Being Invisible in Death

Waking Up Poor in the United States of America
I worked my ass off for 35 years in the advertising game on Madison "By God" Avenue, to boot. I've worked for the biggies, from Time Inc., CBS, Viacom, a Big 8 accounting firm (they've all so merged during globalization these firms are now mostly "fallen flags," a railroad term meaning a railroad that once was a major road no longer in existence. It comes from an olden day when each railroad had its own flag that carried the road's emblem on it), and several pharmaceutical advertising firms. But during the globalization of the world in the 90s, advertising went merger nuts and so many of the smaller, single-owner agencies that were fun to work for were offered umbrella protection by larger agencies, like BBD&O (now so mergered finding the original company is like tracing a race horse's pedigree), Ogilvy & Mather, J. Walter Thompson. One umbrella that emerged out of all of this global merging was a monolithic monster called OmniCom, which is advertizo for Omnipotent Company, dig? That also stands for Omnipresent Company, too. Think of all the Omni- words; this company is all of them.

You see, what these mergers intended I think did happened. All of the companies I have worked for depended on market share for their existence. Mergers were simply creating larger market shares out of smaller market shares, until, well, hell, the US markets were pretty well saturated; the market shares so saturated they stayed pretty consistent and easily predictable. The type of advertising had to change effectively when the market share controllers--the Big Boys--decided the 21st century would be the global century and they saw a wide-open Wild West of potential markets and world market shares out there for the taking; screw the US markets. And when advertising went global, there was no need for old-fashioned US-market sharing experts like my ass, so after 35 years in big-time advertising, my poor butt was hustled out into a Madison Avenue gutter with my career in the toilet, and I was too f-ing old to even think about a lower-level reentry attack. Free-lancing was out, too. These big umbrella monopolies did away with free-lancers. Oh, yeah, you can still get free-lance work but you have to incorporate now and actually become a business to get the big money jobs, which means you ain't an individual anymore but a company, which further means you got estimated earnings taxes, regular Schedule C taxes, also state, county, and city taxes and FICA problems and 401K considerations. Just as the new advertising is called "disruptive," you've gotta disrupt your life in a way you're just too damned old and independently anti-slavery to go through such Mr. Charlie overregulated bullshit.

From Easy Street to the Back Alleys
I used to be welcomed with red carpet treatment in most office or apartment buildings in the country. "Yessir, Mister Charles, sir. Here, let my boy take that luggage. Here, let my boy park your Beamer. Yessir, yessir, yessir. And, sir, that will be on which of your many credit cards? Credit Suisse, oh, sir, highly recommended in the upper circles...blah, blah, blah." That was the kind of deep-crack asskissing treatment I once got the minute I got out of my ex-cop-driven or Russian immigrant-driven limo. Now, though things have changed. Now, that I lost my corporate identity, I don't have enough ID to get me to West Orange, New Jersey, just 30 miles straight west of me. "You need two photo IDs, sir, sorry, and one of those would be your company ID." "But I used to work in this building, come on, Jorge, you remember me, the big tipper?" "Sorry, sir, building rules, 2 photo IDs, one should be a company ID."

Rents are suddenly just going up astronomically every day. Apartments are selling for prices I never knew possible; to buy an apartment now outright averages 1 million dollars. I can't believe how many millions of dollars individuals are now making whereas only 20 years ago, $100,000 a year was like being a CEO. Now, if you don't entry-level at one hundred grand you're chicken feed in a huge chicken pen and are going to get eaten up alive. Prices of goods are going up every day. I have eaten in restaurants most of my adult life; I can't afford to eat at a McDonald's now restaurant prices have gotten so out-of-reach for me. Suddenly, I'm told to go back to the alley and maybe the scum back there can help me get a crust of bread or maybe a bone in my bowl of stone soup. I'm now poor. That's my dilemma. I was on top for 35 years and now, I'm slidin' toward the very flat bottom of the job market barrel. Oh the Now. How deceitful it is. How gloriously wonderful things look when you head to bed and then how extraordiarily things can change by the time you're scrounging for breakfast in the garbage cans the next morning. Jesus, it's getting manic, and your head starts pounding, and your heart is overbeating, and your lungs are hyperventilating, and the anger of frustration is beginning to boil up in you to an overflowing gush of F-ing explicatives against God, Mom, the Flag, and certainly the rest of humanity.

Even a safety net I was depending on ain't comin' together for another 2 years NOW. So, here's me situation, mateys: I have to somehow support myself for the next two years starting right now at a clip of about $30,000 a year, pretty much a bottom-line survival salary (it comes from the word "salt") in this big city, and I'm starting out on this quest with 49 bucks in the bank and not one pot to piss in; plus the forecast on my radar is for continuing heavy rain during the fullest of full moons with not one f-ing rainbow predicted for any of those moons as far ahead as my sentient nature can see. In other words, I'm gonna be living under a constant full moon for the next 730 days and the only outlet for my exacerbations is ululation--growling from a deep-throated growl up and out into a Yowling that can be heard across the jungle roof for miles upon desolate miles. [An interesting aside, to me: in the dictionary under "ululant" is an quoted use of the word: "dark wasteland...ululant with bitter wind." It's a usage attributed to Rudi Blesh. I'll a man or woman a small bottle of the best if they know who Rudi Blesh is. I remember him because I was into jazz since I was old enough to welcome music into my psyche--when's that? At birth? How wonderful it must be to have one's writing and name as an example of a word in the dictionary. Though how many people look up the word "ululant" in their lives. Sorry, Rudi, only a weird wolf-attituded man like me would get to see your name in such a privileged setting.]

In order to assuage my own feelings of being poor, I checked myself out against the rest of the human world poor. Just how poor am I and what are my chances of making it by hoofing for a living in the gutter of a main street in good ole Today's America?

Here's some facts I found at www.globalissues.org

These will thrill your soul:

Fact 1: 0.13% of the world's population (I'm using 6 billion) control 25% of the world's assets (from 2004 statistics)

Fact 2: 20% of the world's population consume 86% of the world's goods

Fact 3: 50% of the world's population (3 billion) live on less than $2 a day

Fact 4: The GDP of the poorest 48 countries (25% of all countries) is less than the wealth of the
world's 3 richest people combined

Fact 5: 1 billion people in the world cannot read or write

Fact 6: 1.7 million children a year die because they are too poor to live

According to a UNICEF report: Thirty thousand children die each day due to poverty. "[They] die quietly in some of the poorest villages on earth, far removed from the scrutiny and the conscience of the world. Being meek and weak in life makes these dying multitudes even more invisible in death."

Fact 7: Economic growth rates are declining worldwide in every economy

Fact 8: 12% of the world's population uses 85% of the world's drinkable water (none of this
12% is in a Third World country)

Fact 9: There are 15 million children in the world orphaned by HIV/AIDS--that's equal to
the children populations of Germany and England

Fact 10: The World Bank defines the poverty line at people making $1.00 a day. There are
1.3 billion people in the world living at that level at the moment, according to the
World Bank (remember, Paul Wolfowitz runs the World Bank)

Here Are Some Global Priorities (what we spend our wealth on)
--In the US, we spend 8 billion a year on cosmetics
--In Japan, they spend 35 billion a year on "business entertainment"
--In Europe, they spend 50 billion a year on cigarettes
--In the world, we spend 400 billion a year on drugs and narcotics
--In the world, we spend 780 billion a year on military spending (1998 figs. surely over 1 trillion
by now)

According to some figures I have here, for 13 billion dollars a year, we could give everyone on earth basic health and nutrition care.

Henry George
Henry George was a printer who lived in San Francisco at the time right after the Gold Rush when San Francisco was rising from a tent city to a metropolis. George observed a phenomenon he couldn't really understand: why in a city so full of wealth was there such abyssmal poverty. Why in a land like the United States was there any poverty at all? As a result, this self-taught philosopher/thinker wrote one of the great American books of all time, Progress and Poverty. The first trade edition of this book came out in 1880 published by D. Appleton and Co. From the publication of this book and the then popular "single tax" theory it proposed, Henry George rose from a state of poverty in San Francisco to become the third most popular person in the US, next to Mark Twain and Thomas A. Edison, at the peak of his popularity. He ran for mayor of New York City as a Single Taxer and almost got elected. His daughter, Anna, married a man named de Mille and had a daughter named Agnes. And Agnes de Mille writes a very well-done introduction to the 100th Anniversary edition of the publication of her grandfather's great book. In it, Miss de Mille writes, "These multinationals [corporations] are not American any more. Transcending nations, they serve not their country's interests, but their own. They manipulate our tax policies to help themselves. They determine our statecraft. They are autonomous. They do not need to coin money or raise armies. They use ours. ... In the meantime, the bureaucracy, both federal and local ... legislate themselves mounting power never originally intended for our government and exert a ubiquitous influence which can be and often is corrupt. ... George wrote this extraordinary treatise a hundred years ago [1879; Agnes wrote this introduction in 1979]. His ideas stand: he who makes should have; he who saves should enjoy; what the community produces belongs to the community for communal uses; and God's earth, all of it, is the right of the people who inhabit the earth." Agnes de Mille, Introduction to 100th anniversary publication of Henry George's Progress and Poverty, published by the Robert Schalkenbach Foundation, New York, 1979.

thegrowlingpo'boy
for The Daily Growler

A Hard-Hitting Daily Growler Report

Who Gave a Crap?
CBS put old leather-hide, smoked-ham-looking Mike Wallace out to pasture last night. Did anybody see it? The rest of the 60 Minutes gang each did a hooey piece on old shriveling Mike, each piece, like a John McCain college graduation speech, simply the same hooey rehashed, most of them using the same hacky adjectival phrases, like "Mike's hard-hitting reporting," or "Mike goes for the throat with his straight-to-the-point questions." That trumpeting went on for the whole G-D hour; with inserted comments from Mike himself looking like a burlap-bagged mummy with that smoked-ham skin and those bagged eyes and those pulpy jowls but talking aw-shucks modestly about how great and "hard hitting" he was, and, that, yep, he admitted it, he patented the straight-to-the-point question. Ah, come on, Mike; Les Moonvez told you your time was up; you were scaring children; Morley Holy Wafer, too; 60 Minutes needs some youth pumped into it; even Ed Bradley is getting scary looking. Andy Rooney, you don't give a damn about him; he's been old longer than Mike, so you accept him like you accept one of your grandparents who just won't f-ing die; of course, you're lucky if Old Andy's you're grandparent unless he outlives you; he's so old, he may have outlived his own grandkids, if he had any. I swore, I would have croaked if I had heard one more tribute to old leather-face Mike Wallass calling him a "hard-hitting reporter." I would have puked myself to death. As it was I heard it the first time and I puked; then, damn, a second time, puke, a third time, puke, by the last time, I was dry heaving. Mike Wallace wasn't an original; hell no, he was simply doing an impersonation of his hero Edward R. "Where are my cigs?" Murrow.

