Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Kill Power Crazy

Foto by tgw, "Snowy Night in Manhattan," New York City, 2009.

I heard this guy on Amy Goodman's Democracy Now Monday. His name is McGuire. I didn't trust him at first because he's a professor at Marquette University--a Catholic college. If that wasn't enough, at Marquette he teaches theology. But then the guy started talking. I'm not looking for wisdom anymore. I've got tons of wisdom. I'm looking for good thinking; good reasoning.

I believe some of us are born intuitive. Because of this I'm a lousy psychologist but a great Sociologist (which seems to be my religion; though sometimes I find modern Sociologists too caught up in problematics to the neglect of providing us with amazing collective estimates and in some cases even guessimating future happenings with amazing closeness to actuality based on the direction those amazing collective estimates are leading us). My problem is I am a human. By nature, my curiosity drives me toward complicating the simple; exaggeration is the human animal's metier. We work hard at stirring our divisive selves up; of pitting ourselves against all the others. "Competition" we call it. We justify it by saying we subscribe to social Darwinism, which says, only the best & brightest in any environment (even the environment of the global marketplace) will survive. They must be strong physically as well as bright mentally in order to lead the mediocre majority into doing all their slavish work for them. The result is that the best & brightest rise to the top. They become the seedbed of the future Power Elite.

Competition is fun. Being a winner is rewarding. Being the very best in your domain is rewarding in more ways than money. You know what I mean. Money is important, yes, but better than money is POWER. The power to control large areas of your domain. Like Tiger Woods. He's a failure as a wife cheater and profligate, but he's a big winner when it comes to his ability to play golf better than any other son of a bitchin' golfer in the world. When Tiger shows up at your golf tournament, you get rich quick because you can expect thousands more spectators to your event plus if your tournament is carried on teevee, when Tiger plays, golf's ratings shoot up 50% higher than when he doesn't. You watch. Tiger lays off a year--or if he plays golf, he plays in Dubai, or Malaysia, or Singapore, or Taiwan. Like Tiger had just won a big golf tournament in SE Asia (and before that he was coming off a multimillion-dollar win of a really big golf tournament in Dubai) right before he was caught flipping his pecker in the faces of young club girls while his light-white Swedish wife was home tending to the sunshine kids who'll grow up to become leeches on the celebrity world since they will not have to be very ambitious after mommy collects half of daddy's multibillion-dollar worth. So Tiger simply has to go off into other parts of the world, let his carousing image cool down over here. By the way, you don't think Tiger behaves himself in the rest of the world any more than he does when he's over here do you? I'm willing to bet there are some Asian honeys who'll soon be coming on the market chattering away in Mandarin about the excellent talents of Tiger With Wood On when he's off the course relaxing in some Happy Ending pleasure palace. [Being a loser, by the bye, means you are soon forgotten and lost in obscureness.]

So this guy McGuire...he's Daniel McGuire and he's a professor of Moral Theology at Marquette. Here's a passage from an article he wrote in November that shows you what impressed me about the way this guy thinks.
Bred to Violence

Language and thought never rise out of a sociological vacuum. Theory, except in moments of true creativity, is autobiographical. Our stories ensoul our words and frame our discourse. A strong penchant for self-destructive violence toward one another and toward the rest of nature seems tragically kneaded into our history-formed collective personality. Maybe the apocalyptic voices are the realists. Georg Henrik von Wright says with chilling calmness: "One perspective, which I don't find unrealistic, is of humanity as approaching its extinction as a zoological species. The idea has often disturbed people. . . . For my part I cannot find it especially disturbing. Humanity as a species will at some time with certainty cease to exist; whether it happens after hundreds of thousands of years or after a few centuries is trifling in the cosmic perspective. When one considers how many species humans have made an end of, then such a natural nemesis can perhaps seem justified."10 Vaclav Havel warns that if we endanger the Earth she will dispense with us in the interests of a higher value-that is, life itself. Lynn Margulis joins the grim chorus saying that the rest of Earth's life did very well without us in the past and it will do very well without us in the future. Not all religious scholars rush in with gospels of consolation. If we are the "missing link" between apes and true humanity, as Gerd Theissen puts it, our species is morally prenatal and yet armed to the teeth, with the end of our existence stored and ready in our nuclear silos and other species dropping around us like canaries in a doomed mine.11

Some scholars think our passion for war is innate and irrepressible. Thus L.F. Richardson in his 1960 study on the statistics of violent conflicts searched for the causative factors of war and concluded that wars are largely random catastrophes whose specific time and location we cannot predict but whose recurrence we must expect just as we expect earthquakes and hurricanes.12 This leads a writer in American Scientist to see the nations of the world as banging "against one another with no more plan or principle than molecules in an overheated gas."13 Supportive of these dismal views, is the study that says humans have been at peace for only 8 percent of the past 3,400 years of recorded history.14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That's brilliant thinking in my way of thinking. WHY? Because it jives perfectly with the way I've been thinking and the way other Growlers have been thinking since we started blogging going on 4 years ago now. To read Brother Daniel's whole article, here ya go:

And in my last Growler post I mentioned Obama should preemptively strike Yemen ASAP--and who beat me to that suggestion? Why Unka Joe LIEberman--the Dumbocrat's Peck's bad boy who since the party turned against him [I mean, come on, he went to the Repugnican Convention--the dumb bastard] and beat him in the Dumbocratic primary up in "the Insurance State"--and Old Joe showed their asses and ran as an Independent and won by a hair] he's determined to become a thorn in the Dumbocrats's side, especially their populist side. And these weak-kneed Rollo Dumbos tolerate him with ass-kissing ardor.

Unka Joe has several important connections--OK, first he's Jewish, there, we got that out of the way, and second, he's a senator from Connecticut, the insurance capital of the world at one time--Hartford being the home of the Hartford, Travelers, Connecticut General--plus Connecticut is the home to a ton of corporate headquarters and big-time big-monied CEOs of some of the worlds big global marketplace giants. So, yep, Unka Joe was ballyhooing around the District of Corruption about how President Obama, our "War IS Peace" President, should preemptively invade and occupy Yemen--which now it seems is the new hotbed home of al-Queda. [I just read on BuzzFlash that Obama has already sent air strikes against a certain area of Yemen.] The al-Queda, I guessimate from empirical study, left a hundred or so of themselves back in Afghanistan and Pakistan to throw us off, when in actuality it looks like the majority of al-Queda's huge main forces are now embedded in Yemen and the Arab Peninsula. What do you think, is al-Queda maybe heading back home to Mother Saudi-Arabia? [Do Islam nations consider their countries women, like we do, Lady Liberty, or men? "Saudi-Arabia, she...." or "Saudi-Arabia, he..."?]
After listening to Brother McGuire and then reading his piece on war, he's thinking way outside his Catholic frame of mind. Talking about the "JUST WAR" and about the term "Kill Power." It's an interesting term and McGuire shows it goes way back in our collective thinking back to Revolutionary times. And then within hours of hearing McGuire discuss this Kill Power concept, I then heard President Obama speaking about the spoiled rich brat banker's son's spoiled terrorist plot and how our "national security" blew it (Oh NO! I thought Homeland Security was doin' a HECK of a JOB!)--didn't catch this "love-me-daddy" college boy (did he not even have a passport?) who tried to blow himself and an airliner up over Detroit using, now they are saying, a container of explosives he had sewn (sewn!) into his shorts (so Muslim men do wear shorts). AND (breathe) what startled me about President Obama's speech was he used the very phrases McGuire mentions in his article--Obama starts talking about "our power" and that he would use all our "power" to "eliminate" (kill power) these terrorists who are immorally trying to kill Americans. And Obama, dammit, up and said those very words, that we have the power to destroy our enemies and we will use every bit of that kill power to protect our people from a terrorist attack. And, yes, too, dammit, as McGuire said, President Obama is sounding more and more and MORE like Commander-in-Chief Georgie Porgie Bush and seems intent on bringing us further editions of General Georgie Porgie's trumped up WAR on TERRORISM, which in actuality is a war for power--the power of OIL [G.W. Bush, ex-faux-president, our only never-elected president, is enjoying life to its fullest down in Texas--he was at the Cowboys game in the owner's box with his old Arkansas-hick-massuh Jimmy Jones--God-damn that pisses me off when I see that little prick having a damn good life, drinking the best whiskey, laughing it up--Jesus, I feel like ripping into the throat of dumbass America--Wolf Power!

McGuire asks the question, wouldn't we gain more peace if we sat down and talked face to face with these people rather than threatening them with annihilation if they don't change their ways and become US-adoring Christian-Capitalist gentlemen and ladies?

I said during the Vietnam War that all Hanoi had to do was throw up their hands and surrender to us and ask our forgiveness and we, like we did Japan and Germany after they surrendered to us after WWII, would make them a leading world Capitalist power!

I think as an intuitive Sociologist-type full-of-wisdom person, I have to agree with the doomsdayers McGuire mentions and say, I don't think we have any choice but to war. We are animals, you see. Animals war. Monkeys war like mad over territory; over eats; over water to drink. War is animal; War is instinctual. Benevolence is a sign of weakness, except when it's family. That's why dynasty families evolve out of our animalistic tendencies--the Kennedys, the Rockefellers, the Bushes--they form foundations; they pool their wealth; most of their worthless offspring get into politics after graduating from Harvard or Yale--even the Bin Ladins knew that going to Harvard was a Good Thing, as successful felon Martha Stewart might judge all this.

As long as we consider ourselves divine--the "missing link between monkeys and the higher forms of human beings" as McGuire says--and deny our being animals the same as a god-damn monkey is simply an animal we are doomed--right now to the dictates of Chaos. There is nothing divine about monkeys--and there is nothing divine about us monkeys--nothing missing between monkeys and those higher beings--Whaaaa: Angels! Spirits! Holy Ghosts! The bullshit is deep and getting deeper.

