice put in my drinks during my participation in the sport of drinking.

So that's why I started writing. I didn't have being a writer as a goal--I just simply loved to type on my grandmother's typewriter. My first novel was a total failure--it was a mess of typos and misspelled words and xxxx-throughs and attempts at erasing some errors with a typewriter eraser that was usually not very good at erasing and usually left what you were trying to erase looking worse than if you'd'a just left it wrong--or you erased so hard you put a hole in the paper. Typing paper was a luxury in those days, so my grandmother used just any old kind of paper to write out her rough drafts on, by hand, and then she'd use her typing paper (typing bond it was called--25 % rag content--beautiful paper, with watermarks) to type up her manuscripts--yes, to me, the mere act of typing was fun--then what I was typing became fascinating--and next thing I knew I was attempting to write things that made sense--at least to an eleven year old--like sports and masturbation. My first novel went about three paragraphs before I ripped it out of the carriage and strangled it into a wad of wastepaper and threw it into my grandmother's wastebasket that sat by the desk on which the typewriter sat.

By the time my grandmother died and left me her typewriter, I was out of college and looking for gainful employment. After college, I went back out on the lone prairie for that summer waiting around until September when I had to report to Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri to start my time and experience in the U.S. Army. In July of 1961, Ernest Hemingway was found by his wife Mary in the foyer to their Ketcham, Idaho, home with the top of his whole head blown off, his brain and facial matter spat out and splattered all over the walls of that foyer and especially splattered all over and running down a big mirror right by the gun rack where Papa had pulled down one of his prized Belgium elephant guns, the barrel of which he jammed up into his mouth--Papa was a tall man, so it was easy for him to then pull that beautiful gun's trigger--maybe with his toe but he could have reached it with his arms--and BOOM there went Papa, to me at that time the greatest writer and the most exciting man who ever lived. Hemingway, Stravinsky, and Jimmy Reed were my muses in those many many moons ago--we had a lot of Native American phrases and usages in lingua Texiana, like moons for days, months, or years--or saying things like "It's sure plenty hot today, ain't it?" "The way the crow flies," too, isn't that Native American?--damn, now I have to get my Mencken American Language out again--but here I go getting tangential...so back to the summer Hemingway died--the Life magazine for that week ran a picture essay on Hemingway and from reading that article and looking at the photos that went with it I began to think, "Hey, somebody has to keep writing like Hemingway--and that's when I uncovered that old L.C. Smith typewriter still in perfect working order and I got a coffee pot and some French Market coffee (I was already crazy about New Orleans), I had gotten a whole ream of newspaper "bond" as they called, what newspapermen and women typed the rough drafts of their columns on--paper chopped into 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of typing paper out of the leftover newsprint--when newspapers did their own printing--and the went out bought 5 Hemingway (Scribner's paperbacks) novels: Torrents of Spring, A Farewell to Arms, In Our Time, Across the River and Through the Trees, and The Sun Also Rises. When I got home that night I started reading first The Sun Also Rises, and I read and read and couldn't put it down and in the middle of that first dawning morning after I'd read Hemingway all night I got up, made a pot of coffee, and started writing "My First Novel"--it was called Hot Like Bread and Pepper--after the Chester Burnett tune of the same title--a perfect first novel--and the second part of that tune's first verse, "She's hot like bread and pepper/Sweet like cherry wine," Sweet Like Cherry Wine, would make a damn good title for my second novel--which I was already ready to write as well--God, I had to write folks--triggered by Papa's dying and by my knowing how to type like a Guinness-Book-of-Records maniac.

My point of all of this "writing" is to simply say, I didn't learn how to write--no one taught me how to write--I'm not a college writing major--nor did I attend the writing school at the University of Iowa nor did I go to Black Mountain College--see what I'm sayin'? I simply started writing because I was lucky and got to learn how to type by the time I was eleven.

But I suffer like any writer--whether college trained or auditing an E.L. Doctorow class at Sarah Lawrence...or studying "editing" believe it or not with Anatole Broyard at New York University. For instance, two days ago I decided to start writing a memoir-like novel--calling it Them Bones, Them Bones, Them Dry Bones (rather than "Dem Bones, Dem Bones..." like they'd sing it in minstrelsy). It started off great--I was rolling, rolling, rolling on the roman de flueve--but just as it was Jell-O-ing (Jell-O's made from cow hooves, you know), my mind revolted, my mind allowed a depression to slip it uninvited--it happened when one of my babes accused me of cheating her out of something she paid a FULL price for--"Baby, come on, it's Wolfie you're puttin' out a wolf ticket on--me, I'm a lover not a cheater!" (Yeah sure!) So in abject poverty of continuance, I abandoned this "novel" attempt--then I went back to it and I sweated over it a whole hour--then suddenly, again, I turned on it and abandoned it. Here is the poor abandoned baby of mine.