My earliest recall of old puckered-up Mike Wallace he's totally surrounded by cigarette smoke. Since he was impersonating his idol, Edward R. "Light me up another one" Murrow, Mike chained smoked right on camera. It's a miracle, unless there's something we don't know, like Peter Jennings dying of cancer a year or so ago, how old Mike smoked so damn much yet he hasn't followed in the footsteps on the banana peels of his idol, Edward R (for Radiation). "I'm Dying of Cancer" Murrow, who did eventually die of lung cancer. Mike has a gravelly voice but he seems able to cope with getting out of the game while he's pretty much ahead. I'm sure old hard-hitting Mike has knocked down some multimillion bucks and will have a hambone hell of a time retired to one of his fabulous gated community getaways. I'm also sure we'll get a couple of Mike Wallace primetime specials, like "Mike Wallace's Protologist View of the World Bent Over." Or how about, "Mike Wallace Asks: 'Viagra, Is It a Hard Drug and Are We Being Too Soft on It?'"

Here's another way I remember old Mike "Hambone" Wallace. Back in 1982, at a break in a broadcast, right after Mike had been interviewing a black man, the sound man accidentally left the microphone on and you heard Mike being asked was it hard to interview black guys, and Mike shot back, it's hard to understand what they're saying when they're trying to speak over the tops of their watermelons, like it's hard to understand Latinos when they're trying to speak over platters of tacos. Except Mike told it with more snide maliciousness that my weak-kneed words are capable of expressing.
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A Recipe From Dinah Shore
Toss a mixed salad in a big bowl: lettuce, tomatoes, cukes, red onions. Put in refrigerator. Then you fry some bacon, dry it off on a paper towel. Take the salad bowl out of the refrigerator and crumble the bacon over it. Then reheat the bacon grease left in the frying pan. Now mix into that heating grease a teaspoon of powdered mustard. When the bacon grease is sizzling, pour it quickly over the cold salad. The grease will crackle as you pour it over that salad. Then eat. It's Old South as hell; po' folks food; usually made with dandelions and wild onions or with Swiss chard and wild herbs. I saw the late great Dinah Shore make this on her late afternoon teevee talk show near the end of her career. She did cooking segments with her guest. She did this one with Dandy Don Meredith, a retired Dallas Cowboys quarterback, one of Tom Landry's first successful quarterbacks at the beginning of his winning years, though Don was never of the star quality of Bart Starr, Fran Tarkington, or Johnny Unitas, but he was as great as Broadway Joe Namath, who was also a frequent guest on Dinah's teevee show.

On this same show with Dandy Don Meredith, she also made some fried chicken. It was different because...well, here it is. You take a chopped up fresh pullet. You then take 5 egss and break them in a big bowl. Then to the eggs you add a half-pint of buttermilk and then you beat those eggs. I think the Dandy One quipped, "Hey, Dinah, now don't beat your eggs too hard." Then you dip the chicken pieces in the egg/buttermilk batter. Then you crush a ton of Premium Saltine crackers in a bowl and you roll the chicken pieces in these cracker crumbs. Then you put the pieces straight into sizzling hot grease lining the bottom of a 12-inch cast iron skillet. Through the top on that sucker and let that chicken fry for over 30 minutes on a slow heat. Boy, now that'll be the crispiest chicken you'll ever eat and it's thanks to the good girl band singer become teevee show queen Dinah Shore. [There were vicious rumors spread about the delicious Dinah. Back home in the hills of Tennessee where she was from, it was implied she had maybe a tad more black blood running through her veins than white. They gave as there evidence her rather thick lips and large breasts; enough evidence to sway an all-male Old South jury, I'm sure.]

someoneinthekitchenwithdinah
for The Daily Growler
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The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
"It is not difficult to be alone if you are poor and a failure. An artist is always alone--if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness." Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer, Grove Press, 1965.

"I'll hain't you, boy, if you monkey 'round my widder when I'm gone." Doc Watson from a song I heard him singing with Chet Atkins one time.

"All the monkies ain't in a zoo, there's some runnin' loose around me and you." from a song sung by Tommy Collins.
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Living in the NOW

It's Always Only Now
Yesterday's post got off on the subject of depression in general and how depressing being depressed is and what if depression were a normal state of affairs. It got me to thinking about my own situation in terms of depression. I went online and took a depression test.

http://www2.netdoctor.co.uk/testyourself/goldberg.asp

I came out with a Goldberg score of 22 "mild or moderate depression." "Wait a minute, Doc Goldberg, I'm not depressed at all. How dare you call me moderately depressed." Why not moderately happy? Like is the glass half-full or half-empty? It's pragmatic thinking. So I went a searchin' for some answers. I studied Freudian psychology in college, which in turn developed into the sociological aspects of individuals and their many psychological hangups in a collective sense. A community of psychos has to be dealt with the same as you would deal with a community of normals. I had dabbled in existentialism in college, too, but a relationship with social psychiatry studies led me to Fritz Perls and the Gestaltists. That was many years ago, and to modern psychological thinkers by now these early theories are pretty damn archaic, so I had pushed these men and women (Laura Perls and Karen Horney became leading Gestaltists in the US) to the back of my mental bookshelf until recently when I found back among the cobwebs of my archaic room this brilliant book, Gestalt Therapy, a cooperative effort between Fritz Perls (the field's originator) who contributed the manuscript; the Gestalt psychologist Ralph Hefferline, who contributed the practical applications of Perls's theories; and the brilliant writer and hippy thinker Paul Goodman (he wrote the popular Growing Up Absurb and also the wonderful thinking-person's book with his brother Percival, Communitas, a survival manual for modern city living), who wrote the second volume of this chocked-full-of experimental focusing tome; experiential in the first volume and made empirically understandable in the second volume.

Gestalt Therapy
Gestalt therapy starts from two main ideas: 1) "the proper focus of psychology is the experiential present moment" and 2) that "we are inextricably caught in a web of relationship with all things." In other words, to fully know ourselves we must know ourselves as we exist in relation to other people but also other things (animals, the earth, the job, etc.). I learned a form of this from sociologist Charles Horton Cooley's "Looking Glass Theory"--where we mirror our own images on the people we come in contact with on a daily basis--especially those very closely related to us and I suppose this could apply to the things we relate to day in and day out as well (maybe something as materialistic as the house we live in). I was taught Gestalt psychologist from the meaning of the word, Gestalt, which literally means "things seen as whole existences rather than particular existences." I made up that definition, but it implies what I'm saying correctly. It's, I suppose, deconstructionist psychology, and I view it in an even broader and more deconstructive sociological sense, that to see what's wrong with an individual, you must first view him/her from and let's compare it to an aerial map (or now those freaky satillite image maps on Google), from the whole map of a person's existence at the given moment of his/her's mental problems. Zoom out from the patient and then gradually zoom back in until you can get right on down to the "soul"--I call it the solar plexus--of his/her character. It's fascinating thinking for a fantasizer like me. I believe we all develop and evolve according to the communites we "grow up" in and to fully understand each other, we have to respect how different each of us are from each other, even, perhaps, those we are hooked up to legally, or even though, that person may be a parent. It is how each of us differs from our own kind in some perhaps minute way, but sometimes in a way that causes a huge depression in our life's pathway. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lard is with thee.

When I growl at a moderate pace, I get rather romantic. This NOW from which I communicate is not romantic. It's too cutthroat to be won over with overwhelming chivalry. One of my spiritual mentors, the late absolutely absurb but brilliant Doctor Hunter S. Thompson, found it so cutthroat and so unromantic he totally gave up on it and blew the top of his brilliant head off; he found himself an absurbly righteous man in an absolutely ferociously real unrighteous experience. This gonzo genius could find righteousness in the Hell's Angels. He found righteousness in the drug-infatuated Buddhist or Satanist thinking of the Hippy society among the merriest of men and damsels riding on a Hell-bound bus driven by one of the most enigmatic anthropomorphized literary characters ever, Neal Cassidy, Jack Keroauc's literary hero, Cody. But the good Doctor couldn't find any righteousness in today's present tense. We are being fenced in by our government's psychotic character and fencing us in will lead to national depression. Ooooh, it gets scarier and scarier when you start relating your fantastic thinking to reality. I am afraid to fantasize a future based on this point of the aerial map of our national mental state. I can only imagine horrible regimin, horrible confinement, a loss of our innate wanting to explore as far from where we are as we are possibly free to go. That's freedom; anything else is confinement.

Two good terms the Gestaltists use are "here and now awareness" and the "inneractive field." They speak of "aware relations," which they use to find the "high side of normal." I really like that. You've gotta admire their use of the language.

I have been living in the NOW, the present tense, since the 60s when I was trying to be a writer and was immersed in the writings of Gertrude Stein. Gertrude Stein wrote in what she called the continual present and she wrote with the rhythm of whatever was going on around her at the moment as she was writing (I think of John Cage as the Gertrude Stein of music). It might be the steady pounding of the rain on the skylight of her Paris atelier; or, as she related in one of her pieces on writing, once it was the lapping up of water by her poodle Basket; she liked that rhythm and wrote using it for several hours after Basket had had his fill.