We are doomed. Our truths are based on lies. Our motivations are wrongly directed. We should be peacekeepers of the "Garden of Eden," which our earth is--totally under the control of our true God, the Sun, and the Sun's God, the Universe, neither of which give one shit whether human beings continue as is continued or are wiped out, say by one cracked-up Universe hurling an asteroid straight into the breadbasket gut of the human-crippled planet Earth, so named that by human beings!

I am contaminated by wisdom; I am cleansed by good thinking and solutional revelation.

for The Daily Growler

Saturday, December 26, 2009

The Daily Growler: Fear and Death at the End of Another Year

Foto by tgw, New York City, 2009.
Keep on Truckin'
I have this pocket knife shaped like a 10-wheeler bluntnose-cab-tractor-trailer and on the side of the trailer it says "Keep on Truckin'."

Keep on tryin' to truck.

trucked, truck·ing, trucks
To transport by truck.
1. To carry goods by truck.
2. To drive a truck.
3. Slang To move or travel in a steady but easy manner.

[Short for truckle or from Latin trochus, iron hoop (from Greek trokhos, wheel).]

I believe R. Crumb's the one that started us "Truckin'" in the slang.
truck 2 (trk)
v. trucked, truck·ing, trucks
1. To exchange; barter.
2. To peddle.
To have dealings or commerce; traffic.
1. Articles of commerce; trade goods.
2. Garden produce raised for the market.
3. Informal Worthless goods; stuff or rubbish: "Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What is that truck?" (Mark Twain).
4. Barter; exchange.
5. Informal Dealings; business: We'll have no further truck with them.

[Middle English trukien, from Old North French troquer.]

The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2009. Published by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

The first question truckin' around in my mind: If there are only 100 al-Queda left in Afghanistan and I'm reading where al-Queda is now building up its attack base in Yemen, then why isn't President Obama (our "War Is Peace" president) preemptively striking against Yemen? I'm putting ideas in our President's head: move the Iraq forces into Yemen! Hot damn. Another war front! MORE WAR, DAMMIT. War is truck.

Our current idiot-idol terrorist supposedly was trained by al-Queda in Yemen. Yemen just a couple of days ago told our Prez they had with the help of our very criminal CIA rooted out some al-Queda cells--oops, I guess they missed this guy.

The "Detroit-aimed shoe-bomber-copy-cat" from Nigeria, wearing freaky military-style clothes, with a bulge in his crotch (oh those Nigerian men and those big banana-sized cocks!)--oops, they missed this guy through two checkpoints. Now they are trumpeting that this dude is a prominent Nigerian banker's son and that this proper Nigerian banker dad (yeah sure) had turned his own son in prior to his own son getting a flight clearance from Nigeria to Amsterdam to the good ole USA--oops, they missed this guy. Don't they check passports? Don't passports list the country's you've visited recently? Like Israel used to not allow anybody into Israel who had visited a country like Syria for instance, why doesn't the US just not allow anybody who has recently visited Yemen...oh, but wait...that seems too easy. That seems too rational. Whoaa. If we stop all terrorists from coming to this country, how the hell you gonna keep us afraid of terrorists? Let's see, this al-Quedan operative's profile: he's got a Muslim name; he's a Muslim-named African Muslim man; he's a Muslim-named African Muslim man studying engineering in London--an Arab-Muslim haven--much larger Arab population than here--where Homeland Security rumors had him shouting anti-US and pro-al-Queda statements; plus he wears a lot of military-like clothes; plus he's from Nigeria where supposedly we are told Osama bin Laden did some dirty work at one time--that's when ObL was supposedly working out of the Sudan. Second, this bird supposedly was on a watch list but not on a no-flight list. Cat Stevens is on a no-fly list but not this dude. Third, the prominent banker in Nigeria supposedly warned the US his son had gone off into the wackiest end of Islam and was babbling like an idiot terrorist and was going off to Yemen on his Christmas vacation (Muslims do take Christmas vacations) to study the latest ways to blow up Americans (were all the passengers American? Well no, let's see the bomber wasn't American was he? Well, the airplane was American--and worth more than the combined worth of all the passengers on board whether American or what).

Here's a spoiled brat banker's son, a poor little Nigerian rich boy, with enough money to fly around the world at will, to live a good life in London, a good life back home in Nigeria, with plenty of spare (leisure) time to decide to become a terrorist and blow a US (Delta) airliner up while it was landing in Detroit of all places. Why Detroit? Now I'm reading that this dude had been to Detroit before. Interesting isn't it how these scoundrels have money enough to travel all over the world...or have I said that? And ain't it ironic how Osama bin Laden's a spoiled brat poor little Muslim rich boy, too. Could these poor little rich Muslims boys maybe hate their fathers? Is this a "love me, daddy" syndrome at work here? Oh they know their mothers all right. Was Obama's daddy a banker? Was the original Bin Laden a banker? [Osama came to this country during Ronnie Raygun's administration as a man named Osmon.]

So the idiocy of this War on Terror continues to have its moments. Funny how these so-called al-Queda recruits pop up after every 30 billion-dollar-additional war-spending approval bill whizzes through Congress with only a modicum of dissenting votes. There, of course, is no public option in any of these bills either. The only public option we have is the government grabbing 30% of our earnings every paycheck.

And I'm told I complain too much. It's not so much complaining as it is I'm revealing hypocrisies.

The Power Elite are not afraid one bit of terrorists--you think Donald Trump, Warren Buffett, Bill Gates, those private-island billionaires, are worried about terrorists? Hell, Bill Gates makes tons of money selling operating systems to al-Queda, the Taliban, bin Laden's office staff and personal computer set up--we assume al-Quedans are expert computer science geeks like they are military explosives experts. If they use PCs running XP, Windows 7 or Vista, doesn't that make Bill Gates a terrorist, too; aiding, associating with, and abetting terrorists? Using the vague definition of a terrorists, come on, couldn't the CIA rendition flight old Bill off to say our good friends the Syrians for some serious torturing until he confesses he's a terrorist agent? I mean is anybody thinking like me? All of these poor boobs we've imprisoned at Guantanamo, Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan, undergoing torture in Egypt, Syria, Morocco--and all those terrorists we are killing daily in Afghanistan and Pakistan--and still we can't stop a fool spoiled rich brat Nigeria banker's son from almost blowing up 250 passengers on a Delta Airlines coming from Amsterdam over Detroit?

This idiot college kid was now they say using a condom full of this military explosive powder (how does al-Queda get their weapons? From Russia? From China? From Israel? From the USA? From Saudi-Arabia maybe?) tied next to his big Nigerian banana-sized cock. They then say he somehow got hold of a syringe--like a spike you shoot dope with--I guess those are OK to bring on a transcontinental flight--filled it with water--and then tried to shoot the water into the condom and set off the special military explosive powder--they've already told us what the explosive compound was--everything is already known--you ever notice that? I mean don't they strip search Muslim men from Nigeria coming to the USA? Don't they do hand searches? Pat downs? I mean couldn't a trained cop type feel a condom full of explosives tied to a man's crotch in a thorough pat down? Certainly surely they could have found a syringe among his possessions?

Right now it is scary how totally vulnerable the USA is to a real military attack, though I doubt if there's any nation in the world today who could pull it off. Maybe Great Britain might be able to lob a nuclear-headed missile into downtown New York City (Great Britain is a country who has attacked us before don't forget)--or say the Mexican Army--or the Canadian Army could do some real damage--in fact, I would be afraid of the Canadian Army if I were President Obama.

You see, we're so vulnerable to military attack because we have no armed forces left in this country to protect our borders--we have no state militias (the National Guard) left here "at home" to guard our states and cities in case of a any kind of attack from humans or Nature. Even the least-intelligent madman Muslim knows how easily penetrable our borders are. I mean think about the tons and tons of ships and airliners carrying cargo that comes into this country every hour of every day--think of all the international truck traffic that is racing across our borders on a 24/7 basis. How does all that good marijuana and cocaine and horse and Ecstasy and crystal meth get into this country by the millions of pounds 24/7? And of course one of our reasons for being in Afghanistan, besides the oil pipeline we want coming through there--and those oil fields in Iran just over the Pakistan border--and those Iranian ports over on that side of the world, too--is to protect our big pharmaceutical companies's investments in the poppy industry over there. Where do you think our pharmas get the poppy juices to make all their miracle opiate drugs, like Oxy Contin? Opiates! We love opiates in this country. We used to could get opium-laced hashhish on the streets of NYC--the opium came from Afghanistan; the opium-laced hash came from Turkey and Lebanon.

And President Obama is ballyhooing his justification of war and more war by filling us with fear now about this terrorist being besides a rich banker's son supposedly a new breed of al-Quedan explosive tester who will now be invading the US in droves (or maybe DRONES)--all of them with condoms filled with firecracker powder and carrying syringes and pretending to be sick and asking for a blanky so they can carry off their evil deeds without suspicion. This form of fear is the same form of fear you get when you tell little kids scary stories and then enjoy watching them piss in their little pants from fear. "Ooooooooooh I'm'a scared," we little US children are crying as our government continues to keep us under control by scaring the shit out of us. In the meantime....

I keep saying over and over, we are the biggest terrorist organization in the world. We are playing Mafia with the world. We are going about whacking our enemies as world policemen, world undercover cops, and world-dominating armed might--our armed forces are imperial in nature--the most well-equipped and costly military in the world--yet, an armed force that has not had a successful war since WW II.

Since WWII, like a good Sociologist would, check out how much money we've spent on our unsuccessful military adventures. Check out how many billions at the same time we've put into our undercover cops, the CIA, the FBI, the DEA, ICE, the Capitol police force, the Secret Service, Homeland Security (Obama keeps putting right-wing nutjobs as head of his Homeland Security), the National Internal Security (NIS), local police forces, the Pentagon. Are we safer today than we were after WWII? HELL NO.