Here's how Them Bones, Them Bones, Them Dry Bones started:
Birth & Death
I was born dry. I was born in open spaces checkerboarded in cracked-mud design--dried mud hubs, what moisture left sucked dry last leaving the center of these mud hubs dark red and the outer edges near the cracks bone-dry tan. Such spaces were natural to where I was born dry in a small two-story tan-brick hospital, with bricks as tan as the outer edges of the cracked mud hubs that floated on mirages all around where this building sat in the out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere north side of town, called "the northside"--one word--the other part of this dry town across the straight-as-an-arrow set of railroad tracks one running out toward Los Angeles and the other one headed way off back toward New York City was called "the southside." To the point they became capitalized, the Southside and the Northside. Dry as the bones of a dead man. That's what some oldtimers used to say in describing a particularly hot summer day.

I was born dry on a particularly hot summer day in August. The most disgustingly inaugust summer month faced by a child just born into so bone-dry a place.

I don't remember any of it. Perhaps I was traumaless, Mr. Freud, when I slid easily out of my mother's womb. Was I a miracle baby? As far as my mother thought I was. She'd lost a child a few years before I was born and later when I could think and remember my brother teased me by saying I was a love child. "Daddy went off on one of his disappearances and Mother was ready to get a lawyer and divorce him when on that Christmas eve before you were born in August, here he came, knocking on the back door like a tramp. And I heard Mother screaming at him, telling him to go away, but you know how persistent Daddy is when he wants to be--hardheaded like his father and mother, Mother's always saying, and soon I peeked around the corner of the back hallway and there came Daddy crawling on his knees like a penitent making the stations of the cross with his hands up in the prayer mode begging Mother to let him 'come back home'--and Mother caved. Daddy was so Santa-Claus handsome that night; so pleading. Next thing I know I was told to go to bed and leave them alone and I did but I stayed awake and listened to them arguing and Daddy crying and Mother cussing him out and reducing him to mincemeat and then it got quiet and next thing I heard was their old iron bed hitting the wall in a rhythmic way and then Mother started moaning...and, well, you were conceived, on Christmas Eve, and figure it up, you were born nine months exactly later."

I was born dry on my mother's birthday. It was my father's birthday, too. And it was their wedding anniversary. I figured later when I knew more about the birds and the bees that Mother [spewed me out early in order for me to arrive on] her birthday--because I was a little more than a month early according to my brother's Christmas Eve-conception idea. Still, whatever the reason I was born on my mother's and my father's birthday and wedding anniversary, I suppose if my brother's story was correct, I was, yes, a love child. I asked my mother about it once but she blew it off as, "You know your brother--he's a storyteller." That's all I could get out of her. When I asked Daddy, he simply winked at me and said, "Better luck next time, kid."

Bone dry. And it stayed bone dry the longer we lived in this town. And one day when I was so thirsty I went into the refrigerator and I drank every drop of water in the water bottle--we always had a water bottle in the fridge--cold water--and I drank the whole bottle and Daddy came along and he bitched more about me drinking straight from the water bottle rather than pouring the water out into a glass. While he was filling the bottle back up with faucet water, I asked him, "Daddy, where does our water come from?" "Comes from a big lake north of town." "Where does the lake get its water?" "From the Little Brazos River." "Where does the Little Brazz-ohs River get its water?" "From the Brazos River, where else?" I couldn't ask my mother questions like that--she dried up when contested with questions. Daddy on the other hand loved answering questions, any question, stupid or otherwise. "Where does the Brazz-ohs River get its water?" "These questions could go on forever and a day," my dad finally said. "Why do you say 'these questions could go on forever and a day,' Daddy?" "You're becoming rhetorical, son." Uh-oh! My questions then dried up until the next time they rained out of my mouth--the next thing I got curious about--where does the water from the outside faucets come from? Where does the water running through the air-conditioner come from?--we had water-cooled air-conditioners called squirrel-cage coolers because their fans were round and tumbled toward you like a hamster wheel, except they called them squirrel cages because squirrels do the same thing when you put them in a cage with a wheel in it.

