Existing in the Biggest Apple on Earth: Pissing in the Wind

Foto by tgw, "Oscar & Elvis Together on a Wall," New York City 2012
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I See Nothing Wrong With Celebrating a War Kill By Pissing On It
Like a lot of people, I, too, was puzzled over Leon "Pancho" Panetta's and Hillbilly Hillary's fervent moral uppityness over the LEAKED video that shows several of our bravest and most heroic dumbass volunteer soldiers pissing on the already-dead bodies of a towel-head fresh kill they had just made in our War of Terror on the heathen people of Afghanistan. Come on, these brave lads were simply celebrating this successful fresh kill. They had blown these evil bastards away according to the "kill or be killed" military attitude they were taught in basic training as the principle under which American paid servicemen are taught to fight. I mean what do We the People of the USA expect when we put lethal weapons in the hands of eighteen-or-nineteen-year-olds and then teach them that where they are going (being deployed to) the principle idea is to kill first and ask questions later--a principle based on a military logic that says the enemy can be any of the opposing people no matter how innocent they look. As we learned in Vietnam, old gook grannies or young naked gook girls can be carrying weapons--you can't trust them--so, hey, it's the same in Afghanistan as it was in Vietnam when the brave Captain Medina ordered his brave, democracy-bringing, righteous Charlie Company men under Lieutenant Calley to "Shoot to kill every stinking one of those gook bastards at My Lai no matter what they look like. You can't trust a young man...nor can you trust his old granny...nor can you trust even his newborn baby girl. Blast the bastards off the planet, for they are the enemy and you are the righteous, on a godly mission...."

So you see why I was puzzled over Panetta (this old bastard is 73 years old) and Hillbilly Hill getting up on their moral hindlegs over this video. So the boys are celebrating their victory by pissing on their fresh kill of towel heads--the enemy--the enemy that to our kill-or-be-killed-trained American troopers all look the same. "I can't tell one towel head from another so I shoot them all." The puzzle: it doesn't seem to matter to the upperclassy Leon and lowerclassy Hillary that those Marines have just riddled with bullets several rather innocent-looking Afghanistan citizens. That these soldiers have just blasted away the lives of these people isn't as shocking to Brainwashed Leon and Coldhearted Hillary as these poor young boys-will-be-boys pissing on the dead enemy. Pissing on the dead is a perfectly legitimate way for a soldier to celebrate a great victory.

Here's a scene from the video that shocked Leon and Hillbilly Hillary.
Now, you see, as an ex-serviceman (U.S. 4th Army out of Fort Sam Houston), the above scene doesn't bother me in the least. I mean, come on, boys will be boys--all male animals mark their conquests by pissing on them--like they mark their territory by pissing around it. The news media can't say "pissing" so they put it as our boys are "urinating" on these poor slobs--hey, I just noticed, none of the dead are wearing towels on their heads.

By the way, in case you're into pissing games, here's a good one for you:

www.gameace.net/game/2158/Golden_Shower/

Talk About Your Pissers
Mitt Romney is a fucked up human being. You see, old Mitt was born with a silver-Mormon-spoon in his mouth. He's never had to work a fucking day in his god-damn privileged life. Newtie Gingrich is pig-jowled fop whose mentality is based on his own pompous evaluation of his own worth, a worth based on his warm and serious ass-kissing ability on the big fat-cat asses of the moneygrubbers in our Military Industrial Complex--Newtie's Gawjah district is home to Lockheed-Martin-Marietta (for the town in Gawjah where it's located)--and those lethal-weapon pirates (they once only made airplanes) have paved old Newtie's way with the finest of fool's gold--he thinks he's worth a million when in fact, he ain't worth a plug nickel. Rick Perry--hey, old Rick said hell yes if he'd a been one of those brave American volunteer-paid-salaried soldiers who had just killed three or four of those scumbag towel heads, you damn tootin' he'd'a dropped his fatigues and pissed away merrily singing, "God Bless America," as he did. John Huntsman--oh no, a Mormon bites the dust. [Why are We the People so enamored with Utah politicians? Think about it.] Yep, old John, though in New Hampshire (where about 30 diehard Repugnants voted in that stupid primary) you'd a thought he was a serious challenger to Mitt the Mormon. Now John's simply a Mormon has-been.