A writer has to be aware of the NOW constantly, even when writing historically. Musicians, too. The NOW is everything in the constant changing of the music scene. It, I think, is much more difficult for a musician to work the past into his/her (the old feminist writers used "co" for his/her, though I never saw any of them use such in their (co) writings) present than it is a writer. A writer's NOW is much less frenzied than a musician's, though the same kind of depression can take both of them over; artistic depression, I call it. It would be your "level of artistic awareness" to a Gestaltist.
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Depressing News
I watched Cynthia McKinney on teevee at noon today. She was talking about New Orleans and though Nagin won the mayor's race, there are still problems, the biggest caused by, and listen to this, NEW YORK CITY REAL ESTATE DEVELOPERS (they have free reign in Manhattan now thanks to billionaire mayor and total pompous ass Mike Bloomingidiotberg) flocking to New Orleans and offering pittances for property, buying up as many blocks of desolated neighborhoods as they can bilk out of the owners or the city fathers (mostly white). Their intentions obviously are to turn New Orleans into a totally new-style city, white controlled, all the developers are white (and I consider Saudis and Commie Chinese white--they think Capitalistically white no matter the color of some of those Saudis's skins, especially the "president's" adopted Saudi brother, Prince Bandar Bush) with Wal-Mart neighborhoods mixed with Old New Orleans-style amusement parks, a la reality in Las Vegas. Yes, there will be many 50-story condominiums rising in a ring around the river's old crescent bend that gave the city its Crescent City tag. I had relatives in New Orleans since I was a kid, visited it many times over 20 years, finally living there for over a year and I never heard it called "the Big Easy." I left New Orleans when I sat at breakfast one morning with the then mayor, Vic Skiro, and Vic was discussing with a flunkie the tearing down of the French Market, in order to build a Robert Moses-type freeway along the river as a part of a beltway around New Orleans that would focus attention on the new World Trade Center, I kid you not, they eventually built at the foot of Canal and the Mississippi River. That was enough for me. They were intent on destroying the historical New Orleans for a new freeway-bound, commercialized New Orleans that would plasticized the absolutely un-American mixed cultural reality that had made New Orleans so attractive for me in those not-so-long-ago days. New Orleans was a city of poetic freedoms if not civil freedoms, and in civil rights their was hope; New Orleans was coming together when I lived there, but, not to be; New Orleans was totally controlled by criminal elements from its restaurants, its hotels, on down to its whorehouses, opium dens, and gambling holes, the biggest element of being one Carlos Marcelo, the ruling goombah of the Mafia World from Texas over to the East Coast and back in the fifties, before Castro, Habana, Cuba, and all the lusty whoring and gamblin' and nightclubin' going on down there at that time.

What's depressing is we all know intuitively these real estate developers will win. They have too much tax-free money at their disposals. They make enormous profits off these buildings they are putting up so fast and furiously all over Manhattan, in spite of how far in debt this country is. Our only hope as US "We the People" is that we just use our rights under the Bill of Rights to just turn these people out of the White House, out of Congress, out of the Supreme Court, out of Washington--why can't we do that?

theoffsidesgrowler
for The Daily Growler
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From the Shambles

Inside Ground Zero
I was amazed this week seeing once again that only 3300 people officially died in the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center. This happened at 3 minutes before nine o'clock in the morning; this was a place where 50,000 people could at any one time be working, most having to be at their workstations by nine o'clock. I am awed that 47,000 people got out of the 3 huge buildings that eventually fell. I never heard much about what it was like underneath those buildings--in the subway tunnels, in the walkways beneath the WTC, in the stores, shops, and eateries under there that did some of their biggest business at breakfast. 3300 people doesn't sound bad at all; compared to the 2450 US soldiers having been killed in Iraq. Also, an estimated 110,000 Iraqis have died there. That's 112,450 (and this doesn't include deaths in the Coaliton of the Insane troops--British, Italians, Polish, et al.), in revenge for this attack that only took 3300 lives. We forget Afghanistan; the figures over there are hard to find. Seems 35,000 pops up a lot as the estimated Afghanies who had to die in revenge for what "Osama bin Ladin" supposedly did to us to scare the hell out of us; that's what terrorism is intending; the "president" says this is a war on terrorism; therefore, I assume We the People of the United States are living in constant terror, which seems to be exactly how we're supposed to act, according to Braveheart Georgie Porgie the Photo-Op King of men who have never been elected president. People I've met who lived around Ground Zero in New York are more terrorized by the still foul air down in that area of the city than they are of another terrorist attack. These were the people who were told by the honest, almost-a-saint, rich-bitch, Christie Todd Whitman, who with a sweet smile on her face, that the air was sweet as her bank account and fresh as a daisy, no toxicity, no asbestos, no strange bacteria. (So why are you wearing a gas mask, Christie?) Now people are suffering the consequences of their being told the lie that they could go back to their fouled apartments as soon as they did, some of them before their apartments were even cleaned. Apartments in that part of downtown Manhattan were flooded in dirt and dust after 9/11. God knows what was in that matter that boiled through that area that day. God knows what people were breathing for months after this scary but actually more awesome than scary attack on New York City. The mealy-mouths who pulled this off, this handful of sexually drained, still half-drunk, bird-brained mostly Saudi diehards who barely knew how to fly paper airplanes much less huge jetliners, managed to put these big planes through extraordinary maneuvers to get them in such exact alignment to hit those towers where they did--hitting in about the same area of both buildings--and now, if we're to believe our dear sweet honest FBI's videos of that so-called "plane" hitting the Pentagon, the way this same bunch flew this plane into the Pentagon seems just flat-out aeronautically impossible; that huge jetliner, going 600 mph, and these Saudi flopheads flew that big son of a bitch coming in less than ten feet off the ground and straight levelly into this short-story structure, a hit so totally exact it erased any evidence of an airplane; it erased body parts, flesh, blood, clothes, even erased luggage and paper goods; it even erased human crap and piss! I couldn't write such an extraordinary story even if I were drunk as William Faulkner when I tried to.
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Where Idolatry Comes From
Alfred North Whitehead says, "The two most obvious characteristics of Nature, writes Lytton Strachey [from his thoughts on the poetry of William Blake], are loveliness and power. The beauty dawned later upon human intelligences than did its power. Also in early phases of thought the powers of nature became the minds of Nature--minds bestial, ruthless, and yet placable. In all stages of civilization the popular goods represent the more primitive brutalities of the tribal life. The progress of religion is defined by the denunciation of gods. The keynote of idolatry is contentment with the prevalent gods." Alfred North Whitehead, Adventures of Ideas, Macmillan, 1967.
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Depression as a Way of Life
I can see an utter depression overtaking us all in our crystal-ball futures. Could you survive in a life of total depression? How long would you live if you were depressed from birth and taught depression as a way of life? In "low" school, not "high" school. "Best dressed and most depressed" kid in the most depressing school. The school teams who lost the most would be the champion losers. There would be no cheers only lamentations. Wars even are to lose for being put into slavery is a hell of a great state of depression. How depressed can you get? Or does a slave get so low there is no more depression?

Might be a yowling place to live this City of Total Depression, madmen running to and fro as if busy with an important business that is nothing but more insane decisions to be even more insane than just before that insane decision was insanely decided upon to be insanely vetoed so a more depressing decision is forthcoming. I am trying to write like a depressed person. Like Edgar Allen Poe waking every morning. I can't do it; no matter the insanity, I can't get depressed. I grew up in war so war was fun for me as a kid. I loved bombing the enemy with my toy airplanes that carried little wooden bombs and I would swoop my little air force down on the innocent and guilty of my enemy capital city--and blow them all the way to the Hell they originated in. There was nothing depressing in winning a war. That's a time for rejoicing. But losing a war, like we are doing in Iraq at this moment; like we are doing in Afghanistan at this moment. The news casts report sadness but they always end on total jocularity. Ever noticed that? Not in the City of Depression. All news ends with utter breaking down. Going madly off into a fading teevee breakdown, a degenerating of colors to boil down to utter depressing greys, greys of all shades, deepening into the blankest of the most depressing color there is, that which is totally empty of color, the color of tears.

A Great Story of From Ultimate Comfort to Total Self-Willed Depression
His name was Nathaniel Bentley (1735-1809) and where he lived in Leadenhall Street came to be known as the Dirty Warehouse. Raised in wealth and comfort, dressing to the nines, frequenting the tailors, jewelers, and druggists of Paris for his clothes, accessories, and perfumes and hallucinagens, he was so natty he became respectfully known as the "Beau of Leadenhall Street." All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, though it was said to be due to a shunt from a woman he tried to love, his lifestyle changed 360 degrees and he fell into such miserly squalor his "Beau" title changed to the handle "Dirty Dick." He owned a hardware store, which he allowed to become so contaminated it became a famous place known for its thick dirt and odiferous decay. After Bentley's death some of his more sordid and filthy possessions were taken to Bishopsgate to decorate the famous London drinking establishment Dirty Dick's, the proprietor naming the joint after Nathaniel "Dirty Dick" Bentley.
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A Statement From the Gestaltists
"When expression is overt, there normally is a release of pent-up energy--for instance, the seeming lethargy of depression will, if unblocked, be replaced by what it concealed and held in check: raging or the clonic movements of sobbing." Perls, Hefferline, Goodman, Gestalt Therapy, Dell Publishing, Delta Book, 1951 You gotta love "the clonic movements of sobbing." Sobbing is very popular in the City of Total Depression.
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Great Baseball Was Had By All
I don't how many people care, but I just saw two of the most exciting baseball games I've ever seen, the Yankees playing the Mets the last two days at Shea Stadium Holy Gestaltism, both games were lopsided then tied, then pitcher-dueled into extra-innings then one hit winning the game. It was the Mets's David Wright who hit the walk-off winning double Friday when the Mets beat Mariano Rivera and the Yankees. Aaron Heilman saved the game for the Mets by pitching perfect ball, striking out the side once. But then today, it was the Yankees's turn. The Mets led 4-0 going into the top of the eighth with Billy Wagner pitching for the Mets--on only two hits, two walks (one to walk in a run), and a hit batsman, the Yankees tied the game. Scott Proctor was the Yankee shut-out pitcher of the evening. Then in the top of the ninth, Johnny Damon beat out a fielder's choice that allowed the winning run to then score on a base hit by Melky Cabrero, the Yankee's newest young sensation from the Columbus Clippers. Then Mariano Rivera came on in the bottom of the ninth, was unhittable, and saved the game where the night before he had blown it and lost. So now it's Mets 1, Yankees 1, with the rubber game tomorrow (Sunday). By the way, as a batter, old blown-it has-been Randy "Limp" Johnson got a solid single. Baseball; the greatest game ever invented.
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What's Happening in the District of Corruption

The US Government Is at War With Everybody Including Its Own Citizens
Commander Georgie Porgie, the "president," and his Bullshit Brigades have just about declared war on everybody in the world, but especially all citizens, legals or illegals, of the United States. It's a new kind of war. It's perpetual war, and perpetual war needs a perpetual commander, right? Can you see what's coming yet? We been had, folks. Not only have we been had, but we are being fleeced of all our monies and fleeced of all our Constitutional rights including any rights we thought we had to privacy, voting, passing freely across state lines, obtaining a passport, to work, to love, to eat, to drink water--hell, soon to breathe (you know one day they'll be selling bottled air). The people of the United States of Amurika, yes those same "We the People..." of the Bill of Rights, are being fleeced of our INDEPENDENCE.