So I was born in August, always known as a "dry month." The first time we went out to the Casey Ranch I was about 6 1/2 and after supper I wandered off down a cattle trail towards the hot setting bone-drying sun and soon I came upon this cow skull, with horns and everything still attached, a bleached cowskull, and the sun in that part of the world is a Clorox sun, it bleaches everything--obviously--even the majority of the people's skin. "Why am I white, Daddy, and Isabel Arispe is brown as a berry?" "Isabel Arispe is a Mexican, son, that's why he's brown. You're an American, son, that's why you're white." I was bleached. Even my young hair was bleached white because of that sun. My hair from the time I was born was first the color of the yellow sun only to be bleached totally white as I developed, as I learned life, playing in that high sun year-round. The sun literally shines where I come from 365 days a year--I exaggerate perhaps, but that sun was an exaggeration of the Sun, so to me, a kid born in that bone-dry land, I was white because I was bleached and I knew what bleach was because of when I helped Mother with the laundry and she always put the bleach in the white clothes--my mom separated the colored clothes from the white clothes--wait a minute, I thought, I had a question for Daddy. He was out fiddling around under the hood of his big long Cadillac. "Daddy, Daddy," I yelped coming flying out the back door of our house, letting the screen door slam hard and slapping and, yes, I heard my mother holler, "Don't let the screendoor slam," but I did let it slam, I always let it slam and she always hollered at me not to let it slam. "What's wrong, son?"Daddy asked, raising up out from inside the opened mouth of that big car. "Daddy, you said I was white because the sun had bleached me." "OK, so?" "Does that mean I was once black like Johnny Shine I play with over at the Darbys?" "No, son, if you were ever black it was way back in ancient times...." "Back before the Bible was written?" Being dry and constantly thirsty; being a worshipper of the sun whether you wanted to worship it or not, keeps you constantly asking questions--questions asked so rapidly you build up moisture in your otherwise bone-dry mouth. "Yes, back before the Bible was written." "Was the Bible written by white people, Daddy?" "Yes, son, the Bible was written by white people."

You see how confusing being born in a bone-dry town among bone-dry people can be, people who were lucky they got bleached by the sun instead of Isabel Arispe who only got half-bleached and Johnny Shine who couldn't get bleached at all? That's why Johnny was black--his skin wouldn't bleach--like the colored clothes my mom separated from the white clothes. Bone-dry learning. The sun makes you silly. "Don't let the sun catch you cryin'," as Lil Hardin Armstrong wrote--and you couldn't cry in that bone-dry place where I was born--you couldn't cry because you were so bone-dry--bleached-bone-dry.
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Damn, writing is too passionate a sport really for me--in this case, I just suddenly crashed into an immoveable wall--Boom! So me thinks, "Story's over," I'm dried up.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Grower

From Out of the Past Come the Thundering Hoofbeats...

A Review by Robin Rothman (tgw says it really reads like her)
From the Village Voice, 11/2/1999, byline: Robin Rothman
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Was a time when a chick in a slampit was a rarity. One badass bitch. It was cool that she'd get into the thick of things. Guys dug that; they respected it. They'd surf her from front to back and back again, hands passing her quickly along with an occasional grab, but usually a boost. It's the kind of crowd Kid Rock envisions when he urges you to "get in the pit and try to love someone."

But then there was Woodstock '99 (Boobstock, Tittystock, Rapestock), where moshing wasn't just a release of aggression or a reaction to the music, and the pit sure as hell wasn't any place to love someone. It was a breeding ground for a male-dominated mob mentality, where girls with women's bodies riding the crowd weren't equals who could hold their own, but fresh meat to be poked, prodded, and sometimes penetrated. Eight cases of rape and sexual assault, allegedly occurring both in and out of the pit, have been reported to the New York State Police; countless more haven't. Rome City Police indicted a 26-year-old state prison guard for assaulting a 15-year-old in the concert's final hours; however, the violation occurred not on concert grounds but in a nearby gas station, where the girl, a Woodstock attendee, had gone to use the restroom.

State police have made no arrests to date, the Voice confirmed last week, and one case has been dropped due to lack of adequate information. Despite optimism expressed by Lieutenant Jamie Mills of the State Police Public Information Office, the outcome doesn't seem promising.

"No perpetrator has been identified, and we have no suspects," says Senior Investigator Dennis Dougherty, who heads one of two departments handling the seven remaining cases. "We haven't received any tips from anyone. We encourage anyone with any information at all to contact us. We'll continue to work any lead until the cases can no longer be prosecuted." That would be a five-year statute of limitations, just long enough for the bastards to come back for more felonious fun at Woodstock 2004.