Idiots. Glowing idiots. Dumb-as-holy-hell idiots. White racists all of them, that I'll guarantee you. The only Black people Mitt associates with are those who are cleaning the shit cans in his several magnificent overbuilt mansions; or the Blacks he uses as his security force--as a Presidential candidate, doesn't the Mitt Man get Secret Service protection--costing We the People millions of bucks to provide?

But always remember this: 50% of Americans who vote vote for these freaks. George W. Bush didn't have to steal but about 50,000 votes to win over those two Democratic fops, Al "the Bore" Gore (a phony environmentalist, by the way; under Bill Clinton and Al's vice-presidency, environmental regulations were thrown to the wind along with regulations on banks and financial institutions--along with our habeas corpus rights--plus they gave us the first Patriot Act) and John "I Married the Ketchup Queen" Kerry (a former District Attorney), a phony anti-War protester.

Right now it looks like Mitt the Mormon is going to be the papier-mache candidate for the tiresome Repugnicans--the party of the Capitalist right--

AND ALL OUR PROBLEMS STEM FROM THE SYSTEM: CAPITALISM! AND CAPITALISM DEPENDS ON CHEAP LABOR--SLAVERY BEING THE CHEAPEST FORM OF LABOR AND THE LABOR THAT MADE THIS COUNTRY GREAT--for White people, that is.

thenonpartisangrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

Existing in New York City: In the Thickets of Time

Foto by tgw, New York City 2012
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Time
Artie Shaw said it is all about time. Time is measurement. We love to measure. We love to measure ourselves. We reward height over littleness. Gargantuans over Tom Thumbs. Breadth over narrowness.

I have a natural sense of time. I hate clocks. BUT, ironically, I have in my apartment 6 regular-type clocks; 6 computers each with its own clock; 25 wristwatches, all 50 years old or older, all still running in their unique ways. Out of all of those timepieces--37 of them--each one gives forth its own version of "what time it is"--and in the older watches, the stemwinders, I'm in total control of the time within them. Look at the intricate work of the old clockmakers and watchmakers and wonder at how dedicated we are to the shackles of clocked time.

A bioclock? I don't know if there is such a thing; yet, my body does run on a clocked time of its own: its clock its heart. Heartbeats, 72 thumps a minute, are the counting off of one's own time--the heart is nothing more than a timepiece (a metronome in music)--measuring the consistency of our daily existence. A drop in your heartbeat and you're dragging ass. And you can drag ass so consistently that soon you'll need to be shipped to a local emergency room to try and have your timepiece put back into the correct sync, those 72-beats-per-minute required for E-Z living.

Which brings me to beats. The beats. The beats determine the swing, the bop, the rock, the roll, the sway--the take-it-easy way--controlling even how we stride...how we should walk...even controlling how fast we can run or controlling the precise steps of our trickiest dance moves. Watch how timed our greatest musicians and athletes are when they perform. They're on the clock. They are timed and measured within time frames. Their performances are clocked. Precision and endurance are the pieces of time that count the most in both heartbeat, measured time, height, length, breath, taping on out into continuums of precision...of running scales...of reading. Yes, there is a precise and measured way to read. Think of a great pianist reading a musical score for the first time.
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Since my time is my time now--in the now...in the now uncriticized...in the NOW, W-O-N spelt backwards...in the now, the wow, the rhythm-ing, the rhyming, the rendering, the now, the now unfolding as a rose in spring unfolds, a tragic unfolding since the further it opens and shows its alluring beauty, its attraction, the further projected it is towards its own demise. Does time end at death? Who the hell knows. Who the hell cares. If there's no tomorrow, I won't know it. Tomorrow is an unpredictable state since it's not in the now. My time is NOW my own time. But then, to be beat and honest about it, my time has always been my time, especially this time in the now. Do these words stay in the NOW as long as they can be read? I'm drifting now. Drifting is an old-fashioned way of clocking time. Drifting is cool if you can afford it. "Drifting and drifting, like a ship out on the sea." As I unravel this piece, I'm beat again, I'm measuring myself by my own experiences in time, in time past and in time present, there is no time future--oh what a time I've had.