And how ironic at the same time Obama is phonily negotiating nuclear disarmament proposals Congress is gradually bringing nuclear power back on line in this country--right under our scared shitless noses--allowing nuclear reactors to be built with deregulated glee--and we are still manufacturing nuclear-powered submarines, destroyers, all carrying nuclear warheads, or we're putting nuclear warheads on our in-flight bombers, and you know we're carrying nuclear warheads on those nuclear submarines that could be sitting at the bottom of your local harbor for all you know.

All of this raving just to get to the news that bothered me more than Mohamed Abdullah Dumbshit blowing up a Delta airliner with a penis bomb! That's it, this guy will become known not as the shoe bomber copycat but as the penis-bomb bomber. And oh shit, what a brilliant engineering student he must be. His firecracker popped alive then fizzled out burning that banana-size cock down to normal size. And praise the almighty fictional Lawdy Lawd we got his anti-US ass before he killed more Americans. That al-Queda war cry "Kill Americans"--I mean they come on as a wacky bunch of juvenile pop-gun warriors. I mean, come on, they don't even have the ability to make a shoe bomb work--much less a penis bomb work. Seems he'd a'done more harm had he simply slipped a boxcutter into his shorts, taken over the airliner, and then crashed it into downtown Detroit--or do al-Queda men wear shorts?

Much more alarming to me--silly man/wolf hybrid that I am (remember when G.W. Bush talked about man-animal hybrids that would develop from stem-cell research? Whatever happened to stem-cell research?) was reading of the deaths of people I was surprised to see had died over the past couple of days (Wikipedia's Death List is the most up-to-date and great death list there is! Jimmy Wales, however, is crying he's broke and Wikipedia is broke--he's begging for money on his sites now--just like BuzzFlash is constantly begging for money on their site).

Connie Hines, for instance, died back before X-mas. She was 74 or so. Connie Hines? you're asking. Who the hell was Connie Hines? ANSWER: Wilbur Post's hot wife, Carol Post--and she was a little T&A hotty--, on "Mr. Ed."
Connie, Mr. Ed, and Wilbur--Connie Hines was a young boy's masturbational icon in those days when boys and girls learned sex through osmosis.

Also, Arnold Stang just died. He was 91. Anybody remember Arnold Stang?
Arnold Stang, from whence came Don Knotts and PeeWee Herman.

Have you seen Peewee's big comeback on teevee lately?--I think Peewee's written a book or something. Remember, Peewee's career was supposedly ruined after he was caught jacking off in a Sarasota, Florida, porn house. Time changes things, don't you see; little kids don't remember Peewee is a jack off anymore.

And a man died yesterday I thought was older than he was, Percy Sutton, one of the richest and most successful black entrepreneurs ever, an ex-Tuskegee airman, lawyer (Malcolm X's lawyer), radio-station owner, owner of the Apollo Theater, former Manhattan Borough president.
Percy Sutton. Percy was quite a ladies man, too. He liked 'em young and willing (we all have our Freudian weaknesses).

In the meantime, speaking of our speaking blasphemingly of teevee's millionaire actor Charlie Sheen in a recent post--a post discussing Tiger Woods's tomcatting around being such a shock to folks, I mentioned how Charlie Sheen got away with living half-ass drunk and pilled up among LA prostitutes for a long while and it didn't hurt his chances of hitting a top-rated show and ending up a successful Hollywood star! Alas, poor Charlie! He ended up in jail out in Hollywood last night--seems he had beat his wife or some such domestic violence charge as that. He'll beat the rap and come out clean as a just-emptied goose-liver-bred young goose. And just like Peewee is making a big second-coming-comeback (it's funny mentioning "coming" around Peewee Herman) and will earn another cool million or so for a brief moment--comebacks sometimes don't last long--look at how far into the past Donny and Marie have faded now--the comeback champs of all time. Though Martha Stewart has made a fantastic comeback after serving out her prison term for being a felon. So so will Tiger be comin' back big time soon. He'll be truckin' again, don't you all worry. Hell, Tiger can go play golf in SE Asia--they don't give a shit over there how big a wife-cheater he is--they just want to see the bastard play golf! Hell yes one of his doxies is going to say Tiger's a tiger in bed--especially after the Tige had $3000 wrapped around his (we hope) black-genetic pecker and not Chinese-genetic pecker--the Chinese noted for the tiny pinkie-finger-long dicks. I learned that from reading Henry Miller--I believe it's Sexus that introduces us to the Japanese man with the tiny prick who curses himself and all Asians for being a little branch like in the tree limb department (speaking of wood)! I jest, of course. I am a jester, aren't I?
Is it easy to realize that Barack Obama has been president for a whole year soon?

I don't complain too much. I'm just irritated by ironies and hypocrisies and lies and backward thinking. We could turn the world into a paradise, but instead we are intent upon destroying it.

In the meantime, remember R. Crumb and Eddie Kendricks, and, as my pocket knife says, "Keep on Truckin'"

for The Daily Growler

Friday, December 25, 2009

The Daily Growler Holy Day Edition
The Good Saint Nick...what the three little dudes in the wash tub represent, we'll have to trust the Saint Nicholas Society for the answer.

We hate to bring up such a salacious notice but we see "nichol ass" in that URL.


There was a good bishop who lived long ago

His memory is glorious, His legends are bold

We call him St Nicholas, a servant of Christ

Who loved little children and taught what was right

He is Father Christmas and Santa Claus too

He helped many people, the stories are true

At Christmas he calls to us, both young and old

To see that the story of Jesus is told

The gifts that he brings us are signs of the love

That comes down at Christmas from heaven above

We see Mother Mary, the babe in the stall,

With Joseph, the wise men and shepherds and all

O blessed St Nik'las we hail you today

The patron of many, you show us the way

To be good and generous, to help those in need

To be kind to others in both word and deed

And Check This Out: A Saint Nicholas Tale: Where "a Baker's Dozen" Comes From, acc. to Aaron Shepherd, "The Good Shepherd" We Hope

Good ole Van Amsterdam. een gelukkige sinterklaasfeest to all our The Daily Growler Dutch friends and enemies.
X-mas Quotes:

"I hate Christmas. The mall is full of nothing but women and children. All you hear is 'I want this,' 'Get me this,' 'I have to have this' . . . and then there's the children. And they're all by my store 'cause they stuck the mall Santa right outside ringing his stupid bell. As if you need a bell to notice a 300-pound alcoholic in a red suit. 'Ho, ho, ho,' all day long. So, nice as can be, I go outside, ask him to shut the hell up. He takes a swing at me. So I lay a hook into his fat belly and he goes down. Beard comes off, all the kids start crying and I'm the bad guy."

Al Bundy, a character on an old Fox teevee show "Married With Children."

And Speaking of Another Fox Show:

Bart in THE SIMPSONS [1989] Image

"Aren't we forgetting the true meaning of Christmas? You know, the birth of Santa."

We Found a Socialist 12 Days of Christmas

The Twelve Socialist Days of Christmas

By Melvin Little III

I am really bored on this holiday morning, so I decided to my own socialist variation of the Twelve Days of Christmas.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the rise of the current Socialist (Second) International, the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the masses joining the movement (and scaring the various liberal-parties), the rise of the current Socialist (Second) International, the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me the defeat of fascism and principled opposition to authoritarian communism, the masses joining the movement (and scaring the various liberal-parties), the rise of the current Socialist (Second) International, the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the 9th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the electoral victory of the various social-democratic or labor-parties, the defeat of fascism and principled opposition to authoritarian communism, the masses joining the movement (and scaring the various liberal-parties), the rise of the current Socialist (Second) International, the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the 10th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the establishment of the mixed economy welfare state/socialized medicine/public services, the electoral victory of the various social-democratic or labor-parties, the defeat of fascism and principled opposition to authoritarian communism, the masses joining the movement (and scaring the various liberal-parties), the rise of the current Socialist (Second) International, the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the 11th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me civil liberties reforms such as abolition of the death penalty as well as opposition to racism, anti-Semitism, sexism, and homophobia, the establishment of the mixed economy welfare state/socialized medicine/public services, the electoral victory of the various social-democratic or labor-parties, the defeat of fascism and principled opposition to authoritarian communism, the masses joining the movement (and scaring the various liberal-parties), the rise of the current Socialist (Second) International, the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy.

On the 12th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me the various leftist governments across the world that opposes the right-wing agenda of the George W. Bush Administration's attempt of being the global schoolyard bully, civil liberties reforms such as abolition of the death penalty as well as opposition to racism, anti Semitism, sexism, and homophobia, the establishment of the mixed economy welfare state/socialized medicine/public services, the electoral victory of the various social-democratic or labor-parties, the defeat of fascism and principled opposition to authoritarian communism, the masses joining the movement (and scaring the various liberal-parties), the rise of the current Socialist (Second) International, the establishment of a social-democratic or labor-party, the writings of Karl Marx as well as the social gospel of the progressive faction of the Jewish and Christian faith, the rise of the trade union movement, the working class consciousness that something is wrong, and an impoverished society of established plutocracy..

For Bread, Red Roses, and Peaceful Revolutions!
Melvin Little
Socialist Party of North Carolina

Who'd a'thought North Carolina had a Socialist Party?

From the King of the Commies, Karl Marx:

Religion is the impotence of the human mind to deal with occurrences it cannot understand.

Hail to Father Christmas:

The English, as I have said, have no Saint Nicholas, no Santa Klaus, no Chris-kinkle to act as a distributor of gifts on Christmas eve. They hail as the patron of the season a vague allegorical being, usually called Father Christmas, though he has, sometimes, been known also as Old Christmas, Captain Christmas, and by other titles.