Now Hear This
Very soon, it's rolling like a big rock down a mountain in Congress right this minute, The Daily Growler will be no more because these neo-Nazi bastards are privatizing the Internet (they are also doing away with Public Access television, though most people don't even know why we have Public Access television--do you know why we have Public Access television?). The Internet was started as a US Department of Defense network so it is theoretically owned by the Amurikan people, but the big telecoms, led by AT&T and Verizon, have decided they own the means that lets the Internet exist and, by God, they're gonna control it or go broke lining the pockets of our already corrupt Congress (both parties, folks) trying.

The way it's going to work is AT&T and its bastard child Verizon--and all the other telcoms, too, but these are the Big Boys--are going to break up the Internet into a 4-tiered broadband highway. The top tier will be the hi-speed tier and will be leased out to the giants, like corporations, eBay, Amazon.com, because these guys have their hands in the big money pies and will be able to afford the enormous fees the telcoms are going to charge to use that tier. The second tier will be for small businesses, established Internet websites that sell goods, or insurance, or information, whatever. It will be expensive but less expensive than the top tier. Also, second tier speed will be slower than the top tier, more like DSL is today. Then there's the third tier. That will be the tier for common old everyday Websites like yours and mine--don't we all have Websites? It will be expensive but it will not be hi-speed; it will be like the current dial-up service in the speed sense. The last tier will be what they already are calling "the dirt road" of the big Internet highway system. This tier will be reserved for the blogosphere, teenager chatty-Kathy-type sites, or any site or blog or .com the telecoms don't approve of. Speed on the dirt road will be less than a snail's pace in measurement. They are saying under this new scheme, if you want to look at The Daily Growler, it will take maybe an hour to download it. Yep. That's what these birds are proposing and that's what kiss-ass, corrupt politicians are going to give them, all tax-free, too, because by doing this, AT&T and asshole Verizon and the other telecoms are going to improve our economic base and, of course, peddle the lie that it will open up more jobs. Truth is, AT&T and Verizon outsource most of their human work to Asia and India, and if you don't believe me, hold the line till a representative comes on some time. I'll give you a dollar if SHE doesn't have a heavy accent. [AT&T and Verizon prefer using Singaporeans and Indians because when they were British colonies English became their official languages so they all speak English fairly well, with funny accents, yeah, but who doesn't speak English with a funny accent?.] What these corporate corruptions are going to do is control the speed of your Internet usage depending on what tier you can afford to drive on. The hi-tier people who will gladly pay the enormous fees will immediately download when you hit on them--with a speed the same as Cable provides now--and don't worry, Cable Internet services are a part of this scheme, too, so having Cable isn't going to help you in terms of speed anymore. They will also be able to decide whether you can go on a site or not or you may have to pay subscription fees for passwords, that sort of thing. You might have to buy a one-time ticket of admission to some sites, same as you do with the porn sites, the most successful sites on the Internet, as you probably already know. These Big Cheese telecoms will also be able to kick you off-line any damn time they please, and this will happen all the time on that dirt road, that I guarantee. What it amounts to is these oligarchies will totally control the people's access to what the people already OWN. These corrupt, evilly intending bastards are simply looking for ways to make more bucks. They will still provide the same lousy phone service they have been providing at outrageous costs for years. Remember, this Internet privatization also involves fees that will be added to your phone bill--cell phones are in this, too, so don't think because you use a cell phone you ain't gonna get billed--fees for downloading images, tunes, certain information, forms, etc.; fees for text messaging or using email or taking photos on cell phones; hell, added fees for just about everything you do now for free on the Net, like using a search engine. Did you know this new takeover crew are serious about charging you for sending and receiving email? Think about that? Yes, Yahoo owns their email system, yeah, they do, but the telecoms own the lines Yahoo uses to send and receive email and if the telecoms intend to start charging Yahoo enormous fees for using what they refer to as THEIR lines (they actual belong to US) then Yahoo will be forced to charge for its coming and going email usage. This will get through Congress, I have no doubt about it. It's one of those "nonpartisan" issues you hear about every now and then. This started when Slick Willie Clinton gave away all our control over our airwaves, our radio waves, our air rights, our property rights, when that dumb peckerhead took all regulations off our communications networks; when that Arkansas hillbilly allowed anybody who had the bucks to buy up as many radio stations as they wanted and so we got Infinity and Clear Channel (a Texas company owned by a big Bush buddy) and Sinclair who now own almost all radio stations in this country. Hillbilly Willie allowed Rupert Murdoch to buy up as many newspapers and teevee stations as he wanted, plus all the satellite channels he wanted--Jesus, what Rupert Murdoch owns in terms of world communications channels is enormous and amazing. How dare one human being control that much information and the ability to generate it and broadcast and publish it! And don't think Fox News isn't government backed--hell, you heard that dipstick Tony Snow (poor old Tarbaby in the flesh), the "president's" new press-buffoon say ABC was a "rival" network last night didn't you? I think Rupert Murdoch got his old bony ass right smack-dab in the Oval Office with this clone becoming press idiot for Georgie Porgie. Willie Clinton started all this. The Poor Little Rich Bush Boy will gladly continue to give it away.

Did you know most of the taxes you pay on your phone bill are WAR taxes?--some of them were put on phone bills during WWII. Lyndon Johnson put a tax on phone bills to pay for the VietNam War and it has never been repealed. Check out your phone bill and look at how many taxes you're paying and how many "Federal wire charge"s and inside wire charges and outside wire charges you are paying. Did you know double taxation is unConstitutional? Yet, we pay taxes on every son of a bitchin' thing we do. Check out what restaurants are charging you in terms of taxes next time you eat at even a cheap-ass restaurant. Cigarette taxes, gasoline taxes, tolls on the highways and bridges, property taxes, state taxes, county taxes, city taxes, water and sewer taxes, sales taxes, taxes on our drugs and alcohol, taxes on even playing OTB and the Lotto--it's amazing how our national, state, and local governments claim they are so in debt given the amounts of monies they take in every hour of every day--billions and billions of tax monies--and still they need more and at the same time they are divulging themselves of huge tax bases, like corporate taxes or estate taxes or capital gains taxes--where most of these corporate profits are coming from.

I'm beginning to babble I'm so damn mad.

Let me spell out what's going on. It's time you knew. I've growled until I'm blue in my hairy face, but while I'm calm, let me throw this out at you and see what you think. Even though Bush only has a 29% approval rating of the "polled" public, he has a 100% approval rating from Congress, the Executive branch, the Justice Department, the Supreme Court, the Pentagon, most state governments, all corporations, plus don't forget to throw in that 29% of WHITE Amurikans who still keep their noses deep in his puckered ass. This all adds up to this little spoiled rich boy human monkey being in total control of our past, present, and future. Hell, I'll be even more brash and say, this little human monkey has control of the WORLD's past, present, and future. The power this tinhorn outlaw controls is awesome. It's enough power that he could with the flip of a switch bring this world to its knees, to the brink of total destruction. That's power that makes this sorry soul get an erection quicker than Pickles in a new baby doll from Victoria's Secret. This is a seriousness being totally overlooked by most of us who still keep the faith, baby, and who are working our asses to the bone when we are able to find jobs, going deeper and deeper into debt and thus further and further under the bootheel of this US government (remember, the new Bush bankruptcy laws are no good to you anymore if you want to bail yourself out of debt). We've been forced to put our heads up our asses and if we don't, Guantanamo here we come.

You watch C-Span and you see how foolishly ineffectual DUMBOcrats are against this Nazi-regime and SS-trooper mentality. With 71% of the polled Amurikans in their corner (though that's not probably true, but it hypothetically could be), they still haven't the testicles or vaginas to stand up to Bush and his totally criminal regime. These political-system assassins never won any presidential election in this country, not in 2000 and not in 2004; they stole both elections. Check out the now international billion-bucks-a-year business called ChoicePoint; you know where they got their big start? In Florida. When? In 2000. And what were they doing? Providing Kathleen Hairyass with lists of felons living in Florida (it doesn't matter in Florida if you were a felon in New York, where felons who have served their time regain their right to vote, if you move to Florida and they find out you were a felon in another state, you are a felon in Florida and you can't vote), who it turned out were mostly blacks--what, to the tune of 40,000 voters. Probably ChoicePoint could find any state that many felons given the number of men and women we keep in prison day-in and day-out; it's over 2 million right now. Can you imagine! How did ChoicePoint grow so fast after that election? Government contracts. From which government branches? Why Homeland Insecurity, the NSA, the Pentagon. Yep, their CEO is under investigation for fraud by the Justice Department, but don't worry. He'll never be convicted or serve a lick of time; and even if he does, he won't be considered a felon when he's released and will be able to vote in Florida, that's for damn sure. None of the crooks, liars, and cheats who turned this country over to these birds will serve one day of time. It's just like Unka Dick can shoot a man in the face with a shotgun and they don't even bother to take his ass down to the police station for a statement. He's found innocent on the spot. They don't even hold a preliminary hearing about it. His own victim apologized to him for putting his asskissing mug in the way of Unka Dick's drunkenly aimed shotgun. Let me say this, go and get a shotgun and go out with one of your friends and "accidentally" shoot him or her in the face. See what happens. It won't be anything like Unka Dick had to go through, that I'll guarantee you. See ya in court for sure and probably I'd see ya in jail a few months later.

It's perpetual war, folks. And in this war, everybody else is the enemy. That's all Georgie Porgie trumpets on his sorry-ass foto ops, the latest his pranks on the US-Mexican border at Yuma, Arizona, the old stomping grounds of Carlos Castenada's stupid old Mexican spirit who lived in the desert around that barren area of the world, where we're gonna put up one of those Israeli-designed fences to keep the low-life smelly Mexican peones from contaminating our PURE WHITE and PROTESTANT country (Remember: Texans don't necessarily like Catholics all that well and Mexicans are big Catholics even though their revolutionaries warned them about Catholism and tried to ban the Church from existence in Mexico, though their revolution like ours and all it meant to bring to the real Mexicans of Mexico has long since been totally forgotten).

The latest stupid thing to pass Congress in this absolutely stupid immigration bill is that all aliens have to learn to speak English fluently to become a citizen of this country. What does that "fluently" mean? Like Georgie Porgie butchers the language? Or like that great champion of peace and European war criminal, Henry Kissenger, butchers it. Or how about the Gropenator, Arnie "I Like Your Titties" Swartzenschweinkopf (with his Siegheilin' old Daddy) butchering the language? Or how about Alberto "Present Your Ass So I Can Kiss It, Mein Fuhrer" Gonzales and his speech? By the way, when asked if his parents were illegal Mexican immigrants, Alberto couldn't remember; they might have been, he added, with a slight possum-eating-shit grin on his lying mug.