Suddenly I feel, improvisational as I am, like reading Allen Ginsberg's greatest work of art...his masterpiece Howl...hide the kids as you read along with me--as you read, remember this is dedicated to Carl Solomon--even if you have no idea who Carl Solomon is, still remember it is dedicated to him as you read it:

HOWL

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.


II

What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!


III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland

where you're madder than I am

I'm with you in Rockland

where you must feel strange

I'm with you in Rockland

where you imitate the shade of my mother

I'm with you in Rockland

where you've murdered your twelve secretaries

I'm with you in Rockland

where you laugh at this invisible humour

I'm with you in Rockland

where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I'm with you in Rockland

where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I'm with you in Rockland

where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses

I'm with you in Rockland

where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica

I'm with you in Rockland

where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx

I'm with you in Rockland

where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of actual pingpong of the abyss

I'm with you in Rockland

where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

I'm with you in Rockland

where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

I'm with you in Rockland

where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha

I'm with you in Rockland

where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb

I'm with you in Rockland

where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

I'm with you in Rockland

where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep

I'm with you in Rockland

where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free

I'm with you in Rockland

in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night


Thanks to Weed's site for my source for this HOWL:

www.wussu.com/poems/agh.htm

thegrowlingwolfintheNOW
for The Daily Growler

A Little Taste of American Art:

From "Albums That Never Were," by American album cover designer, Gary Burden.

Existing in the Police State of New York City: All Whites Are Racists

Foto by tgw, New York City 2012
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Pat Buchanan Fired By MSNBC For Telling the Truth

Like Felix the Cat, I gotta trick bag. You know about trick bags, don't you? My trick bag is filled with ironies. Like Felix's tricks in his trick bag saved him from rather humilating situations--even when Felix was in serious trouble there was a jolly whimsy about his reactions thus making the tricks that Felix turned that trick bag into rather whimsical themselves.

Let's see what's in my trick bag today. [The Wolf Man has opened a large black valise into which he is now delving.] What's this? It's pig-jowled, a little sloppy looking, graying rudely, red eyed...ugh, ugh, WOW, look, it's Pat Buchanan. A real idiot. Look at the idiot. First of all he's Irish Catholic from Missouri.

And I heard this morning (Monday, Jan. 9) from Amy Goodman (sometimes Amy is so boring in her monaural same-ole-same-ole radio-delivery style), that MSNBC had fired the "controversial" Buchanan due to listener complaints about Good Ole Pat's recently favoring White Nationalist publications and radio shows. Then the truth came out when Pat's latest book came out, a book in which Good Ole Pat finally let the polecat out of his trick bag. This nation is going to Holy Hell in a heathen handbasket (Pat's Irish Catholic Hell (God, I hope they have 18-year-old Jameson's down there)), because We the White People of the United States (the USA's Chosen People) are losing our foothold on the necks of nonWhites--and Pat's list of "nonWhites" includes the traditional American Indian (the Red Man)(ironically, the American Indian gave White people one of their favorite addictions: tobacco); all Latinos but especially Messkins (Pat's way of pronouncing Mexicans); most dark-skinned Europeans--especially Eye-talian Catholics--Guineas, as Good Ole Pat would call them); Greeks (Pat hates Greeks, I guarantee you); Arabs (Pat pronounces it A-rabbs); Asians (all Asians, no exceptions)(Pat called them "Gooks" at one time); Indians (Pat calls them Woggies); Pakistanis (yes, Pat calls them Packies); Black Americans and Africans (Pat hates all Black people, even Clarence Thomas, Pappy Bush's token Kneegrow clown). I think I've covered enough of Pat's ethnic hatreds to show you that hell yes, Pat Buchanan is a White racist fool who believes our two greatest presidents EVER were Ronald "McDonald" Reagan and Slick Willie Clinton. This man is a pig-jowed idiot with Irish Catholic ideals--why do you think Good Ole Pat loves Rick Santorum, the man-on-dog candidate, so much? Remember, Rick's the fool who put his wife's aborted fetus in a jar and kept it as a reminder to his kids to never wear rubbers when screwing--rubbers are a defiance to God's Holy Social Darwinism and as a result, Big Daddy in the Sky will strike the fetus DEAD on ARRIVAL.