He appears only in picture, in poetry, and in dramatic pieces specially got up for the holidays. In the latter he has played an important part from a very early period. The most famous of such pieces was a "masque" written by Ben Jonson, Shakespeare's friend and rival, and produced at the court of King James I in the year 1616. That, by the way, is the very year of Shakespeare's death.

Christmas festivities at that time were frowned down upon by many of the more zealous Protestantsjust then beginning to earn the name of "Puritans"who fancied that these mummeries and rejoicings smacked too strongly of "Papist" or Roman Catholice tendencies. Indeed many fanatics had striven to abolish Christmas altogether, and had partly succeeded in doing so, at least among the people who believed as they did. But James I, though a foolish person in some respects was a learned man and a great lover of the traditions of the past.

It is in allusion to the Puritan attempt to suppress him altogether

Ernest Hemingway Reads His "Second Poem to Mary" During Which He Sings "Hail to Father Christmas"--"All of us must die today, Hail to Father Christmas...."

So a hail and hearty Holy Day to all you all from The Daily Growler. Even Atheists can enjoy X-mas as a God-free Holy Day by singing a little tribute to Father Christmas, Saint Nick, Kris Kringle, or Santa Klaus or even the American guy, Santy Claus.

for The Daily Growler

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Living in New York City--Turning at 78 Revolutions per Minute

A Daily Growler Bulletin Regarding Terry Pollard
R Johnson- Terry Pollards cousin said...

***********PRESS RELEASE***********

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Contact: Gary S. Pollard
December 16, 2009 (313) 399-6651 or
Dennis Michael Weeden
(347) 221-1124

August 15, 1931 – December 16, 2009

DETROIT – It is with great sadness the Pollard family announces the passing of storied jazz pianist Terry Jean Pollard. The 78-year-old musician died early this morning in The Bronx, New York, after battling a long sickness. She leaves to cherish her memory one son, Dennis Michael Weeden; a daughter, Corby Marlene Swindle and their families as well as a host of friends, fellow musicians, and admirers.

Terry began her professional career in Detroit at the age of 16. She was part of the very fertile Detroit Jazz scene in the late forty's and early fifty's performing on piano with many of the major up and coming players. Terry’s first recordings were with Billy Mitchell in 1948. She worked with Johnny Hill from 1948 - 1949, the Emmit Slay Trio from 1950 - 1952 and regularly worked with Billy Mitchell from 1952 - 1953.

It was during this time she was discovered at Baker’s Keyboard Lounge by noted vibist Terry Gibbs. He was mesmerized by her skills and asked her to join his North American tour. Terry accepted and became a member of the Terry Gibbs Quartet where she played piano and second vibes. Her greatest visibility was from this period of 1953 - 1957. It was then that she recorded many songs with Gibbs and Dick Garcia.

Terry won a recording contract with Bethlehem Records and recorded one solo album – a self-entitled release – in 1955. She also performed with the Jimmy Wilkins Orchestra, John Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Nat King Cole, Dinah Washington, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald and many others. She won the prestigious 1956 Downbeat Magazine New Artist award defeating the great Milt Jackson. She performed at the famous Birdland Stars of 57' concert in New York City. Terry also made American television history appearing with Terry Gibbs on the famous Tonight Show then hosted by Steve Allen.

At this apex in her career, Terry decided to return to Detroit to raise her family. She performed and recorded with local artists Yusef Lateef and Dorothy Ashby from 1958 - 1960. Terry also performed there with saxophonist George Benson, Alma Smith, Will Austin, Bert Myrick, Diana Ross & The Supremes, Earl Klugh and many others. She won numerous awards during her successful career and was inducted into the Michigan Jazz Hall of Fame as a lifetime member. She held a 60-year-membership with the Detroit Federation of Musicians Local 5 in Southfield. Most recently, she was featured in a book, “Before Motown: A History of Jazz in Detroit," by Lars Bjorn and Jim Gallert.

Terry was a female jazz pioneer. She was a very huge part of the Detroit jazz music scene as well as of being part of American jazz history. She was an enthusiastic cheerleader and tireless Jazz supporter who told others she was from “The home of the pros in Detroit.”

Her nephew, Gary S. Pollard, a Wayne State University Governor, said, “We will miss Aunt Terry deeply and will remember her with lasting affection, appreciation, and respect.”


Funeral arrangements are incomplete

This relates to The Daily Growler post:

Foto by tgw, "Night street-level shot without flash," New York City, 2009.
The First Long-playing Records

Ah when they were called "records." Recordings of the music of the passing times. Storage disks in which a culture could be detained. Everything has to be in disk shape; circular like the universe--circular patterns, always turning, revolving. Revolutions per minute. 78 revolutions per minute; about the same as the human heartbeat.

Give ole Tom Edison some dues for inventing the phonograph and disks to play on them (which came first, the disk or the player?). The first sounds recorded were recorded on cylinders (circular) covered with thin strips of rolled metal onto which a cutting device cut the sound grooves into those strips via the artist playing into a huge bell which funneled the sound down into the cutting diamond which transfered them onto the metal on the cylinder where they were then played back reproduced through the bells of Edison cylinder-playing machines. The first cylinder recording I ever heard was on a classical music radio station way back in the "when." It was a recording of Brahms playing one of his piano pieces. Before he plays the piano, he introduces himself in a gruff-gruff voice as though he was mad at the world. As a neophyte music listener I sat amazed. Wow, that was Johannes Brahms in person, I thought to myself, and that's him playing the piano in person, too--his playing as gruff as his voice--you could hear him breathing while playing, or at least I wide-eyed imagined I could. I mean think of it, recordings gave me the pleasure of hearing Johannes Brahms playing the piano IN PERSON, alive, real, and though crackly and fading into the time-gulped-up past, still it is Brahms still alive, still speaking, and then still playing the piano and breathing with life as he plays. The reincarnation of Johannes Brahms on a piece of tinfoil.

At the moment I'm checking out a new edition to my 78 rpm record collection. It just came in the mail. It's a 10-inch 78. The first-ever extended-play records. Pop 78s were 7-inch disks, or "platters," as they were called by the D-jays of the day. They only lasted around 3 minutes and a few seconds at their longest. 10-inchers could last another minute or two.

This long-playing shellac I just got is Commodore #1502, recorded in New York City in December of 1938. It's the reincarnated Leon "Chu" Berry leading a group called on the label "Chu Berry and His 'Little Jazz' Ensemble"--side one is "Stardust" and side two is "Body & Soul." I catch myself sitting here thinking I could be the only person in the whole world listening to Commodore #1502 as I go about my daily fun. It's called "Chu Berry and His 'Little Jazz' Ensemble" because of Roy Eldridge being on the record and identified as "Little Jazz, trumpet." I assume Roy was contracted to another label so they couldn't use his name so they used his nickname, Little Jazz, who every jazz lover knew was Roy Eldridge anyway. A lot of musicians used to use aliases because of contractual obligations. Like Nat "King" Cole recorded under several aliases, one being A. Guy (on a Lester Young recording); another being Lord Calvert (on a Willie Smith recording).

After I cleaned the old record off, it was pretty dirty, looked like it maybe had been in a flood--it came from down south so who knows, but after I cleaned it up and put it on the Califone and set the needle in the groove, then there these wonders of the old jazz world were, in person, Chu, Little Jazz, the long-lost-in-the-dusts-of-time great Clyde Hart on the piano--"Stardust" first--played weirdly in an other-world approach. It took me a minute to pick up that "Stardust" melody. Chu had a way of shifting melodies in and out of complicated lines a la Coleman Hawkins, definitely Chu's idol and mentor--Chu holding on to that old timey quavering in his blowing that Hawkins overcame after he came back from living 4-plus years in England and France. Chu died before he had a chance to develop his style--to take it somewhat on a slant outside of Hawkins's wide domain.
Leon "Chu" Berry

The first time I heard Chu was on a Lionel Hampton RCA Victor LP called "Hot Mallets." This was an LP rerelease of 78 recordings Lionel Hampton made for Victor in the late 30s and early 40s using members of the Basie, Ellington, Calloway, and his own bands. Chu was in the Cab Calloway band along with Dizzy Gillespie. Dizzy's on this album, too, and on the tune "Hot Mallets," Diz takes his first-ever recorded solo. I bought this album before I had a record player to play it on. Chu's feature on this album is his own tune called "Hollywood Shuffle." Ohhh, what a cool tune. A little off-minor that truly is a true shuffle--shufflin' off to Hollywood.

Now I've got a small rack of Chu's Commodores over in my record corner.

Almost bought a rare photo of Isadora Duncan and her Russian lover, Illych (sic). It was in Israel however and the shipping from Israel to over here is expensive--plus the item was selling in British pounds so I pulled out of the bidding. I'm getting into old photographs now. They go quite well with the old recordings. Jesus, I'm like the guy in that old novel The Collector--how quickly I forget popular writers--John Knowles comes to mind. I mean with Google you don't have to go through that old way of when you couldn't remember who wrote a book or piece of music or whatever first you called a friend you figured might know and then you called the NY Public Library where they used to would look up such stuff for you while you waited on the phone or if it took awhile, they'd call you back. You learned those sort of sources when you were an editor in New York City in those golden years of hand-crafted editing. Now all I do is Google the answer...and boom, there's my answer, no phone calls or further discussion necessary:

John Fowles, playful postmodernist who wrote 'The French ..

So, there, I was only one letter off John Fowles's name--Knowles is close enough for me.

But collector, obsessive compulsive, whatever you want to call me, I'm livin' the life I love, and lovin' the life I'm livin'.