Wake up everybody in the world. Georgie Porgie and his Brigades are not just a threat to this country; they are a threat to the whole world. The spoiled little rich Yaley has brought perpetual war to us. Perpetual war means these birds have no intention of having anymore peace. War is too profitable. War has always been the solution to a failing economy. The Democrats in the past used war to get us out of the economic holes the Republican administrations have always put this country in. Roosevelt got us into WWII to end the horrible depression this country was surviving by the skin of its teeth. Truman used Korea to get us out of what was then called a recession. Kennedy faced ending a recession created by the Eisenhower administration. Soon after Kennedy's talking about peace and prosperity, he had to get us into that VietNam bruhaha. Pappy Bush was the first Republican who decided to use war as his trick bag to get us out of a recession; thus his stupid wasteful Gulf War, of which Georgie Porgie's criminal War Against Terrorism is just a continuence. This "president" should be in prison; but I'm pretty sure he ain't worried about being in prison anymore than his pal Kenny Lay or hell even Osama bin Ladin are worried about ending up in such a place. "Fuck you!" as Unka Dick would say about it all.

Anyway, we just thought we'd let you in on the state of world affairs from the viewpoint of The Daily Growler, intelligence within babble.

It's no joke, folks.

a staffer editorial
from The Daily Growler
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Here's a Dictionary Definition for You:
"Tory: n, n pl: Tories: Ir toraidhe outlaw, robber (1646) 1: a dispossessed Irishman subsisting as an outlaw chiefly in the 17th century 2: obs : BANDIT, OUTLAW 3 a: a member or supporter of a major British political group of the 18th and early 19th centuries favoring at first the Stuarts and later royal authority and the established church and seeking to preserve the traditional political structure and defeat parliamentary reform b: CONSERVATIVE 1b 4 : an American upholding the cause of the British Crown against the supporters of colonial independence during the American Revolution : LOYALIST 5 : often not cap : an extreme conservative esp. in political and economic principles." Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th ed.

Read the above definition over and over and think about Bush and what they are doing in Washington and see if this definition doesn't fit these assholes. These are late 19th century Tories, same as old John D. Rockefeller and the other oil, coal, and railroad barons of those days were. They low-life knuckleheads felt because of their unusual business success, they had a monarchical power over the COMMON MAN, who is who all of us US citizens really are (too bad we don't use our COMMON SENSE) and thereby with that power control his desires, ambitions, or certainly his passions. This flock of bird-flu spreaders gave us what was called Tory Democracy. Read H.L. Hunt's little book Alpaca. That explains in right-wing literary terms what a crooked, ignorant oil man considered a true utopian democracy in which he even provided blessings for "Messkins," as the oldtimer white Texians refer to Mexicans. These white Texas old-timers fear what a small group of renegade Mexican Revolutionaries who moved to a small Texas town on the Texas-Mexican border after the revolution threatened. They drew up a proclamation that swore they would one day do everything possible to take back all the territories the Republic of Texas and the United Snakes of Amurika had stolen from them in the mid-1800s. They said one way they would do it was through Mexican-Texians-Americans having tons of babies and promoting the religion of the Virgin Guadalupe, which is Mexico's own version of the Holy Mama. Such ancient bullshit; but still alive in the thinking of old-timey white Texans.
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Russia Will Attack Israel Soon

Praise the Lard to High Heaven
I had to get up early this morning; my g-damn shower is leaking and, of course, my landlord is too busy building $2000-a-month apartments out of these once-soiled rooms in this creepy, rat- and mice-filled, dump of an old hotel to repair the shower of an old tenant who's only paying piss-in-a-bucket compared to 2 grand a month. I can wait; so far I've waited 5 days; without a shower. Can you imagine the furor I would cause were I paying $2000 a month? Can you imagine how quick this pie-eyed landlord would be fixing my shower and kissing my ass at the same time were I one of those misty-eyed dopey Baby Boomer worthless kids who flock to this building to rent these renovated hell-holes. Surely the spirits of the thousands of wretches who have lived and died in this building for 156 years will haunt these money's-no-object fools into bedlam, though I know nothing like that will happen. I don't believe in a spirit. If there's a G-O-D, then he or she is of your own personal making; God is a reflection of your own hatred of yourself.

So I got up at 6 am to make sure my leaking shower hadn't spritzed out and flooded my bathroom floor. It hadn't. So I came back to bed but couldn't go back to sleep, so I flipped on the teevee. I had the dial set to one of the schlock channels and I'll be damn, I'd forgotten all about the little pest, there was one of my favorite trick-bag pastors, the Reverend Benny. He's known on legal documents as Benny Hinn, a true weirdo joker from Toronto, Canada, who at one time claimed he was Israeli though any fool can see he's Indian as hell--the Bombay type and not the Native American type.

This morning Benny was in Israel, he calls it the Holy Land, doing a talk show format on a bluff overlooking the Dead Sea and he was conversing with an old dude who looked like the late John Huston who was an expert on biblical prophecy. Of course, they were talking about the Second Coming, Jesus's coming back to earth after all Holy Hell has been set loose on the Plains of Armageddon with blood flowing up to the bellies of the horses--yes, Armageddon will be fought on horses. So sayeth the soothsayer. But what really blew my mind was when John Huston's double suddenly said, "Yes, Reverend Benny, I do believe these prophecies have all been fulfilled, like I say in my book there, Brother Benny, the one you are giving the folks for a $35 offering, plus shipping and handling--and we take all the credit cards, too, folks, Praise the Lard, and yes, Brother Benny, like I say in my book, all the signs are pointing toward the Russians and their allies coming out of the east to attack Israel...." Whoa, Nellie. What's this fool bellowing on this nationally broadcast teevee show, Russia is going to attack Israel? Why does Russia want to attack Israel? "...and, Brother Benny, who will come to Israel's defense? Well, Praise the Lard, it will be the three Young Lions, Reverend Benny...." Benny is shivering and raising his arms up a bit and whispering "Praise the Lard" all during this old crab's chomping at the madman's bit. "...and Benny, one of those Young Lions will be, yes, yes, yes, Brother Benny, Praise the Lard, the United States of Amurika. Yes, Praise the Lard, everything is according to God's Holy Plan, so, yes, Benny I believe I can almost say the Lard is coming any f-ing day now...Praise the Lard."

So there you go, folks. Look out. We're going to war against Russia and its allies, whoever they are. The reason these nut cases believe Russia is in the arms of the Devil and will "come against" Israel to thus cause the Battle of Armageddon is because old hallucinating nutcase, Saint John, the "beloved" disciple of Jesus himself, fled to Antioch, then under Greek control. The Greeks at Antioch exiled the beloved John to the wild Isle of Patmos in the Mediterrean. While out there, and in the midst of some super hallucinatory moments, John wrote the Book of Revelations (The Book of the Seven Seals) (I suppose the Greeks felt sorry for this crazy Jewish guy and provided him with plenty of paper and quills during his stay on Patmos). It's in that truly insane piece of writing that this crazed old Jewish friend of Jesus said that a Great Bear would come out of the east to "go against" Israel and that Israel would be defended by three young lions, one of which the US Christians interpret as being the US (I wonder if the Korean Christians who don't speak English know that one of those three young lions is the US?--Hell, they believe Reverend Moon is Jesus, so they'll believe any damn thing you tell them, like L. Ron Hubbard said as he writing his best science fiction ever). Holy Creepy Cripes. A hell of a lot of people believe this shit. Oh my head feels like it's splitting in two. I feel like yowling!

A little further jab at Reverend Benny. Benny's thing when he's in full swing, is a trick he calls "knocking people down with the force of the Holy Spirit," which is where Benny suddenly gets filled with the spirit, see, and suddenly he just shoots his left arm out, points a finger at your forehead and wham, you fall back into the arms of one of Benny's helpers, slammed out of your gourd by the Holy Spirit himself, cause when the helper lets you go you're supposed to buck and kick and moan Praise the Lard over and over and then Benny goes, "That's enough, pick her up," blah-blah-blah, and the show goes on until Benny comes on begging for money and bragging about what exotic or otherwise major city he'll be entertaining in in the coming months.

The Holy Ghost, according to the Christians, is a big-time ethereal-type ghost who somehow got himself (I assume all these fabulous creatures are male) elected to a part of the Holy Godhead, the Trinity, consisting of Big Daddy, Jesus His Only Son, and this Holy Ghost dude. Even though the Holy Ghost (or Spirit/Santo Esprito) is artistically visualized as a dove, when Benny's Holy Ghost hits your ass, you go down. Benny's Holy Ghost hits you right between your eyes as though its an eagle and damn sure not a dove. I agree you might scat back a bit if a dove was coming straight at you, but if an eagle was coming at you, hell yes you would hit the deck and roll. You roll, by the way, because an eagle's concentration is in his/her claws just before contact with the prey, so you roll at just the right moment and miss those claws and that means he/she has to gain altitude and make another circle to set up another attack at you--see what you learn on The Daily Growler? Besides who amongst us can verify whether I'm right or not? Let's have a comment from any blogger or normal person who's ever been attacked by an eagle; or a dove, too, for that matter. I'm empirically interested in whether a dove's attack is vicious or not.

Let me throw in some Oral Roberts slop; the pig in me is hungry as a wolf. Unlike Benny and his eagle-like Holy Ghost, old hardtack Oral was a lazy controller of the power (and I emphasize the POW! in that power) of the Holy Ghost. Oral was definitely more dove-like than eagle-like in his healing. Oral professed he had the Holy Ghost in one of his hands, I'm sure it was his writing hand, God having made the writing hand knowing full well it would be the hand most of us automatically use to do things, like healing. Oral said he just felt it come into his hand one night when he was praying and God told him at the next show to just lay that hand on someone and, by God, they'd be HEEEEaled on the spot. Oral said the hand got hot as Hell that night and stayed hot ever since. So Oral didn't "slam" people down with his Holy Ghost, he simply put his hand all over you--"laying on of hands." But that doesn't mean Oral was gentle, hell no, I've seen him cuff a deaf kid like WHAP on his ears and then turn with his microphone off to one side away from the kid and whisper, "Hey, kid, ya hear me?" "Yes sir, Brother Or'l." "Praise the Lard and pass those buckets boys." And Oral and creepy Benny pass those buckets like madmen collecting all those tax-free bucks. Wow. Millions start rolling in. How tempting must that be? While the counters are busy counting up the Lard's take, Benny, Oral, Jimmy Swaggart, Popov, Old Lady Hickey out in Denver (I dig her daughter, a preacher, too) can just reach in an take a fistful or two of cash and go out and have a big roaring T-bone. I know what these preachers do. I grew up with a friend who became a Holy Roller television "evangelist" out in California. What they do is charge all their heavy expenses to God and they give themselves tiny little salaries where they aren't payin' one damn dime to the taxpayers who give them a free ride, why I'll never understand. That money don't float up to heaven you fool Yahoos who bend you otherwise proud heads to such a plastic and phony-ass redemer whose Wizard of Oz is back behind the Holy of Holies doin' one of the faithful's sons or daughters, or wife or husband. Yep, sex was the original sin, and as Philip Wylie said, we pay for sex with death, otherwise there would be no need to die if we didn't need sex to procreate.