To read the rest, here ya go: www.villagevoice.com/1999-11-02/news/politics-of-the-pit/
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In Memoriam:
I can't imagine Robin resting in peace. The last time I saw her, way back in those "meatball" days, she'd just been hit by a bus over by CBGB's--she was on crutches--she was over by my pal the rocker Matty Quick's apartment--getting some chill pills--I mean, she had plenty of pain killers--we all always had plenty of pain killers--and brown acid, too, like was served at the 1969 Woodstock (which I was headed for with my copy chief boss--it was raining so hard and the traffic was backed up from Yasgar's Farm all the way back to the Turnpike exit in Harrison, New York, so the copy chief and I saw a motel in Harrison and we went up and, yes, they had a room, and we took it and spent the rest of the day making love not war--eventually we both called our spouses, she her husband and me my wife, to explain how we'd been delayed in getting home--each of us lying, not about going to Woodstock, but about who we were going with! Ah deceit!)--we also had Captain Marvel tabs of pharmaceutical LSD, schrooms, TCP (Angel Dust)--and speaking of Angel Dust, a friend of a girlfriend of mine, and a friend of mine, too, told us one strange night while we were all stretched out on her floor doing doobs and drinking brandy how the night before she had smoked some Angel Dust--she lived on the 30th floor of a huge apartment complex on the West Side--she said a dude had left the stuff with her, had dared her to try it, so she lay down in her bed with the lights off and her curtains opened onto her balcony and the moonlighty night--then she laced a cigarette with the Dust, fired it up, and casually and dreamily smoked it. She said after entering the Dust dream state she began to feel like she was floating on air--and then she got a paranoid thought that somebody was controlling her, causing her to float on air--you know, floating her in mid-air like she was a puppet being manipulated by an evil puppetmaster! She said out of nowhere came the thought that her only escape from this compelling person or thing that had control of her was to run and jump off her balcony into the safety of the darkness beyond--she said it was opaquely eerie, you know, scary yet she was able see through the veil at what she thought was Jesus X Christ himself--and she was propelled by Jesus X's strong voice that she said she felt was coming from deep inside her and not from the foggy JC see imagined she saw through the veil--it was as if her body, the bed, the view, the room, the outside was pushing her to jump off her balcony and be saved; yet she kept her senses, too, she said--like when you're dreaming and know you're dreaming--as if you are standing outside the dream and watching like you watch a movie--and she stated arguing with herself about jumping, agreeing with her paranoid feelings and the offer of her imaginary Jesus Christ that if she jumped off her balcony, yes, she would be free from the puppet strings, but her conscious senses told her though she might be saved from the puppetmaster's strings if she did that, but at the same time, SHE would also be stone dead, splattered on the pavement thirty stories below--she said just as her paranoid side had convinced her to jump off her balcony to the point she was up, throwing off her clothes, standing on her bed, trying to fly toward the balcony edge just beyond the sliding glass doors between her and the jump when the phone rang! It was a guy, she said, wanting to come over and bang her--she kept him on the phone long enough to come down enough off the Angel Dust to gain her complete senses back. Well, you may ask with panting anticipation, did she let the guy come over? Damn right she did; she said she gave him the best piece of ass he'd ever had that night she was so thankful he had called when he did.

I never did anything but pot--of, come on, sure, I've tried them all, almost killed myself doing a rock of pure coke after a fan of my band singing days gave it to me wrapped in a twenty as a tip but then forced me to do the whole O. Z. of the god-damn pure shit and it almost wiped me out! That did it for me and coke; I never liked it; it did nothing for me; except I did always have a package on me because the women I craved loved their coke--this is the generation right after the valium and lithium craze women went through--this generation of women was a generation of free and upwardly mobile women--women you met in your office or at happy hours in the big midtown places to go after work--and we went out every night after work and then partied hearty and escapaded heartily Friday night and Saturday all day and all Saturday night (dead or alive), to finish your fun about 4 am Sunday morning to then be knocked out until late afternoon when you showered together and you lit up a calming doob while she did the last of the coke and you parted and the rest of Sunday was for resting and accumulating enough strength to start the next week in fresh and eager energies.

Robin was on crutches. About gettting hit by a bus? Robin said, hell, she got hit by a city bus down near CBGB's. You suing? "God-damn, you dumb goy, of course I'm suing, I'm Jewish, a meatball, without a pot to piss in right now, so what'da'ya think, Wolfie?" That's the last time I remember seeing Robin.

Robin booked my band the Fabulous Swilltones for at least one whole summer, a summer of discontent and therefore great creative accomplishments, and Robin booked us into several venues--yes, we did play CBGB's, a great gig, we came out, nothing worked, the mics were dead, we couldn't get the amps to working, something was wrong with the wiring, or the plug ins--and the CBGB gopher, a dumbass pogo-dancing rocker, finally using electrical tape and cheap extension cords got us up and running, the amps were perky and solid sending and the mics lit up like X-mas trees and we came out on stage, the chicken wire was up--in case we sucked the audience would throw beer bottles at you--or eggs, or get up and try to piss on you--so we came out, got ready, and started our lead-off song, "Chicken Shack," and we were cookin' like mad, had the CBGB nutjobs digging us--we were a Chaotic band plus we were all smashed to the gills on a variety of uppers and lowers, psychedelics, and 100-proof Old Grandad Sour Mash Bourbon--when suddenly I smelled smoke and thought my piano was on fire--but no, suddenly there was a horrible buzz that was louder-than-hell and sent people to putting their fingers in their ears, even dogs started howling loudly out in the street this buzz was so maniacally demanding--it ended when the guitar player's amp exploded, literally exploded, and then caught fire, a blazing fire that looked like it might recreate the coming hells we'd all have to face--and there we were trapped behind the chicken wire--and we ran like hell back to the green room--holy shit, that was just behind the stage down a narrow dark hall and in the green room we were doomed if the place caught on fire. Finally we heard a lot of commotion going on and then we started hearing clapping in unison and shouts of "Encore!" and our body guard, Johnny U-Think-It'z-EZ, came and said, "Fellows, they love youse guys out there, c'mon, they wants an encore!" We went back out on stage--nothing worked--the sax section started playing "The Stars-Spangled Banner" and I started singing, "Silent Night, Holy Night" and soon the audience was hooting at us, getting ready to heave the beer bottles, so we packed up our smoke- and dirt-smeared instruments and mics and shit and hit the road running....