Our political ship of fools is being captained by reversed Ahabs who are trying to save the Great White Way of Life (a whale of a life if your White).

I've written for the past 6 years that most White people in this country are racists. Very few White people in this country have any social contact with Blacks except in a work situation--the higher up you go in the White Culture the more-than-likely relationship Whites have with Blacks is in a boss (Massuh) and servant (Step-in-Fetchit) situation--or boss and security guard situation--or boss and shit job situation. The higher up you go in most corporations the less Blacks you see, except, like I said, in servant positions. Warren Buffett? Yes, he's a racist. Little Billy Gates? Yes, he's a racist. Pat Buchanan? Mitt Romney? Rick Santorum? Even Ron Paul? Yes, these men are all White racists. I guarantee you they are.

From Jillian Rayfield's post at tpmmuckraker.talkingpointsmemo.com/:
Quotes from Good Ole Pat's new book, Suicide of a Superpower:

When the faith dies, the culture dies, the civilization dies, the people die. That is the progression. And as the faith that gave birth to the West is dying in the West, peoples of European descent from the steppes of Russia to the coast of California have begun to die out, as the Third World treks north to claim the estate. The last decade provided corroborating if not conclusive proof that we are in the Indian summer of our civilization.

The "Third World" to Pat? You figure it out.

Obama’s White House thus enlisted in the long and successful campaign to expel Christianity from the public square, diminish its presence in our public life, and reduce its role to that of just another religion.

This is White Christian (Irish Catholic) racism. Remember, to the likes of Pat Buchanan, President Obama is not an American citizen and he favors the Muslim religion over Christianity. In other words, President Obama is a heretic and should be burned at the stake...or at least lynched.

From a chapter called "The End of White America," Good Ole Pat let's it all hang out:

The white population will begin to shrink and, should present birth rates persist, slowly disappear. Hispanics already comprise 42 percent of New Mexico’s population, 37 percent of California’s, 38 percent of Texas’s, and over half the population of Arizona under the age of twenty. ……. Mexico is moving north. Ethnically, linguistically, and culturally, the verdict of 1848 is being overturned. Will this Mexican nation within a nation advance the goals of the Constitution—to “insure domestic tranquility” and “make us a more perfect union”? Or has our passivity in the face of this invasion imperiled our union?

Leo Carillo as "Pancho" (from "Cisco Kid" television show)

So there you go, folks, it's those damn Messkins we White folks really have to worry about. You see, the Mexicans are Catholic, but they are way-out further out than Irish Catholics. Why those stupid mestizos believe the Virgin Mary IS a Guadalupean Indian woman when Pat Buchanan knows the Virgin Mary IS Irish. "How 'bout a wee nip of the Holy Water, Mary, me gal?"

So much for Pat Buchanan--except that I now see MSNBC is saying White Brother Pat is not fired but suspended. The White chiefs at MSNBC are racists, too, but, hey, who cares?

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

A Little Taste of American Art:

Speedy Gonzales (1953), Warner Bros. creation.




















Frito Bandito (1967), Tex Avery, artist.

Existing in New York City: Trying to Learn How to Be a Good Robot

Foto by tgw, New York City 2012
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As We Are Existing
Did you ever stop and consider the millions and millions of scientists around the world who are working on the mad side of science every hour of every day somewhere? Like this nanotechnology. We may as well face it: millions of scientists truly believe in this nanotechnology. www.foresight.org is an amazing site for me, though, OK, I'll admit it, I don't understand a hell of a whole lot of what I read on it, but it's still fascinating for me to try and read it and understand it because it's stuff some of my brainier fellow human-monkey beings are full-fledged and hell-or-high-water-like into and believing in in a "foresight" manner. Check out their Nanodot Weblog: www.foresight.org/nanodot/.