Oral, Benny, Jimmy Strokeit (Swaggart), Old Lady Hickey out in Denver, Joyce "Hillbilly Queen" Meyer, Cowboy Ken Copeland and his Arkansas hillbilly wife/preacher, come out of the Four Square Gospel Church whose mother church is in Los Angeles and was founded by the wacky, though sexually alluring, Aimee Simple McPherson, one of my women heros, though, like Mary Baker Eddy, Joe Smith, Charles Jessup, and Saint John, she was truly off her rocker. Besides, I can't imagine Los Angeles as a holy city, though I guess it is; it was founded by Catholic priests, those holy of holiest of holy Fathers, the Padres--yeah, they so miss and lust for the sons they are not allowed to have they like to play with the altar boys and choir boys--you know Father-Son love--ooooooogah!--oh, yeah, some of these pious fakirs desire a daughter every now and then, too, especially Holy Roller priests, but they mostly want sons. Big Daddy himself preferred men to females, though even he knew he needed a vagina to pull off making Jesus. Ain't that weird; Christians believe the "Mother Mary Immaculate Conception" story without asking why did God need Mary to have a son? Couldn't he have simply just whipped it off and as it ejaculated, cried out, "Let this be my only sonnnnn...oooh, Jesus, that was good!" Seems to me that makes more Big Daddy sense than needing Mary. Of course, I know that old son of a bitch liked what Mary had and Joe didn't, that vagina.

You know God made woman (Eve), according to the Christians, as an after thought. Adam, the Christians's first MAN, was watching the animals one time and it was that time of year, you know, when the frost was on the pumpkin vine, and the animals all started fornicating and carrying on something ferocious but at the same time damn exciting looking. I mean Adam got a "stirring up in his loins" from watching these beasts of the forest and field party hardy doing this doubled back beast thing. So Adam said to God, "Hey, Big Daddy, those male beasts they have those other beasts who look like them but aren't hung like them and wow what they do when that one with only a hole raises that thang up, Katie bar the door, those male beasts look like they are already in Heaven, Lard, if you'll forgive my sacrilege? Why can't I have one of those beasts with that hole?" God answered logically, "Because, you stupid prick, those beasts, I call them 'Woe-men,' which is all they are, dig? You see, my first man, all creatures are males, except some males--well, Hell, OK, I admit it, I screwed up in the laboratory. The process I used, you know, to grow that damn penis you got between your legs goofed somewhere in the chromosomal formula I used--borrowed it from Lucifer, so I should never'a trusted it, but that's all in the past now. Back to my story, those beasts with the holes have those holes because their penises got to the bud stage and just flat stopped growing. Damndest thing I ever saw--a little beginning of a penis down there but the rest just a hole that leads up into a second stomach, by God. Anyway, it's about 50-50 in the beast world now, you know, penises and holes. But I decided with you, Adam, to give you a Woe-man would lead to what I call doctrinally 'original sin'--F-ing, in 'out there' terms, because it leads to dirty conception. Ohhh, my God, you should see the filthy little shitty things that come popping out of those beast holes after nine months--Jesus, they're foul looking. So I decided I wanted to make a perfect hombre, in my image, just like me, and I have never had a Woe-man." "The beasts seem to want original sin most after they eat those tomato-looking apples that grow on that big tree overthere." "Yes, that's the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. You eat one of those and out the damn gate you go, you stupid ass, no more Eden, baby, nothing but wilderness. That's the price you pay to become a heterosexual!! Stay a man without a Woe-man and I guarantee you you can live here in my lovely little park forever, and I do mean ever." "And what about one of those beasts with the holes, some of those beasts you told me were called sheep that have the holes that look pretty damn tempting, Lard, so what if I boff one of them?" "Sodomy, sorry." "Sodomy?" "Legal name for beastiality. Forbidden under my park rules." A few days later, Adam was back. "God, sorry, pal, I love this place, but damn I'm lonely. How 'bout you give me a Woe-man and I not F her?" "It would work as long as you don't eat one of those tomato things off that big tree I told you about. Woe-mans are lollygaggers; they like laying around showing it off; but as long as you don't eat those tomatoes, it might work. I like what you're doing with my hedges, the one that looks like a mouse with big Disneyland ears is kind'a cute." "Thanks, God, now get busy and get me a Woe-man and I'll take me chances with them tomatoes." God thereby revealed in this little anecdote that what he called Woe-man was really an imperfect male. Heavy, right?

Oh God, the asides. But it's because of this particular NOW and how I feel life evolving faster and faster and these asides are essential to this urge to growl with the intent to bite. To bite ignorance by the neck and strangle it 'till it's fresh dead and then feed it to the gators and the crocs since they'll eat anything and they are old as Hades ten times.

How about one more Oral remembrance: Oral sat on a big high stool up on a big stage and as the suckers came up to be healed, he would lean down and ask them what was wrong. "Pastor Or'l, I has an awful lump on my mountain oysters, if you ketch my drift. It's f-ing up my luv life. Heh-heh, I think my old lady's gonna leave me with them 26 snot-nose kids I pumped into her--but now, Brother Or'l, I can't pump for shit." "Praise the Lard, my brother. Do you believe?" "Yas suh I believe." "Then...[WHAM--Oral knees the man in the groin]...by God, you're healed. How'er your balls now, brother?" "I don't know, Brother Or'l, I can't feel 'em at all anymore. And why's my voice gettin' higher?" "There ya go, God's worked another miracle! Next sucker."

Sorry about that, I got off the track, something I'm very capable of doing. A comment I got the other day slammed me for being confusing with my flashbacks--yep, I admit, I meander (one of my favorite streets in my hometown was Meander Lane, though it was many years later when I learned what "meander" meant). The fields are so ripe with pickings these days. I mean, look what's going on all around us--going-up-outrageously rents being one of the pickings; our lyin' crooked "president" and his silly ass solutions to very serious dilemmas is another of the pickings. But this morning's Benny Hinn melodrama was challenging. OK, let's see if this fool is right. Let's see if Russia attacks Israel. First of all, though, I'd still like to know why Russia would even think of attacking Israel? Ain't nothing there but dirty old crumbling churches or mosques from whoever conquered them last. We need a real Healer is what we need; we need a tough son of a bitch, ghost or what, who can take his or her hand and slam down this bunch of spoiled brat rich boys who are taking us to hell whether we wanna go or not.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler
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Just a Parting Note:
Mohammed said the fruit Adam and Eve ate was the Bayan or Indian fig. That sounds reasonable to the Growler conjoined heads.

Lesbians

A Boy's First Experience With Lesbians
My first experience with Lesbians, I didn't even know they were Lesbians. I was a teenager and they lived next door to us. It was a mother and daughter, the mother in her fifties and the daughter in her early twenties. I was fifteen. God, what an age for a boy; the perfect age. At fifteen my body was perfect, my hair was corn-silken white to the point they called me "Cotton," my face was baby-cute, my eyes were bluer-than-blue, I was always smiling, and I had no fear of attention; in fact, I demanded it. I loved most getting attention from girls; especially those who fit my young appetite: dark hair long or short, glasses a plus, tall or short didn't matter; my most steady demands were for a certain look in her face, a slim-slim waist, breasts worth trying to see, legs worth trying to sneak a peek up them as high as I could get, and extravagant bottoms (that's what my class called a girl's hips, and Jesus X, I can't believe I'm using the word "hips"; how out of the loop is that? I'm probably trying to be politically correct. I'm sorry, ladies, but the word "ass" just fits what y'all have behind you to a "T" with me. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Kramer saw the license plates that were personally tagged "The Ass Man"? It drove him mad because he considered himself the real Ass Man; he felt no one appreciated a woman's ass like he did. Ended up the owner of the Ass Man license plates was a cosmetic surgeon who specialized in tits and ass and meant it in terms of his profession and not in terms of his likes.)

The young woman in her early twenties who lived with her mother next door to me fit several items on my fifteen-year-old sexual appetite. She had long dark hair, a slim-slim waist, breasts worth trying to take a peek at, and legs I didn't have to wonder about because the first time I saw her was when they were moving in and she was wearing shorts. Holy Fires of Hades, that was enough to set me on the prowl like a good little wolf-boy. OK, the mother didn't move me at all. She looked more like a man than she did a woman. Even her name, Jesse, was mannish to me. She wore pants all the time and wore her hair cropped short, like Gertrude Stein cut her hair during what she called her Caesar look. One shirt she used to wear looked just like the shirt the postman wore and I got to thinking of her as a postman.

At that time, and this is due to the era I'm talking about, I really didn't know what the hell a Lesbian was. I'd heard of Lesbos because I read poetry and my grandmother had a copy of Edith Hamilton's encyclopedic effort at cataloging Greek fables, so I knew about Sappho. But Lesbos was just a Greek island to me and Lesbians were inhabitants of that island. This mother and daughter were ordinary women to me. So Jesse looked like a man; so did my aunt who was a deputy sheriff out in California. In fact, my aunt really did look like a deputy sheriff; this woman really was a woman who just looked like a man; walked like a man, too; she wasn't sexy at all.

One night, with my feelers for sexuality waving around searching whatever sexual things were in the air, I happened to stop at our dining room window, the window that faced the mother and her daughter's house. My feelers were feeling heat. I pulled one of the Venetian blinds up and looked straight across and into the open window of a room in their house. Just as I focused, the light in the room came on and in came the daughter. Holy Yipes, I yelled inside, my heart palpitating like a treat-expecting pooch, my hopes so high I was all penis by then, my penis the commander of my full-throttled ship of state and my brain the sailor...or may I dare make a pun?...my brain was the seaman.