[I had written a lot more on this but my modem went bonkers and disconnected me and I lost it--once lost, let it stay lost. It was a wonderful tribute, too. Just think of how much brilliant writing and music and art have been lost over the centuries do to disconnections.]

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

Yee-Haw!!

NOTE: We've seen no evidence that Obama has picked Uncle Joe "Agent Orange" Biden as his veep--however, we love the Wolf Man when his meat-ripping fangs are dripping with phlegm so we publish it and let the chips fall where they may if Obama picks Mike Gravel as his veep.

Dumbocrats Shooting Themselves in the Foot (or They're Putting Their Feets in Their Mouths)
I've been gloating. You know what "gloating" is?
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gloat (glt)

intr.v. gloat·ed, gloat·ing, gloats

To feel or express great, often malicious, pleasure or self-satisfaction: Don't gloat over your rival's misfortune.

n.

1. The act of gloating.

2. A feeling of great, often malicious, pleasure or self-satisfaction.

---

[Perhaps of Scandinavian origin; see ghel-² in Indo-European roots.]
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I love that "great, often malicious, pleasure"--that's very Freudian--and you know how H.D. and I love old ancient Freud. Pill-pushing psychiatrists have taken his place today. No longer do you have to lie on a horsehair sofa and reveal your past to a Vienna Jew with a beard and a soothing voice! Did you catch my pun about lyin' on a horsehair sofa?

"Catching puns" is a gloating sport.

Why am I gloating?