I stole that off Mose Allison. Old Man Mose.
Mose Performs at Ground Zero
Mose Allison still working the scene at 82 (here at the famous Ground Zero blues club in Clarksdale, Mississippi). Mose has a cool site:

My wife and I discovered Mose Allison when we lived in New Orleans. I came home one night with a Mose LP, Creek Bank, Prestige, 1958. I put it on the stereo and called her into the listening room and the first track was Muddy's (McKinley Morganfield) "The Seventh Son": "Everybody's talkin' 'bout the Seventh Son/In the whole 'round world there is only one/And I'm the one/Yes, I'm the one/I'm the one, I'm the one/The one they call the Seventh Son." After that track, my wife fell totally under Mose's spell--and Mose was an interesting jazz phenomenon. A white boy from Tippo, Mississippi, who had fallen under the spell of American Black music, especially the hardshell blues of the Delta he grew up surrounded by and baptized in. Mose played trumpet at first. Was in an army band for awhile then went to college and ended up with a degree in English and Philosophy. While in college, Mose started playing the piano and singing. His blues singing idol was the great Percy Mayfield--while his piano masters were Bud Powell and Lennie Tristano, whose style of playing got Mose interested in Bartok and Mose started seriously studying Bartok's and Hindemith's piano writings, which he incorporated in his Delta style of blues piano playing. Mose ended up a very hard-driving, hard-playing blues/jazz piano player. But you can take the boy out of the Delta, but you can't take the Delta out of the boy. That was Mose's approach to both his singing and his piano playing.

From A Journey Through the Music of the American South, Stanley Booth wrote:

"If you describe on a map a circle with its center at Moorhead, Mississippi, the place where the Southern crossed the Yellow Dog, lying within a hundred-mile radius are not only Como and Hernando, but also Red Banks, Helena, Lyon, Leland, Rolling Fork, Corinth, Ruleville, Greenville, Indianola, Bentonia, Macon, Eden Station, West Point, Tupelo, Tippo, Scott, Shelby, Meridian, Lake Cormorant, Houston, Belzoni, Bolton, Tunica, Yazoo City, Lambert, Vance, Burdett, and Clarksdale, whence come Gus Cannon, Roosevelt Sykes, Son House, Jimmy Reed, Muddy Waters, Fat Man Morrison, Charlie Patton, B.B. King, Albert King, Skip James, Bo Diddley, Emma Williams, Howlin' Wolf, Elvis Presley, Mose Allison, Big Bill Broonzy, Willie Brown, Jimmie Rodgers, Robert Johnson, Booker T. Washington White, Otis Spann, Bo Carter, James Cotton, Tommy McClennan, Jasper Love, Sunnyland Slim, Brother John Sellers, and John Lee Hooker. Also within this radius are Greenwood, where Furry Lewis was born, and Grenada, where John Hurt died."

So one night after my wife and I had moved to New York City, I saw that Mose was playing at The Top of the Gate (the second-floor club over Art D'Lugoff's great Greenwich Village club The Village Gate--and Art D'Lugoff just died last month--and old Art was a true lover of the art of jazz, and I really appreciate the many nights of jazz-lover joy I've spent at the Top of the Gate--the no-cover-charge one-drink minimum second-story prohibition-dive-type music room above the Gate--just a big upper room with a big long bar down one side, a one-step-up stage across the back wall, with the rest of the big room filled with tables and chairs and always people--jazz lovers packed the joint. A no-drink minimum at the bar where beer was like a buck a bottle and you could sit for hours sipping on dollar beers and enjoying some of the most innovative acts in jazz at that time--while down in the big room underneath the Top, the Village Gate, headline jazz acts were appearing).

My wife was really excited at getting to see Mose and she was wondering what he was going to do, who'd be playing with him (it was Nick Stabulus and Ronnie Free), stuff like that, as we made our way down to Bleecker Street and the Top of the Gate.

Once there, we got our favorite table, the one right up by the piano. We had been there a week or so back to see Jaki Byard and we sat at that same table where we'd sat right there by Jaki with me watching this genius working out through his hands at the Top's Steinway's keyboard. Wow, what a master of the piano Jaki was. At intermission I asked Jaki a question about a tune of his I knew and he was quite surprised that I knew the tune and sat and told us all about it--it was called "Denise"--how the tune was named after his daughter--and he'd written it while he was studying at the New England Conservatory in Boston--and I told him that's where I'd heard the tune, on Serge Chaloff's Boston Blow Up LP, and that set him off to talking about Serge Chaloff and what a crazy cat he was.
The master, Jaki Byard. Ended up getting shot in the head while sleeping in his Lower East Side apartment. No suspect was ever found, though some claimed it might have been one of his own, though probably it was simply a stray bullet that came through the apartment window and got Jaki right smack-dab in his brilliant head.

So there we were this night at the same table sitting right by the piano when Mose came out, looking dapper, still young, fresh, able, and he started playing and it was all the tunes my wife had hoped to hear--and he ended the first set with "My Mind Is On Vacation But My Mouth Is Working Overtime." As was my nature, after the set ended I called Mose over, shook hands with him, then introduced him to my wife and she shook hands with him and they talked a while. After Mose left the table and headed back to the green room for some "tenderleaf tea" I'm sure--you could smoke pot in green rooms at clubs in those days--in fact, you could do any kind of drugs in green rooms in those days--this is not to say Mose Allison went back to the green room to smoke some weed--I'm not saying that. I'm just saying he could have in those days. I should be careful; Mose is still with us (his daughter is Amy Allison, a singer)--so, no, I withdraw that statement.

Anyway, when we got home, I said, "Hey, baby, you got to see Mose. Great, right?" She wasn't at all excited. "What's wrong, Toots?" "Did you notice anything strange when you shook hands with him?" "Naw, nothin' unusual." "Oooooh. He gave me the willies. His hand was so clammy and he shook my hand as though he despised me." "C'mon, Toots, he's just an entertainer; he has to shake hands with all kinds of people a hundred times a night. Plus he'd just finished a set. I suppose his hands were hot and sweaty from playing--it's a hot racket, baby." "No, I know all that. It was something else. Something scarier than that about that man."

After that, my wife never again even mentioned Mose Allison. She lost all interest in his music. That often puzzled me. What in the hell did she sense in shaking hands with Mose Allison that so turned her off him? Ah women. How delightfully faraway on-the-other-side different they are, thank the gods, from men!

for The 78 RPM Daily Growler
Speaking of Revolution

People are still "hoping" for President Obama to live up to the ideals they got from his campaigning for the presidency. As The Daily Growler has been saying over and over, there is no such thing as hope only faith in ourselves and right now we have no real faith in ourselves--in God, oh yes, we have such faith in God, but not ourselves. And, yes, we here at The Growler are tongue-in-cheek sometimes, but like any realist-approaching deliverer of opinions, there is much truth in how WE see the world in our most tongue-in-cheek deliverances.

thegrowlingwolf is our principle spokesperson. He's our mascot, our brand, our main protagonist in the daily novel we're "playing" as though we are participating in the drama of every-day existence--and we believe as Will the Stage Actor said, the world is a stage and we are all performers on it. And think about that. The world is the platform on which we are all living out the same roles--in every society there are mixtures running the gamut from idiots to superego intellects--the sinister versus the truly good, though, as Leo Durocher so succinctly put it, the good end up last every damn time, no matter the degree of their goodness. Leo was a baseball manager and baseball managers say some from-out-of-left-field things that are so real they're scary. Here's some Leo Durocher quotes:

How you play the game is for college ball. When you're playing for money, winning is the only thing that matters.

You see. That goes for bankers and stock brokers and doctors and philosophers as well. Think about your own career. Weren't the people at the top the assholes who considered themselves the Winners! And weren't the gold medals they won as Winners the same gold medals you are striving for? It is about winners and losers. For every person who wins, there are many more who lose. We are all doing what we are doing to make MONEY!

Leo speaks again:

I never did say that you can't be a nice guy and win. I said that if I was playing third base and my mother rounded third with the winning run, I'd trip her up.

How Machiavellian is that? Corporate CEOs have these quotes hanging on their office walls.

Leo speaks again:

If you don't win, you're going to be fired. If you do win, you've only put off the day you're going to be fired.

Don't you think President Obama kind of feels this is true in his case, too?

Leo speaks again:

Win any way you can as long as you can get away with it.

You see baseball is a very American game. Winning is any way you can get away with it--certainly that's an American dream. Baseball is tough to cheat at, but it can be done and has been done.

You see sports are really still controlled by super big shot promoter types--big money boys who gamble a lot--George Steinbrenner owns race horses and used to before he got Alzheimer's go to the race track in Tampa every day. Gambling is a part of sports. You can gamble on baseball all over every town in the USA that has a Mafia in it. Everyone of any degree of success in New York City has his own personal bookie. Sports betting in Vegas is a billions-a-year industry. Baseball is hard to bet on. It's a matter of runs and 1/2 runs.

Hell, as long as we're passing around cliches, life is a gamble. Winning in life is when you have tons of money--your bank accounts are crammed; your investments are going through the roof; your pockets are overflowing.

It's like the stock market. Look at those gamblers. The Daily Growler stock market pundits have been telling you over and over for years that the stock market is controlled just as the gambling casinos are controlled--you get rich on the stock market by a matter dollar amounts--your stock goes up a dollar you sell immediately--the way you get wealthy first of all is by taking all your investable income and putting it all in one basket--that way, if your stock goes up just .50 and you own enough shares you'll have a nice daily income as a day trader--otherwise you need to form an investment pool with your best friends and relatives and in-laws and go into stock market gambling like the real players do, like the people who control state pension funds or union pension funds. The reason rich people are so against the government helping its citizens, like with free basic healthcare in this country, is because poor people, the average Americans, are LOSERS. Losers, like the Milwaukee Brewers and the Tampa Bay (ex-Devil) Rays in baseball, have to be supported by charity and charity is good as long as it's tax deductible.

Winning is the answer to all our problems. Winning, of course, however, is a very subjective concept. What's winning? Being rich? Then why aren't the rich ever satisfied? Why are they always taking risks? Because, like Leo said, winners to win have to take chances. They have to find ways to break the rules, to punch holes in the parameters. In baseball you can do it by maybe teaching your pitchers to throw spit balls or use fingernail files on the balls or a razor blade inserted in their belts so they can simply slice a small sort of unnoticeable slice in a ball near a seam and oh boy what dancing twisting loping wonders that ball will go through as it heads toward an anticipating batter.