I was on fire like an astronomer is when he's got access to a high-powered telescope and my telescope was fixed on my early-twenties good-lookin' girl neighbor. She was wearing jeans and a silk blouse. Soon, swhoosh, the blouse came off. Ach die leber, Augustin! Jesus, a woman in a bra. That wasn't new to me; I ogled the bra ads in my mother's women's magazines. Then she unzipped her jeans and hop-stepped about getting out of them. A WOMAN IN HER BRA AND PANTIES. (Yes, Otto Preminger was right in that great movie, Anatomy of a Murder--score by Duke Ellington, in case ya didn't know--"panties" was a word that would put a blush on the collected's face in those bland years of blouses buttoned up to the neck and skirts, even the tight ones, flapping down to girls's ankles. Panties were called "unmentionables." Jesus. How stupid Puritanism was.) A woman in her bra and panties was pretty hot for this 15 year old and by then my ding-a-ling was out and being rang (any Chuck Berry fans left alive?)(I AM CERTAINLY ALIVE AND I'M A WORSHIPPER OF CHUCK BERRY, one of the real inventors of American rock and roll, which has to stick to the blues to be true rock and roll. The stupid Liverpool fakirs and the London School of Economics imitators just couldn't get the blues down and that's why their shit and the shit that follows ain't really ROCK and ROLL--but I'll save this rant for a later day!).

Next thing I know, the god-damn mother came in the room. Oh shit, the mother was in her bra and panties, too--big panties, too; grandma panties! God. My ding-a-ling's clapper dropped dead and dull for the moment. I began to feel guilty about what I was doing. I was a Peeping Tom. Shit, I could be arrested and taken over to the county hoosegow (juzgado, which meant a panel of judges in Spanish and that panel of judges meant jail most of the time you went before them). I kept on looking. I was just about to tuck tail and back away when the mother reached over and undid the daughter's bra. Hope reared eternal again. Oh MY GOSH-a-rootie, the daughter's breasts were naked. I was beginning to hyperventilate. I hadn't seen naked breasts since flat-chested Elizabeth Mulkey let me see hers one night when I was French kissing her as I had her pinned to the backseat of my best friend's dad's new Buick Century on a double date to a drive-in movie that past summer. Ka-chong-ga! Now the mother was massaging the daughter's breasts. Jesus, she was really going to town on them; damn, tweaking her pink nipples, the daughter acting as though she was scratching an itch with her hips as she bucked them back and forth against her mother's leg. Then, OH HELL, the mother leaned over and kissed the daughter; hell, full on the lips, HELL, holy Cristo, she was doing to her daughter what I had been doing to Elizabeth Mulkey at the drive in movie last summer.

I needed to get some advice from somebody about what I was watching, but, shit, no I didn't quit looking. Oh, hell, no, not me when I was fifteen and all wrapped up in my penis's finest philosophical feelings.

They moved to the big bed, the mother pushing her daughter back on the bedspread, still kissing away, except, HOLY CRABS, now mom was sliding her hand inside her daughter's sweetly innocent panties; OH MY HOLIEST OF ELECTRIFIED CATS! the mother had pushed the daughter's panties down over her knees and now she was...OH MY SON OF A BITCHIN' GD Mama Mia, she was--shhhhhhh! I'm whispering, she was fingering her daughter's nanner-nanner. I was sweating; and so was the daughter; I could see it glistening on her face. Shit, this was getting the ding-a-ling being rung again--it was ringing like a house was afire! Call out the firedogs. The Hounds From Hell. Save me, I was praying to the God who lived in the attic of our house, save me from this; I'm too young for this. But I kept my focus and I kept my palpitating heart and hand and I kept all bells'a ringin'. My eyes were glued to that slit between those Venetian blinds, straight across at that postman stuffing mail into that mail slit. And then...

And then...I learned what a Lesbian was, though, don't get me wrong, I still didn't know they were Lesbians. When mom replaced her fingers with her face, that's when I experienced my first Lesbianism. OH MY HOLY SANDALS OF THE BUDDHA! Mom looked to me like she was trying to lick her way inside her daughter, through what the Romans called the vestibule of love. The daughter looked like an angel laying their getting "eaten" alive by her mother. I was right in time with them and after it was over and the towels had cleaned up and mom and the daughter had turned off the lights, I lay awake all that night going over and over what I'd seen.

When I rather out-of-breath told my best friend about it a couple'a days later, he looked at me like I was a peabrain. "Jesus, man, they're a couple of Lezzies." "Lezzies?" "Yeah, man, Lez-be-ins, women that F women." "No shit." "Damn, I thought you were hip, man. I gotta give you this Havelock Ellis book I've got. That's where I learned all of this."

Havelock Ellis was a revealing treat when I later read him. But then I could write a couple'a paras about old Havelock Ellis. He introduced one of my female dream women, Hilda Doolittle, to Sigmund Freud. She became she said "Freud's pupil" and Freud called her his "analysand" and she wrote one of her better poems about it, Tribute to Freud, and Hilda was so f-ing sexual she was bi, couldn't resist screwing men, yet, she was only faithful to Annie Winifred Ellerman "Bryher" from 1918 when they met in Paris until H.D. kicked the bucket in 1961 when she was nearing 80.

I find that Lesbians treat me very nicely. They don't seem to be afraid of me, which gets me easily in amongst them. I think it's because I'm not an aggressive male. Also, I show a lot of female traits since I was raised manless by three very witchy women. I had a father, but, hell, he was mostly dead asleep under the evening newspaper when I ever saw him. Two of the sexiest women I know now are a Lesbian couple. In fact, a couple of years ago they married each other holding their own wedding, leading their own ceremony, singing their own wedding songs, and then having a wedding reception that was, Hellfire, the cat's meow. One of them, a truly god-awfully beautiful woman, is the lipstick. The other one, who I fell in love with the minute I met her, acts the mannish role, though to me she is overwhelmingly more sexually attractive than the lipstick.

Gay men. Well now you come to a whole other story. Since I'm a male, shit, I have to admit, I can't make myself get "into" men as sexual objects. I'm in too much competition with hetero men to want to F them with love. Yet, a lot of my favorite authors are Gay, or Homosexualists, as Gore Vidal called himself and his friends: Paul Bowles, Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, Somerset Maugham (what a hell of a writer Maugham was), Allen Ginsberg (I've got to read Howl again; what a poem that son of a bitch is), John Rechy (City of Night, one of the great naturally written books I've ever read), Larry Durrell (whew, what books that Alexandrian Quartet), and probably D.H. Lawrence, though a lot of these guys went both ways. I don't think I could go both ways; I find women my natural objects of love. Men. Huh. I'd rather do a sheep, I think. An older white trash lad who was in my class in high school owned his own sheep ranch--why he was trying to graduate high school I never heard--he chewed tobacco 24/7 and he could drink an R.C. Cola with a plug packed tight in his cheek, swallow the R.C. and then expectorate the tobacky juice. "Sure, I gits 'em mixed up occasionally, but it don't matter; I like the tastes'a both of 'em." And this guy admitted to us younger dudes one day that a female sheep's female organs were very close to a human woman's. Then another kid said he'd seen this guy do one of his sheep one day when they were all getting drunk as Lords out there on the old cracker's homemade wine. "Yup," he drawled, "I do all my female sheep; I'm their big daddy." He let out a chain of chaw-stained laughter spitting out over his chaw-stained brown teeth. "Cain't knock 'em up either. I got one I call Honey she's so lovin'." I recall somewhere in T.E. Shaw's Seven Pillars of Wisdom that the older Arab men he observed had trouble deciding between the sheep and the young boys.

I must admit I once had a deeply involved experience with a Lesbian lady who at the time happened to be my boss. She quit her very high-paying job to move to the country and live with her lover, but the night before she left at a going-away party, we fell in love. We were locked together most of that party, confessing love, kissing, feeling each other, moving against each other, wanting to meld. And then her lover came in, looked for her, found her, and started cursing her with the foulest of gutter-born venacular. This wonderful wide-eyed young lady who looked like a living peach to me, came running to me crying, and falling against me, she asked me to not let her go with her lover, still meanly standing back a ways hurling her hatred at me.

I have tried to imagine what would have happened had I not let her go with her lover that night. That's just what I did. Was I a coward? Was I too sane? Would I have been insane to have taken this sweet young woman away from her lovingly planned Lesbian future? I to this day can't imagine how it would have come out. I guess it would have been like if I had had a chance to make it with Hilda Doolittle back at the turn of the 19th into the 20th century; say I'd have met her the day she met Bryher Ellerman in Paris. I've never imagined what it would have maybe been like. I can be pretty sure it wouldn't have lasted. None of my heterosexual hooking ups lasted. On the other hand, it might have been the love that would have lasted had I carried through with her request. She certainly is still crying against my inner chest and a pang goes through me every time of every day I think of her.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler
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Did You See: That embarrassing speech the "president" made on teevee last night? How the hell does this fool accrue a 29% approval of his Punch and Judy Show? Except in this Punch and Judy show, Punch uses a real club and belts the hell out of every son of bitch who disagrees with him? Show fear and this Punch loves you; show no fear and he loads you in a small plane and shoots your ass right in the face. Our "president" and his crooked as hell family hates all people, not just blacks. I think most of all, this little louse hates himself the most. You think he's projecting?

Mexicans immigrating to the U.S. (all of that western US used to belong to Mexico) has been going on for over a century. Why all the hullabaloo over it now? Of course, since everything this lamebrain says is a f-ing lie, all the gobblygook and weirdo solutions to this "phony" problem are pipedreams coming out of his Pappy's old unplugging and hemorrhagic ass--biometric identification! What the hell do you do with legitimate Mexican-Americans? Do they have to get a biometric ID, too? Does that mean white folks get away with f-ing murder because they were born with the correct biometric skin? What about the influx of Indian, Bangledeshi, and Pakistani immigrants? What about all the Asians flocking overhere? Do we need to brand them, too? Holy Cripes in Holy Hell, this fool is fiddling without a god-damn fiddle while this country slides further and further down the slopes of glory and right into the boiling shit of Chaos.