Because I've been growling for 2 years now on this beastly blog about how politicians no matter what their party affiliation are liars, hypocrites, two-faced, all the same, all in the same "can't lose" boat--one term in Congress and you're fixed for life with a great health-care policy, a chance to get a great high-paying job with a consulting firm or a NONPROFIT "political" institute (read "Lobbying Firms and Foundations"), with privileges that come with once being a Washington, District of Corruption, Beltway crook. Plus, I'm also gloating over what seems to be a possibility before I die that I will get to see a Chaotic world, a death-wish world hoisting itself up onto the scaffold and hanging itself high! The End of Mankind--to be a part of that would give me a satisfaction in DYING--to live to the very end of human life on this Insect-Ruled World--no animal, including man's monkey relatives who are already entering into extinction zones, can survive an insect attack! The very chemicals that kill insects are 1000 times more effective in killing human beings. Look at the Bopol disaster where one of Union Carbide insecticide plants blew sky-high (to this day, by the bye, Union Carbide has not been charged with responsibility in this incident--in fact, I'm sure by now they've changed their name and no one even knows where Union Carbide is anymore--they started off as car battery makers--and ended up as human being killers--in other words, terrorists!!!) And I've been growling about this all my life, but NOW, today, in this 21st Century (in which John McCain says we do not invade sovereign territories, like his pals in Georgia--and what a wonderful Chaotic mess that is turning into), I see the possibility of human beings being driven into extinction by their subconscious suicidal tendencies! Man is determined to annihilate himself--the rich and privileged, those ROYAL People who still OWN us all, think they are protected by their wealth and their private armies, like the US Army--a professional army--and the heroes we make of these professional soldiers are false heroes like cops who get themselves shot in perhaps overdoing their duty are not heroes--and that especially goes for the big fat-bellied New York policemen I watched on teevee while the WTC towers were falling on 9/11 who were running like scared chickens away from that tragedy while the NYC firemen were foolishly running into that inferno. Another aside: remember, 9/11 is one of the most miraculous military attacks ever on a totally unsuspecting people, the people of New York City. I have lived in New York City since 1969, longer than I've lived anywhere else on earth, and the year I moved to NYC, the Croatian rebels blew up baggage-areas out at LaGuardia Airport--I don't recall how many were killed, but it seems I remember 12 or 13 killed in one airport bombing and there were others. Also when I moved to NYC, the anti-VietNam War movement was still in full swing and sway--there were war protest rallies in Central Park nearly every weekend! Cops (we called 'em Pigs) were everywhere in Central Park in those days and we were considered "Commie Lovers" and because of John Lenon talking about Jesus X Christ like he did one time, we were considered "Atheists" too--and I detour here to say that Atheists (of which I am one) are one of the most discriminated-against groups in the USA even though most Americans are atheists down deep (remember the subconscious?)--that's why the Christian fundraisers (fund (and I've written often about the Old South phenomenon of "amentalists) have to keep harping on how you must keep the faith and trust in THEIR God (or gods) because it's so easy to DOUBT the bullshit they're spewing out so piously--usually using the fundraising tactic of you giving God your hard-earned or criminally earned bucks and in return God will reward you 100 fold (or his lonely son Jesus X will reward you--one of 'em will). "Doctor" Mike Murdoch is one of my favorite "Christian" flim-flammersflim-flamming"--The Flim-Flam Man (1967) was a great movie, by the way, with George C. Scott (who, by God, I thought was a hell of an actor--a serious actor who could actually play roles where you didn't really see him as George C. Scott but as the character he was supposedly truly playing)--and in this movie, written by a Southern poet named Guy Owens, George C. plays the ultimate flim-flam man--a good book done well by Hollywood (I knew Guy Owens in the sense his little poetry journal--he was at the University of South Carolina--published a couple of my youthful poems and once I got a letter from Guy telling me he especially liked one of my poems)--now back to our story: and good-ole-boy "Doctor" Mike Murdoch's flim-flam has to do with "planting seeds" (it's very sexual, too) ("Doctor" Oral Roberts came up with the SEED idea--you're not giving preachers your money, you are sowing seeds in God's Heavenly Garden (you see to a Christian (or any desert religion--Judaism, Islam) the Garden is the Oasis--like Heaven is an OASIS in the sky--a place of salvation from the demanding Sun (Ra)-ruled desert--and by God, I just realized, Mormonism is a desert religion, too)). Here's how "Doctor" Mike's flim-flam goes: He pauses a minute in his spiel and suddenly shakes his head and starts saying "Hallelujah" over and over again and then he stops, looks dead into the camera and says, "God has just spoke to me and he told me to ask for 1000 of you to plant a $1000 seed offering tonight. Not for me, but for God, and those $1000 seed sowers by planting their $1000 seed offering in God's ministry will reap a harvest of unbounded wealth--Jesus told Peter [the first Pope] 'Ye reap what ye sow...' ..." [he meant it in an agricultural way--they traded goods for services in those days--they didn't have much money in circulation--some Roman coins and some of those Widow's mites that are so important in the Christian fundraising methods]--"...'and I in return will replenish you 100 fold.' And, folks," "Doctor" Mike Murdoch continues, "I tell you in continuing that God has laid it upon my heart to..." [Christians still believe God resides in human hearts--and you scientifically ask, what about a heart transplant? They can't answer that one--what did Jesus (an illiterate) and those ignorant Jewish reformers know about heart transplants? They would have stoned you to death had you said you believed one day real doctors ("physicians" is a better word--check out its OED meaning!) would be able to transfer hearts from one body to another--"Blasphemer!" would have been the crime!] "...God has told me to back your seed offerings with my own harvest--for every $1000 seed sower who comes forward here tonight, I'm going to guarantee you every seed offering I make in the next 90 days I will offer as back up to your $1000 seed." When "Doctor" Mike is asked, "Hey, Doctor, I gave a $1000 seed offering to your ministry a year and a half ago and I ain't got nothin' yet except letters from you asking for more seeds--what the hell's going on?" "Doctor" Mike looks serious into the camera--his expression is one, "OH Hell, how do I trick-bag my way out of this one?--oh, I got it!"--the light bulb comes on over his head and the good ole Louisiana boy "Doctor" comes up with a winner. With that cocky look on his face, Mike says, "Brother, let me tell you. You want a mosquito harvest. By that I mean, a mosquito breeds and multiples in a matter of seconds--on the other hand there is an elephant harvest! It takes an elephant two years to give birth! You are expecting a mosquito harvest but perhaps God has an elephant harvest in mind for you--why, personally I've got several elephant harvests due me--in one case it's been 7 years..." [7 is an important numerological number to Christians--who like their Judaic ancestors practice numerology--the Islamics, too--7 is a lucky number all over the world with superstitious and unscientific believers--I mean, if you'll believe Jesus was born of an immaculate conception you'll believe then in elephant harvests]--"...so you see," continues "Doctor" Mike's flim-flam, "you just have to trust in God and his WISDOM...keep the faith...and if you don't, well, you ain't gettin' neither a mosquito or an elephant harvest." And Christian sucker, you've just been flim-flammed by a good ole Louisiana hoodwinker ("to hoodwink" a good old South verb, too).