President Obama is trying his best to be a winner in the American horse-race sense of the word. He's trying every trick in the book to be accepted by everyone as THEIR president, as THEIR commander-in-chief. He's failing and that's probably driving him nuts, though in the smoky backrooms, and Obama is a secret smoker, I'll bet you, he's wheeling and dealing with some of the shiftiest sons of bitches on the planet. Some of these shifty bastards have Obama's nuts in their hands and one twist.... Ah, but that's politics. It's an Academy award-winner's stage. All the senators and representatives and lobbyists are all multimillionaires--90%
of the Senate, I was reading the other day, are multimillionaires; something like 70% of Congress are at least millionaires. Like Nancy Pelosi is one rich babe--California real estate was her bag.

Speaking of filthy rich Congressmen, I was watching John Kerry at the Copenhagen Bullshit Climate Conference--and strange, you should ask, wouldn't you have thought that unsuccessful winning presidential candidate and Nobel Prize Winner Al "the Bore" Gore (and his own relative, Gore Vidal, says he's the boringest man he's ever been around) would have been in Copenhagen with his Global Warming films and charts and wouldn't he have given his big Nobel-Prize-winning lecture?...but no, it was John Kerry who was there leading our USA throwing-our-monkey-wrenches-into-the-works efforts in this evergoing-on controversy. The American winner doesn't believe WE are causing Global Warming. Remember, we believe we are divinely created in the image of what we call our God and God has control of our climate and if there are climate changes going on, they are God's way of showing us his only son is fixing to ride out of a huge bank of clouds on a big white horse. You see the dilemma we are in at the Copenhagen Bullshit Climate Conference?

John Kerry the ex-DA, the ex-poor-little-rich-boy who then lucked out and married the Heinz Ketchup fortune--his wife getting that fortune secondhand after she married old Charlie Heinz and then the son of a bitch died and left her the queen of the hop. And I looked at this multimillionaire screwball over there telling dirt-poor nation leaders, "Ah shucks, don't worry, we know what's best for you losers." Even the Global Warming contest is about winners and losers.

Did you ever stop and think what would happen if we all stopped gambling on our lives? Stopped buying insurance policies--you know, instead invest what you pay in premiums in land or fine art or collectible gold or silver (silver looks like a good investment to me) instead of making insurance companies richer than half the nations of the world. Insurance companies by the way don't get rich off premiums but on investing those premiums in real estate developments or mall projects, or perhaps a foreign money exchange scheme.

Advice From the Filthy Rich of the Past

Andrew Carnegie:

Concentrate your energies, your thoughts and your capital. The wise man puts all his eggs in one basket and watches the basket.

Concentration is my motto - first honesty, then industry, then concentration.

And old Andy is right about that, folks. Success in any game is through concentration.

Every act you have ever performed since the day you were born was performed because you wanted something.

Whooo, the old boy's on a roll.

I shall argue that strong men, conversely, know when to compromise and that all principles can be compromised to serve a greater principle.

Doesn't that sound like its from where Obama gets his politics? President Obama admits in his book that rich men impress him most. What Andy is saying is that a strong man (meaning a man of power--a rich man) can use compromising to get his uncompromising way. Brilliant the way you start reasoning once you're rich.

austinhighchew, managing editor
for The Daily Growler

World War III Progress Report:
Iran captures an Iraq oil well. Iraq sends troops to oil well. Hot damn, Iraq vs. Iran, the dream war. Remember when Pappy Bush backed his old pal Saddam Hussein in his decade-long war with Iran? Here we go again maybe. Remember, President Obama's strongest advisers are old Slick Willie Clinton and his best pal old Pappy "New World Order" Bush--experts in starting pure wars, like Clinton's getting us involved in Somalia, in the Balkans, in constantly bombing Iraq, in shooting missiles into Afghanistan; and, of course, Pappy Bush when he was commander-in-chief gave us our only "winning" war after WWII, the Persian Gulf Adventure (er-ah, we mean WAR). Remember that war was started when Pappy told his old pal Saddam Hussein it would be alright if he and his worn-out army invaded Kuwait to take back some oil wells Saddam said Kuwait stole from him (remember, Kuwait is a made-up country--made out of what once was Iraq territory.

How brilliant our machinating sons of bitching Power Elitists are when it comes to warmongering. The Senate, by the way, just approved the new WAR budget--it's billions and billions of more bucks for Ben Bernacke to print on his 24/7 money printing machines--it's actually trillions more bucks when you add up the military contracts and bullshit shit like that. For what we spend on WAR, we could turn the world into paradise! But, no, our GOD tells us the world is not paradise--oh no, paradise is off somewhere in some hidden space we will never be able to find unless we believe a little squatty weirdo Nazarene Jewish guy who "maybe" lived 2000 years ago--there's no record of him ever living and all his so-called "teachings" are by word of mouth--heresay--is the true son of the LIVING God! You see why Admiral Stockdale said there is no such thing as HOPE, only belief in yourself--that's FAITH in yourself and not some tom fool made-up Jewish god who the Jews don't even believe in.

for The Daily Growler

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Living in the Heart of New York City--I Thought It Was Heartless!

Foto by tgw, "Peeping Tom Moon" (see it?), New York City, 2009.

I was cursing like the proverbial sailor yesterday afternoon. I was overwhelmed by curse-causing grief, like a huge tangle suddenly appearing in my golden locks. "God-damn putrefied by whoredom hell hair!" I yelled murderously as I pulled my hairbrush through that melding of winter-dry hair that had hardened into a Gordian knot. "God-damn, son of a bitchin' son of a bitch hair. Damn you, mother!" It hurt immensely as I ripped into that brier patch of matted hair with my trusty hairbrush. I screamed foul streams of vindictive spleen against my mother, first, then anybody's god, then my mother's sister. Hell, I even pulled old Uncle Robbie's name up out of thin air to place blame for my wretched hair on him. Poor old Robbie; he's been dead some 35 years now. When he died, I hadn't seen him in another 20 years. But blame him I did. "It's your hair, too, Uncle Robbie, you bootlegging bastard of a Mexican-smuggling fartchicken."

After I managed to recondition my viciously tangled hair by washing it in a herbal shampoo and then thickly applying a glop of natural conditioner on it and then drenching it in Mira oil and then wrenching it apart with my fingers, using them as combs. Alas, now my hair's back to being as smooth and silky as a baby's ass--the tangles aren't entirely gone but they're gone enough that they are no longer a problem.

You see, I've been CURSED with perpetual baby hair. My hair is thin as the soups they serve at the Salvation Army. I once worked at Time-Life with the actor Alan Bates; he was narrating a special for us. That day I was bitching a mile-a-minute about my "fucking" hair. Bates handed me a business card. "This bloke was my barber in London. He's over here now. I have 'baby' hair, too, as you call it. Especially after I've washed it. But this bloke can make you look like a million bucks, lad; that he will."

Turned out this London bloke's salon was right across the street from my East 57th apartment. I mean I had passed the joint a million times and never thought about going in there. It was too chic for me. Besides, I hate common ordinary barbers. Even barbers to the stars. But with this introduction from Alan Bates and determination in my eye I traipsed in there, met the London bloke, and was surprised to find a rather tiny older man with a horrible personal haircut I particularly noticed.

He sat me down in his chair. He ran his hands through my hair several times with his eyes closed. He was analyzing my hair by touch. Then he opened his eyes and said, "I say, old chap, without a doubt I can manage your hair supremely nicely." And I proceeded to get his Alan Bates special. And by God I have to admit, he knew what he was talking about. I came out from under his scissors and clippers looking better than Alan Bates, who had sort of a quirky look to me--like a lot of actors--their heads are too big for their bodies--or their handsomeness has a defect--like their forehead may be gigantic and shine like a billiard ball in the sun.

So finally, I got my tangled hair untangled--it's cool and sexy now, though the conditioner label says I should wash it and condition it three times a week. I was worn out from the struggle but feeling frisky enough to start doing a little cleaning up in my bathroom. I had just thrown half a bucket of Clorox-ed water down on my bathroom floor when I picked up my mop and the sponge fell off into the toilet bowl, a destroyed mess of melting slags of plastic sponge. Shit. Here I was with my bathroom floor flooded with Clorox-laced hot water and my mop was worthless. I looked at the pathetic mop and said, "God-damn, you sorry bastard, I condemn you to mop hell. And I pray that once you're down there, they'll soak your mop head in hot boiling Clorox every god-damn second you're moping up the loosed shits of Hell's overflowing toilets!"

In desperation, I got an old towel out of the back of my rag bin and started mopping up my bathroom floor. I was so enthusiastically pissed at the mess and eager to mop it up I forgot about it being laced with Clorox and soon my hands were hollering blisteringly loud with stinging pain. "Saturn's upturned ass!" I screamed, "What the hell have I done to you bastard gods to deserve this?"

My hands were gleaming fire-engine red as I flushed them under the cold water tap, almost slipping on the still wet tiles of my bathroom floor as I did. "I cast all you furies into a virtual blast-furnace hell, you sawdust-brained elves of Beelzebub!"

I got the bathroom floor finally dried out and my hands coated in Vitamin E cream and soothed when I heard this ear-piercing beep. "Holy cripes, what the hell?" It was a siren-sound arrow shot right through the heart of my frontal lobes. "Jesus fucking Christ, what in the hell is going on? Out damn spots! Out demons! Out devils and into the fleeing swine! In fact, I turn you all into swine, you cloven hoofed...." What the hell? Then I realized it was the carbon monoxide alarm. It wasn't that several cylinders of carbon monoxide had been loosed in my apartment. NO. Nothing that functional. It was the batteries--3 AAs. They were depleted and this was the device's way of telling me to replace them. In a cursed rage I loped up on a chair, reached up and ripped off the plastic face of the damn thing--it shrieking right in my face now. I madly grabbed out the three acid-oozing batteries. That stopped the ear-drum-shattering noise.