Stupid friggin' idiots who make these off-the-wall laws and then break them all right f-ing naked in front of us while they're smoking illegal Cuban cigars, eating meals that would give most of us gout, partying hearty with whores and gay banger-boys--God-damn, I have to go GROWL at the friggin' moon. Jesus, am I insane? or are the rest of you insane? Eugene O'Neill in one of his plays goes to a freakin' insane asylum and stares into the eyes of an insane brother and he says, and I paraphrase, "Shit, you bastard. I see you laughing at me. You know, don't you? I'm the crazy bastard aren't I?" Meaning, once you're in the nuthouse, you can act any damn well you please, including pissing and shitting all over yourself--hell, one of the warders will hose you down and get you clean in no time and then you can just sit frozen like a block of wood for a couple of months--that total peace of mind only the insane know.

aninsanegrowler
for The Daily Growler

Democrats Are DUMBOcrats

Get Some Cojones, Dumbocrats, Please
I can't believe what I'm reading on BuzzFlash. They are saying that Al Gore (one of the most boring gentlemen whose speeches and rallies I've ever slept through) is pretty much saying he's running for president in 2008 while he's out giving his PowerPoint performance piece trumpeting his worry over global warming and also hustling a new book he had published a year ago [I worked in publishing once (I've worked at everything under the sun) and believe me, you got any kind of "celebrity" at all, you'll get a book. Hey, some of these publishers will let you use their imprimatur as long as you pay for everything). I don't recall Old Slow Al being so concerned about global warming when he was vice president under Slick Willie, nor do I recall him harping much on it when he was running politically correctly for president. All I can howl is, "Please, Al, don't run for president again; the idiots on the farthest of rights, a farthest right we've ever drifted in this country, though we've been drifting towards this ruination since WWII, will pull tons of voting fraud wool over the voting Yahoos's eyes because the right-wing monarchists know even though you know you're getting your ass cheated out of votes, you'll stand there like a Burdezzo-ed bull being political correctly polite while we US numbskulls will have to suffer the next Bush Family Fool who'll inherit the office." But the Dumbocrats, per their wimpy thinking, will once again come up with a loser, I do hereby prophesy. See, it doesn't matter who the Dumbos run or whether he or she will actually lose or not, Pappy and his Little Bushes Gang know the Dumbos will give up and concede before eleven o'clock election eve, which is the latest any rich man I know will stay up, no matter what's at stake or that the press portrays him as working 24 hours a day, which is guaranteed total bullshit. Rich assholes like Al Gore and John Kerry, and I guarantee you Georgie Porgie, our "president," are in bed before eleven every night.

I used to have an office in Rockefeller Center, in the old Eastern Airline Building which is now called 10 Rock, and my office window looked straight over the skating rink at the Olympia (the airline) Tower, a tacky no-style black-glass box building built at an enormous profit in the late 60s by that sleazy old smarmy scumbag Greek shipping magnate (a la John Negroponte, the head of all OUR security) Aristotle Onassis. Only classe folks were gonna breed in that joint, it was announced, and soon all the wannabe asslickers and spotlite stealers were packing into the joint paying sky-high rents to old crabass Onassis's overflowing coffers for the sheet-rocked, plastered, aluminum-studded, gravelly concrete-slabbed, plastic-decored pieces of crap apartments everybody else in New York City lived in, at least all apartments built during that era (late 60s, the last time NYC had a building boom like it's having now, except then it was a plethora of office buildings and now it's 50-story luxury high rises galore). One day, one of my classe friends came staggering into my office--he was in charge of all the press releases that were issued by the whole NBC organization and he went to champagne breakfasts and drank toasts most of the morning with the news people down at Hurley's Bar so he was pretty tipsy by noon. "Look out your window, you won't believe it, you won't believe it!" he practically shouted. He was in one of his Judy Garland stages. I looked. "What am I looking for?" "Look up just above the roof of the British Building, see the guy standing there in the white smoking jacket, God, how cool?" "Oh, yeah, I see him, what about him, is he a jumper?" "No, no, that's Prince Blabbity Blab heir to the Blabbity Blab champagne fortune [I had to admit, it was my favorite champagne]. They did a profile of him in the Times's "Arts and Leisure" section. He says he does not arise until 11:30 when he goes to his window, pulls back the lavender, I swear, curtains, and has his morning glass of family champagne." "Yep, looks like he's got a huge champagne glass in his hands; smoking a cigarette, certainly a Frenchman, oui, bon ami?" "Yes, he says he reads the papers then from noon to 3 and then he has his first meal of the day." "Does he party hardy?" "Nope, not at all, and that's what's so cool; they say he's in his bed by 10 o'clock every night. He does all of his correspondence, phone calls, whatever work a rich bastard like that has to do, in his bed. He has his own chef so he can live a fantasy life right there in that magnificent apartment." "With the lavender curtains." "Of course! See you at Ho-Ho's in a bit, I gotta run."

Getting back to my drift [a recent commenter is correct about my flashbacks confusing the reader; sorry about that; there are just so many damn asides to life in the NOW; and nothing's prefab in this ranting and raving]--Pappy B himself, who is the big dog in all of this, don't'cha know [remember his "One Thousand Points of Light/New World Order" speech? Reread that sucker; it explains all this shit going on], just last week said he thought Jeb would make a fine president. [Oh, HOLY NO! Where's the God of the LOUD NO?] Georgie Porgie, GWHB's third stupidest son, seconded the idea. This is the "president" who said it would be much easier for him to do his God-given job if he were a dictator. That's how these fools think.

George Herbert W. (for Wimp) Bush is the kingpin in this degenerate filthy rich and powerful family. Pappy has no balls; remember, he's a wimp. But Babs has balls and her fiesty sons have balls and the boys use 'em as often as possible until they get prostate trouble, which is probably happening to Georgie Porgie as I write this--I mean all the fornicating, drinking, and coking he did; his prostate must be a swollen-as-big-as-a-grapefruit by now. Neill's balls were clipped by his ex-wife [read about Neill's divorce if you want some good sleazy "prime time" tomfoolery and adultrous oat-sowing]. Remember, Neill's the one who whores just come to his hotel doors while he's off doing "business," knock three times and then just do ol' Neill for the fun of it. Neill said, "Hellfire, when a whore offers me some poon for free, wha'd'ya think, I'm gonna run her off?

We now know ol' Marvin has balls, balls enough to run the security company than ran security for the World Trade Center and whose contract ran out exactly on September the 11th, why son of a bitch!; holy shit, why wasn't this little prick called to testify in the Congressional jokey hearings on 9/11? As a matter of further fact, why wasn't G.H.W.B's adopted son, Prince Bandar Bush, called to testify before that hearing? I know--I know, that hearing was a big f-ing joke.

So, Al Gore! Please don't run! And, Howard Dean, you quack doctor, get off your own self-aggrandisement and pick someone to run who is a NEW FACE, with a NEW ATTACK on these fools, somebody able to stand up to these fakirs, these coward bullies. That's all you've got to do, get some balls and spit your venom right flat-dab, smack-dab in their groaning faces--shoot counterdialog shotgun pellets, a la Unka Dick, in their Mussolini-looking faces [check out photos of that fool, Mussolini, who led precious Italia back during WWII; an ex-newspaper man, by the bye, and he strutted his power like a pompous pouter pigeon in front of the hat-holding pisanos who quivered in their Bruno Maglia loafers--recall Georgie Porgie during his "Mission Accomplished" foto op--except Lil' Georgie is too lazy to do much pompous strutting. GP is a mama's boy; he has that mama's boy slouch; ever notice that?]. Please, ye Dumbocrats, don't keep giving us fools like Al Gore. Ask Gore Vidal one our leading political commentators who you don't hear much from anymore, except occasionally on Pacifica (he lives in L.A. now), about his relative. Why doesn't the Dumbocratic Party hire somebody like Gore Vidal to give them advice and allow them to correct the stupid moves they are fixing to make in this unfair chess game going on in this poor old world on the verge of being checkmated. Al Gore ain't a great chess player. He gives up without a fight. So does that wimp John Kerry--showboater deluxe when he was a pissed-off Nam vet and chunking his medals away, but now he's a castrated [Burdezzo-ed bull] ex-hero who lives a life of pure-dee-ass-good-ole-Capitalist luxury thanks to his own inherited largesse, plus the jumbo bundle he inherited when he married the rather condescending ex-wife of the Heinz catsup-family inherited-wealth fool who went out superstudding and got himself killed so John Kerry can now live a life of double-luxury with the dude's ex-wife and all his ex-money. "So, John, why don't you disappear with your wife to one of those paradisiacal islands you've got to own and leave politics alone? You don't have the balls for it anymore."

"Hey, Hillary, you, too. Give up. Take Slick Willie and all those millions you guys have amassed thanks to the Slick one getting a BJ in the Oval Office and move back to Little Rock where your intelligence is more appreciated; I mean, those Arkansas yokels will kiss Slick Willie's old shriveled ass and give you BJs all day long, that is if you ain't calcified yet." [This reference to a calcified "you know what" comes from Ernest Hemingway's charming little book he wrote when he was half-bonkers, right before he found the final solution to his problems, A Moveable Feast [from Gertie Stein saying "Paris is a moveable feast"], and the chapter he wrote on Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas--"Oh, pussy, is that you?" Wonderful book.]

But, I'm a cheery pessamist--those who know me know I kinda look forward to the coming doom--remember the definition of "doom"?--and love making slurs about what life will be like when we all have to volunteer for the slavery we'll be offered, you know, the kind that conscentrates low-life human beings like us in camps--though when it comes, I'll try to keep y'all laughin' as you break your older and older backs for the rich Pappies and Mammies like Pappy and Mammy Bush who will be the monarchs of the corrupt corporate plantation world. By then, the Bush Family Empire will be able to afford to form a gene pool that will give us a trough-full of Bush clones for centuries to come; Pappy will probably find a way, maybe it's hidden in Walt Disney's private papers, to keep himself and Babs alive forever. Can you imagine one day when the Bush boys make Pappy a god and we all have to fall face down and worship his bony wimpy ass or suffer banishment to our Siberia, Guantanamo, on the beautiful little commie island of Cuba.

So look for the Democrats to come up with yet another loser. Either a retread like Gore or Kerry, or a precious "serious" woman like Old Ironsides "senator" Hillary Rodham Clinton [remember when she said she wanted "Rodham" to be a part of her name? Old Slick Willie must have charmed her legs open again 'cause now "Clinton" seems to be good enough for her]. All losers. Losers because they won't stand up to the Bush Regime when it attempts to throw the next election to Jeb, which I GAR-RON-TEE they gonna try, my friends. They have another big kooky lie up their filthy sleeves and the Good Lard only knows what he's gonna whisper in those hell-bent-for-leather Bush big ears. Look out!

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

The Daily Growler Quote of the Day
We found this quote from Thomas Paine interesting since we don't usually think of Tom as a literary critic: "Poetry consists principally in two things- imagery and composition. The composition of poetry differs from that of prose in the manner of mixing long and short syllables together. Take a long syllable out of a line of poetry, and put a short one in the room of it, or put a long syllable where a short one should be, and that line will lose its poetical harmony. It will have an effect upon the line like that of misplacing a note in a song." Thomas Paine, Age of Reason, from our office copy from Liberty on Line, 2002.