"Doctor" Mike Murdoch is a prophet, a prophet of the god Chaos, for he, too, sees Chaos as the only hope for Christians--that time when supposedly, and why not believe this, too, Christians will disappear leaving stupid people who only have faith in scientific fact (whatever that is) behind (a good book is Philip Wylie's novel Disappearance--it's not a "left behind" book, there's nothing "Christian" about the man who wrote A Generation of Vipers). What a great day that will be when all the Christians disappear (Praise the Lard and pass me some of them biscuits and jelly)--and I'll be still growling but soon will be howling when I see humankind disappearing...probably through these continuous wars we people who keep on surviving will have to endure.

Jo Stafford, a band singer from the Swing Era, had a hit, when I was a bambino, called "Shrimp Boats Is a'Comin"--"Shrimp boats is'a comin', there's dancin' tonight/Shrimp boats is'a comin', their sails are in sight! Why don't you hurry, hurry, hurry home!" [see the full lyrics BELOW]. It was a song about the Louisiana shrimp boats going out every day and how the wives and children waited on the beaches every night to see if all the boats were coming in with the day's catch--or what boats didn't make it in case of a Gulf of Mexico storm! Morgan City, Louisiana, used to be the shrimp boat capitol of the world--New Iberia, too--and when I lived in New Orleans, I used to run over to Houma and then drive straight down south to Grand Isle--and all along the road would be women and children up on galvanized tin roofs of sheds on which they had laid out tons of shrimpers which they spread evenly out on those roofs in that hot tropical sun, tossing out a ton or two of cayenne pepper all over them as they baked in that free sun. All your dried shrimp in those "fresh fish" days came from down in that part of Louisiana.

I've not been able to get that stupid song out of my head for like 55 years, except now when it hits my mind, like it did when I started writing this about how I am gloating, instead of "shrimp boats is'a comin'" I sing "Chaos is'a comin', there's dancin' tonight/Chaos is'a comin', its sails are in sight."

In 1985, I got a job as a band singer. As a band singer, I found myself deliberately remembering and imitating Jo Stafford's singing style, because I, like Lester Young, liked Jo Stafford's voice--and when I was a band singer, I imitated her intonationally--she had what was called a "husky" voice in those days and I have a sort of high voice--I'm not a falsetto but I can do falsetto if I have to--I'll tell you all the truth--women love men falsetto singers--especially black women! (I'm sounding like Uncle Joe Biden here.) So in order to dampen my voice, gruff it up a bit, I'd think of Jo Stafford singing "Shrimp Boats Is'a Comin'" or "You Belong to Me," another of her hits--and suddenly I was hitting the notes just like Jo did, except no one in my audiences ever related my singing to Jo Stafford's--hell, most of that crowd didn't know who Jo Stafford was.

Jo Stafford: in her heyday.

In 1983, I started writing songs. By 1990, I had written right at 1000 songs. One day, it was hot as holy hell that day, I was writing a song and that god-damn "Shrimp Boats Is'a Comin'" kept comin' up in my head--I couldn't shake it--and soon I was singing it as "Chaos Is a'Comin'"--to the point that I said, hell, why not write a Hymn to Chaos--and I did--I worked feverishly on it--my "Hymn to Chaos." Not as a hymn to a god but a hymn to a distant coming, a second coming since the world was Chaos at one time in our distant past--so it is theoretically possible that we are reverting to our Chaotic past--just like the shrimp boats went out at dawn and didn't come back until eventide!

Well, guess what, folks? The sun is going down. Things are gonna get very Chaotic in the coming years--hell, in the coming months!

The USA is collapsing. Obama was a shooting star of hope to repel Chaos and welcome in instead Chaos's opposite side, Peace--could we say Peace and Chaos are running on parallel lines? Obama looked to me like, like Greg Palast is saying, too, a sort of a man-savior (I don't believe in saviors, please, I'm talking politics here and not reality)--let's say he had a chance to be a peacemaker, a man of decisive CHANGE--BUT NO! Politics doesn't work like that--Politics and Politicians are representatives of our collective Death Wish--aha, I got Freud and his horsehair couch (you LIE on) back into the picture.

Freud's Horsehair Consultation Couch (in his London consulting room)

A projected look at Chaos ( a computer model of it) can be a beautiful image--very colorful, filled with crazy fractals (fractionals)--filled with inconclusive (unpredictable)(variational) math problems scattered across a jumble of blackboards (a blackboard jumble).