I was sweating like a liar as I climbed down off the chair--I was moving the chair when there was a continuous bunch of raps at my door. "I'm coming," I hollered. The raps kept up. "God-dammit, I'm coming." In a violent rage I answered the door. It was the dude from the office bringing me up my mail and packages. I get several pieces of mail a day, including three or four packages. Today, however, there stood the office man with a hand truck piled with packages. "Jesus," I slapped my forehead. "Are all of those for me?" "Yep, they sure are, Wolfe, Wolfie, Wolfowitz..." "Whoaaaaa!" I screamed. "I was just kidding about the Wolfowitz. Just trying to get your goat."

There were 9 packages in all. I recognized two of them from their return addresses as being a couple of 78 rpm records I'd bought from a guy in Georgia. I also recognized several LP-vinyl-size packages, but there were four bulky boxes I had no idea what they were, and finally, I found a smaller package at the bottom of the heap. The smaller package I tossed aside. I thought it was a DVD I had ordered. It was about the size of a DVD package.

The first package I tried to open, the sender had taped it up so enthusiastically I soon was cursing the tape, the package, the hillbilly clod who'd packaged it so securely, and the knife I was using to try and cut through the stupid tape. When I almost stabbed myself in the hand severely, I really let loose a flow of venom enough to embarrass the toughest whorehouse madam. When I finally got the package open I found it was an old press photo of Duke Ellington during a rehearsal with his band--from 1958. That made me cooler. I immediately found a frame and framed it. Great old photo. Containing crop marks and instructions on the back as to where the photo went in the newspaper it eventually showed up in.

After I got the Duke up on the wall, I started opening the other packages. On one in trying to pull a glued section up by hand, I pulled so hard, when the glued section let go it flung my hand up and back and slammed it into a bookshelf just behind me. I went into one of those old Jackie Gleason "Honeymooner" jive dances when Jackie used to hammer his thumb or the episode where he gets his hand caught in a rat trap--he goes galloping around the room moaning and wailing and shaking his injured whatever. I was doing that while cursing all the lords, ladies, dukes, earls, gods, demons, fairies, poets, philosophers I could think of. "Fuck heaven; fuck hell; fuck God; fuck Nirvana, fuck Shamen, fuck Glenda the Good Witch, fuck Superman, fuck the Olsen Twins!"

After I quieted my smashed digits, I decided to sit down and take a load of stress off. I sat down. Damn! I sat down on something--damn! Right on my coccyx bone! I jumped up and grabbed the culprit. It was the package I thought was a DVD. I ripped it open without checking the return address.

And what a surprise it was! It was a neat brand-spanking new Penguin paperback copy of Uglier Than a Monkey's Armpit!
Wow. What a surprise. From my old pal L Hat ( It was his book. Finally. I opened it up. Hot damn, the author signed it: "For a good friend who will truly appreciate this motherfucking book." And like I do with most books I get in the mail or bring home from the bookstore, I immediately started reading it.

What a splendid little book. It's a thin volume but fat with good-fun info and study. And a lot of study went into this book! I'm very impressed. It's a 120-page parcel packed full of cursed delight. Starting with a history of curses and cursing in ancient languages. Then moving to Ancient Greece where there's a great introduction to Greek cursing culminating in a retrospect of the best old-timey Greek curses and insults led by an Aristophanesian insult, "You'll be eating a turd before I will," a "pungent comeback," as L Hat and his coeval refer to it. L Hat's coeval by the way is Dr. Robert Vanderplank, director of the Oxford University Language Center. Language is hanging out in high cotton here. This book got Language a great Guardian interview a fortnight or so ago, by the bye. From the ancient world, Greece, Rome, Early English, on through Western and Eastern European languages, English languages, Celtic languages, through Baltic, Scandinavian, Middle Eastern, African, Asian, Indian...all the curses and insults a man or woman of the world needs to go about shouting curses and evil happenings on any son of a bitch you come across who you feel deserves such a fate--and in his or her own language, too. [The only Grecian insult I ever learned was "How do you say 'I love you' in Greek'?" Insulting answer: "Baa-baa-baaa-baaaaahh."]

Here's a little Spanish piece of The Dozens I especially like: ves menos que un pez por el culo. L Hat translates it as saying, "You see less than a fish through his ass." Boy, that's one you can throw around in a crowded room and insult the whole shebang of them with it. A fish, by the way, sees the same thing through his or her ass as a human being sees through his or hers.

I'm blessed in that I only have geniuses for friends, right?--or could that point be said to be a curse as well?

for The Cursed Daily Growler

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Living in New York City--Dodging $65,000 Automobiles

Foto by tgw, New York City, 2009. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Prosperity Returns to We the People
Son of a bitch, coming back last night from picking up my dinner I was almost hit by two cars blocking the box on Broadway and my street. Mall-Mad Mayor Billionaire Mikey Bloomburg has fucked up traffic so around here he's created at least two DEATH corners on my stretch of Broadway. The Billionaire's turning Broadway into a pedestrian walkway and resting area for the growing homeless population and the early-morning winos getting a few winks before they have to go give blood for enough money to get back on the juice 'fore noon.

Broadway walks all the way from Times Square downtown my way until it gets to West 32nd where suddenly traffic off Fifth Avenue via West 33rd combines into one lane with traffic coming off Sixth Avenue via West 32nd. At West 32nd and Broadway, West 32nd traffic either turns downtown to merge into the one lane with the traffic coming off West 33rd packing it bank-to-bank or going on across Broadway straight--the box is consistently blocked here--and what a congested mess this causes. West 32nd and Broadway is a pedestrian death corner--both Broadway and West 32nd have buses running on them, too--plus the mayor's traffic engineers have run a bicycle lane along the east side of Broadway. Bikers don't respect traffic directions when it comes to bike lanes. They shoot both ways up and down them--fuck it that this bike lane cuts right through where pedestrians normally wait for the lights to change. Now not only do you have to keep your right eye on the oncoming automobile traffic but now like a well-oiled owl, you've got to keep your left eye on the perhaps oncoming bike traffic coming the wrong way down this fucking bike path.

Ed Koch (I openly call him Ed Crotch), that worthless piece of political crap, gave the City of New York two of its worst aspects, bike lanes and the Javitts Center. Mayors feel they have to leave edifices as their legacy. Bloomburg loves malls. He'll wreck a traditional New York City neighborhood for one of his malls. Mayor Bloomburg hates common traffic, Average Joe automobiles and work-a-day trucks; he hates taxis because they are now mostly driven by Indians and Muslims--a lot of Pakistan cab drivers; he hates traffic because it hinders limos and cop cars and fire engines and tour buses and shit like that. Guiliani painted out all of Koch's bike lanes but Bloomie is bringing them back because, you see, as I just said, Bloomie hates common ordinary traffic and cabs (both of which street-using drivers hate bicyclists!). And bikers can be silly assholes sometimes. Boldly riding right out into the middle of intersections, through red lights, some without any way of warning you they're fixing to run your poor ass down. How embarrassing would it be to be killed by a hit-and-run bicyclist?

So here I was wagging home a sack of vittles from my friend Mister Singh's deli and I got to the corner of my street and Broadway (another death corner), on the far side from my side of the street, where there's always a gob of traffic clogging up the one lane leading into my street but last night it was really clogged. I saw I was going to have to swim through the cars gridlocking this corner and blocking the pedestrian lane to get safely to the opposite bank in one piece. I had just dived off the curb to start swimming through this sea of SUVs and bobtail trucks when I looked left and saw two fucking cars coming at me, turning off that one lane on Broadway and trying to squeeze into the already packed lanes of my street, both going for the same semiopen lane, the lane I had just jumped into. Soon I was screamin', "You motherfucking sons of bitches...." Slapping my hand down on the first car's hood as I swam past it. That's when I noticed by the hood ornament it was a big fucking black Mercedes (Hitler's favorite car). After scooching by the skin of my ass past this Mercedes, I then found myself confronted by the second car, coming hard around the Mercedes trying for the same lane with me caught in the middle of them. And this other son of a bitch was coming at me with no thought of braking. I had to swim for dear life just to get a safe inch or two past this greedy son of a bitch. And as I barely butterflied my ass just off this other car's left front fender, I saw it too was a Mercedes, a white Mercedes (did I say that was Hitler's favorite car?). Two fucking $65,000 Mercedes sedans almost killed me. One driven by a male prick and the other driven by a female prick. All I can do in these situations is curse foully and be thankful I made it across that pond of killing machines alive. Of course, in their tinted glass Nazi cars with their eight-speaker Bose stereo systems fuzzing their brains to the point they can't hear the gabbing voice on the other end of their cell phones these self-centered bastards paid my slapping their hoods and cursing them with the cursing blitz of a drunken sailor no mind. I'm sure if one of them had hit me they wouldn't have stopped.

And for the first time I can remember, someone in my building drives a BMW, which they park in front of the building every night.

You see, down at street levels times are forcing their changes on us. Up in the upper rooms is where the designers of street-level change reside. Everybody in Manhattan, you can be assured, who lives above a certain floor (some say it's the eleventh floor on up--the first ten floors having to be due to the city tax breaks given the developer affordable for the lower classes though still not cheap or rented below market to non-profit organizations) of a hi-rise luxury building are way the hell richer than you are. Think about it. To own your own apartment in New York City, you've got to be able to obtain a 2 million dollar mortgage. That's even the smallest of apartments. Even in this real estate collapse, buying a Manhattan apartment is not for the middle class or poor. Even those who can afford the rents in these buildings are way richer than the average bears!