One of the worst people Obama could have chosen for his running mate (I love these nautical analogies) is Joe "Backstepping" Biden--so who did Obama pick for his running mate?--you guessed it, Joe "Delaware Punch" Biden. The "liberal" blogs are joyous! We evil anarchists are joyous, too. Can it get any worse in this country? You bet it can. Will it? You bet it will. Check out your Fidelity account--or your 401K--or your household budgets. See the Chaos a'comin' into your life!
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To refresh your knowledge of Theoretical Chaos--a new science by the way, here's a good explanation of modern Chaos. www.imho.com/grae/chaos/chaos.html

For a really up-to-date look at Chaos, check out this journal: http://chaos.aip.org/
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Because of fractals, nothing is predictable in Chaos except EVERYTHING is eventually predictable in Chaos--that's the beauty of Chaos. Self-simularity it's called.

And why am I so gloating today? Because Obama chose the one goofus politician who will keep him from winning the national election, Joe Biden--Obama can't call him a "soul brother"--check out what Joe (when he was running for the fourth time--at the Iowa caucus in 2000--said about why schools in Delaware (the Du Ponts own Delaware, by the way) and Washington, District of Corruption, don't work so well, at least not as well as schools in Iowa--from jackandjillpolitics (a black bourgeoisie site, as they call it):

In what the Washington Post is describing as a “stumble,” Democratic presidential candidate Joe Biden (he's run for president 4 times) said in an interview with the paper Wednesday that Washington’s high minority population is one of the reasons for the city’s education problems.

Explaining why schools in Iowa are performing better than those in Washington, D.C., Biden told the Post, “There’s less than one percent of the population of Iowa that is African American. There is probably less than four of five percent that are minorities. What is in Washington? So look, it goes back to what you start off with, what you’re dealing with.”

“When you have children coming from dysfunctional homes, when you have children coming from homes where there’s no books, where the mother from the time they’re born doesn’t talk to them — as opposed to the mother in Iowa who’s sitting out there and talks to them, the kid starts out with a 300 word larger vocabulary at age three. Half this education gap exists before the kid steps foot in the classroom,” the Delaware Democrat added.

The paper reports Biden’s campaign quickly sought to clarify the remarks, saying in a statement that the senator was not making a “race-based distinction.”

So there ya go. Obama picks who the Dumbocrat leadership told him to pick--he was given the following choices (maybe that great political wit Caroline Kennedy came up with these choices): Joe "Agent Orange (made in Delaware)" Biden, Evan Blah (Bayh), or the Governor of Virginia (a weirdo really--though he talks a progressive game). Obama picks Uncle Joe Biden, our modern day Joel Chandler Harris (I know, Who?). "More Tar Baby stories, Joe." But then, like I've said all along, folks, Obama's only half-black--he has that WHITE gloating in him! He's a Chaos theory at work--Obama fits a Mandelbaum Blot! He's a fractal portrait of a parallel-line man.

A Joe Biden Cartoon

A Great Name for Him: Joe "Foot in Mouth" Biden

Way to go, Obama--but then, you didn't really have much to choose from. Just make sure Joe doesn't start talking his White Race Theory shit--remember, Joe's never known poverty--hell, he's never had to deal with having black skin--hell, this son of a bitch is nothing more than just another stupid, crooked, two-faced politician--like Obama's turning out to be.

Anarchy is my hope--that's what Chaos is to me--a fractal world where you create your own political situation--YOU--and your self-similarities commune--to survive in Chaos we'll have to be dark in our intellectual visions--but then, from out of darkness comes the Sun--and the Sun is really King of Chaos--and as George Gamov taught us, the Sun is dying--that's a Chaotic point right there!

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

Lyrics to "Shrimp Boats Is a'Comin'" (lyrics by Paul Howard/music by Jo Stafford's husband, Paul Weston)

Shrimp boats is a-comin'
Their sails are in sight
Shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' tonight
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Look here! The shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' tonight

Shrimp boats is a-comin'
Their sails are in sight
Shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' tonight
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Look here! The shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' tonight
(Shrimp boats is a-comin', there's dancin' tonight)

(SLOWLY):
They go to sea with the evenin' tide
And their women folk wave their good-bye
(Ill sant vas... There they go)
While the Louisiana moon floats on high
And they wait for the day they can cry...

Shrimp boats is a-comin'
Their sails are in sight
Shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' tonight
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Look here! The shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' tonight
(Shrimp boats is a-comin', there's dancin' tonight)

(SLOWLY):
Happy the days while they're mending the nets
'Til once more they ride high out to sea
(Ill sant vas... There they go)
Then how lonely the long nights will be
'Til that wonderful day when they see...

Shrimp boats is a-comin'
Their sails are in sight
Shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' tonight
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Why don't-cha hurry, hurry, hurry home
Look here! The shrimp boats is a-comin'
There's dancin' there's dancin'
There's dancin' there's dancin'

Shrimp boats is a-comin' - tonight!