To me, anyone driving a new car on the streets of Manhattan is richer than I am by thousands of bucks a year. It's the sense of rich and poor being revealed before your eyes. My neighborhood is full of poor folks scrambling to make a living, selling out of boxes on corners, or Nigerians manning small one-room stores in old buildings like mine, selling cheap-cheap clothes and max-tacky wigs and wild whore shoes and out-of-style jeans and rip-off designer scarves, rip-off handbags and luggage, and ladies accessories--really cheap shit that the African women buy by the Hefty bag loads to sell at flea markets out in faraway Queens or nearby Caribbean Brooklyn. A lot of business people in New York City make their living off these really cheap-shit products--like watches. There's a store around the corner from me that only sells watches--holy shit, you've never seen so many watches--all of 'em cheap as hell--I saw one offer "to the trade only" in their window: 12 watches for $12.00. The land of the dollar watch. All of this crap made in Commie China, I guarantee you.

I was noticing where Mazda automobiles are still doing just fine. I wouldn't know a Mazda from a Honda, but I don't know a soul who owns a Mazda! Toyotas yeah; but Toyota says it's going broke. And Kias! The tincan South Korean car. Who buys Kias? Why are these auto companies so successful and yet our industry is broke, belly up--except Ford who says they're recovering better than ever, yeah sure.

The backwards thinkers have deceived us successfully and have won. The Neo-Con philosophy and thereby the New World Order logic is the going thing on the Beltway more solidly now it seems than when Georgie Porgie Puddin' Pie Bush was in power.

War is now necessary in order to have peace!

The recession is over. Wall Street is eating high on the hog. The Dow-Jones is racing back and forth from 10, 100 up to 10, 400 for a while, then it dives a hundred points...but no sweat! Everybody's rich.

Global warming is a hoax. Yes. It is.

War with Iran is inevitable if we are to ever have peace with them!

Here's the formula for War leading to Peace figured out by our top military thinkers along with corporate arms dealers. First we have to kill thousands of people and displace millions of people and sacrifice thousands of our young people (canon fodder) to the Capitalist business of WAR. Yes, WAR is a business. Cigar-smoking, gold-chained-draped, fat gunrunners the world over are rolling in the clover of WAR. MORE WAR! More war means more peace up the line. Yes, it won't happen in a day or a week or a month--more like maybe it will never happen, but right now we're winning. I look at the Wikipedia death list everyday and for the past few days I've noticed one al-Queda leader killed by bomb (that leaves 99 al-Queda in Afghanistan now) and two Taliban leaders killed by bombs over those days.

We worship DEATH. DEATH is PEACE to us. Did you hear that! DEATH is peace to us. WAR is life!!! WAR proves we rule Nature. WAR is proof of civilisation (Brit style). WAR gives us reason for being. Gives us our national identity.

WAR is certain; PEACE is not certain.

The healthcare bullshit goes on and on flip-flopping back and forth over a so-called public option--now arguing over a public option that isn't even a public option. In the meantime, Max, with his lips tightly kissing away at the big brown eye of the pharmaceutical industry, Baukus, just gave his girlfriend a $14,000-a-year raise. Ain't life sweet for these sorry ass brazen politicians who flaunt their fucking power in our stupid faces with that mean look of satisfaction that tells us these bastards don't give one shit in a tin bucket about We the People of the USA? Things flip-flop-and-fly so fast our heads are constantly spinning. One day we are recovering then the next day it's announced we lost 200,000 jobs and another 2 million homes were foreclosed on and another 100,000 had to die of curable diseases because they had no store-bought-rigged-against-them-pay-or-die health insurance from one of Max Baukus's big campaign contributors.

Health insurance rates will be going up.

Drug prices will be going sky high. Remember, Medicare won't buy generic drugs for senior citizens--hell no--in fact, Medicare is gladly paying a premium for its pharmaceutical payouts. It's insane.

In President Obama's acceptance of his Nobel Peace Prize speech, he mentioned Ghandi and Martin Luther King in one breath and then Nixon and Reagan in the next. Obama loves that fucking Reagan. That's fucking scary. What is so fucking powerful and hypnotic about Reagan's 8 years as a drugstore cowboy president and later Alzheimer's patient on the dole from We the People--giving him a good fucking life as he faded away from his own knowing who the hell he even was? A grade B actor who is now considered a grade A president by our current grade D, for deceit, president.

Obama is being fucked and so are We the People. We are, to put it politely, being fucked in our asses and then made to bend way over and beg for more--"Deeper...Harder...Ram it up me, you crooked sons of bitches."

Remember, natural sex (pleasurable, loving sex) is WRONG. EVIL.

Tiger Woods, for instance. Think about it. How many times did Tiger get laid growing up? His father had this poor mixed-up kid on the golf course when he was two. Until the old Tiger died, the old bastard stalked Tiger's every move. He controlled Tiger's morals as well as his golf game. Finally when daddy died, the Tiger went wild. Actually, you know, folks, Tiger did nothing different than most men do regardless of their fame and fortune. He certainly did no different than I did when I was married. And I played golf at one time, too. And one reason I played golf was because of the girl golfers. Especially one girl golfer who to me the most beautiful girl in high school, a girl I wanted desperately to score with on more than a golf course. And this girl played on the women's golf team and the women's golf team played on the same muni course as the men's golf team of which I was a member. And this girl wore these shorts when she played golf. Tannest longest legs in the world at that time. Sweetest face. Plus she wore glasses and I was into making passes at women who wore glasses.

Look at that football player in Memphis who was murdered by his mistress who then shot herself--what a mess that cheatin' bastard left his poor wife and kids. Look at A-Rod fucking around all over the place on his wife, with whores, too; isn't Madonna a whore? Yet, A-Rod is declared a champion, a man of great fame and fortune, forgiven of his sexual sins--in fact, now more famous as a socialite than he was when he was cheatin' around on his old lady.

Movie stars are allowed to be as rapscallion as they wish. I noticed Charlie Sheen, remember his worthless ass, is now a successful teevee star making millions off a teevee show where every episode is about illicit sex, sexual adventures, full of sexual innuendo jokes, full of references to men's nuts and dicks and women's "tah-tahs," titties, and asses--a lot of "check out her ass" references. There are always the string of young actress babes trotting across the stage for Charlie and his brother roommate (actually they live in a cool Malibu pad like all people live on Hollywood sit-coms) to do their weekly efforts at getting these babes in bed without disturbing the fact that one of these philandering dudes is father to a little fat boy who he has custody of and who lives normally among this nest of sexual conspirators. Charlie Sheen is this boy's uncle on the show. How come young boy teevee show stars are always pudgy?

Remember when Charlie Sheen lived in Hollywood whore houses?

Tiger Woods is no different than our precious President John F. Kennedy either. Wow, old Johnny-We-Hardly-Knew-Ye could fuck around at will following in his lecherous old daddy's infamous cattin'-around footsteps. Old Daddy Joe Kennedy loved bringing his actress whores home with him and fucking them right above the Kennedy home (Boston) dining room table--Mama Rose and the family sitting eating their pheasant under glass while Daddy Joe was banging away in a room just above them--"Ohhhhhhhh JOE, you're so BIG!"

Tiger will recover. He's the world's greatest golfer. When Tiger doesn't show up at your PGA tournament, you lose money. When Tiger doesn't play, golf's teevee ratings drop off by 50%. Nobody cares to watch a bunch of seemingly even-Steven same ole white dudes winning close matches every week for millions upon millions of corporate dollars. Tiger owns the golf world.

Hell, when good ole Tennessee hillbilly Dinah Shore started her LPGA golf tournament in Palm Springs (a movie star community), California, back in the 60s it was said, and I heard it from a woman pro golfer (Alice Bauer, I'll name names) that the night before the tourney began, all the girls gathered in Queen Dinah's quarters for an huge Lesbian party. Dinah liked to watch girls making out. It was said Dinah didn't participate in the acts herself; just watched. Yeah sure.

Come on, this goes on all the time. Sex in this country is so backwards that it condemns the wild actions of a kid who never got laid in his life who suddenly found himself a pretty-boy billionaire who is in total control of his profession and suddenly has a chance to nail white girls by the bedsful with impunity--to the point, he gets the fabulous opportunity to nail a pure white Swedish babe who he cajoles into marriage so he can have pretty little sunshine babies--half-black like him. At the same time think of the guilt this BLACK man has when he sees he's got a white-chick thing. All black men know they have a long-dick-fabled charm with white chicks. That Tiger can get the hottest white chicks on the market--SO WHAT? Let the man fuck around; get his tomcatting out of his system. Soon, he'll be fine. The Swede will forgive him and his billion dollars-a-year income will be back safe and sound in her wifely corner. Yes, they did have a prenuptial. Tiger ain't no fool when it comes to his team of lawyers giving him shifty advice. I'm sure they're working it out for this perfect couple!

I read where the golfing moralists are holding Saint Arnie Palmer and Saint Jack Nicklaus up as icons of perfect golfer husbandry--married to the same old ladies for tons of years. Sex was different in Arnie and Jack's day. Sex was taboo then. Hush hush. That's how JFK got away with his philandering. It was covered up by loyal Marines and Secret Service agents. Do you realize what great bonuses Secret Service dudes in the service of the President make keeping their privileged eyes closed and mouths shut. Like Bill Clinton used to tell his Secret Service, "Y'all boyz guard the Oval Office door. I've got this little Jewish princess intern coming to the Oval Office for a training session in Slick Willie fun and games." Bill didn't fuck her in the Oval Office--he just diddled her with an illegal Cuban cigar and then let her suck on his speckled dick for a while to then wank it off till it spurts out its loving ooze--"Ooooh, Mister President, you nasty boy, you got that sticky goo all over my new blue dress."

What a bunch of hypocrites we are.

for The Daily Growler