Like here's a fascinating kind of scary little item I found at the Nanodot Weblog, dig this:

Humanoid robot for military showcases advances in robotics

Posted by Jim Lewis on November 7th, 2011

Among the emerging technologies expected to transform society over the coming decades [my emphasis], robotics at all scales is interesting because it provides graphic evidence that technology is getting better at mimicking increasingly complex movement and behavior [again, my emphasis]. Last month we noted the impressive progress achieved by Boston Dynamics’ AlphaDog project to develop a robot “pack animal” for the US military [My comment (interjection): Can you see the principles of a drone/robotic army and air force evolving here? Turn war into a continuous scientific sport?] Apparently there has been equally impressive progress in developing a humanoid robot capable of faithfully mimicking human movements to test protective suits for use by the military, and ultimately, to replace humans in a variety of arduous and dangerous tasks [my emphasis]. This month IEEE Spectrum gave us this update: “Stunning Video of PETMAN Humanoid Robot From Boston Dynamics“, by Erico Guizzo:

… The humanoid, which will certainly be compared to the Terminator Series 800 model, can perform various movements and maintain its balance much like a real person.

Boston Dynamics is building PETMAN, short for Protection Ensemble Test Mannequin, for the U.S. Army, which plans to use the robot to test chemical suits and other protective gear used by troops. It has to be capable of moving just like a soldier — walking, running, bending, reaching, army crawling — to test the suit’s durability in a full range of motion. …

I also asked Raibert if they could eventually use PETMAN or PETMAN-related technologies in other projects. In other words, are we going to see PETMAN used in applications other than the chemical suit tests?

“You bet,” he says. “There are all sorts of things robots like PETMAN could be used for. Any place that has been designed for human access, mobility, or manipulation skills. Places like the Fukushima reactors could be accessed by PETMAN-like robots (or AlphaDogs), without requiring any human exposure to hazardous materials. Perhaps firefighting inside of buildings or facilities designed for human access, like on board ships designed for human crews.” …

After watching the video, Guizzo’s comparison to the Terminator Series 800 model doesn’t strike me as all that far-fetched. When they announce something that reminds us of the T-1000, I’ll know that advanced nanotechnology is imminent.

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The Wolf-Man Robot
After noticing that some state has authorized the poisoning of tens of thousands of blackbirds--because they are doing what comes natural to them, finding a food and water source along their natural migration paths through our Midwest farming regions--and then after reading the above horn-tooting post on the Nanodot Weblog about our humanitarian military investing millions and millions in researching robotic warfare toys, I reflected on how we human-monkeys hate anything natural. One of our mistriggered notions we've had in our rather stupid minds considering the death-defying nature of human-monkey progress is that we must ELIMINATE Nature from this planet. These nanotech scientists--and like I said, there are millions of them out there--in nanoengineering, nanomedicine, nanodesign, nanoimaging, nanomanagement, etc.--seem to recognize this trait and are trying to compensate for it by creating these robots to mimick us, to become the future slaves for us, to do all our shit work for us, to take chances for us, to even take bullets for us. The new soldier's first issue will not be an AKA but will be a remote-control device that operates his robotic replacement on the battlefield.

This all stemming from us stupid creatures considering ourselves above nature in some big-pie-in-the-sky wonderland of eternal-life fantasy. I think of Heaven as a world full of crazies; Hell being where all the sane that walked among us go. Remember, the fictitional Jesus taught that scumbags of all kinds from child abusers on up to mob wackers and politicians who diddle young girls in their offices with illegal Cuban cigars can come to Heaven if they just "confess their sins" and then righteously follow old Jesus on up the tribulation trail [remember, Hitler was a Christian].

I'm just thinking how these millions of bright-ass scientists, mad or otherwise, are devising new principles (mechanical principles) of matter, of being, or corporeal existence, of spirit, of mind, of the future of our evolving into a totally mechanistic society--because, in case you didn't know it, scientists through mathematics and computer robotics have their own universal language and communications capabilities--life reduced down to a binary mathematical way of existence--Being and Nothingness--pure Existential existence.

Looking forward to Doomsday this year! ARE YOU READY?

thegrowlingroboticwolf
robotically for The Daily NanoGrowler

A Little Taste of New York City Art:

James Rizzi's New York City Heart--his native Brooklyn pulsating on the right; his downtown Manhattan world pumping it up on the left. R.I.P. Ratso.

Existing in the New York City Police State: They Are Dropping Dead All Around Me

Foto by tgw, New York City 2012
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Death, the Inevitable Savior
I read the Wikipedia Death List every day. Usually I don't know most of those who are listed as dying on it--a lot of soccer players, football players, motocross motorcyclists, Latin American and Croatian actors, and old rock stars listed, but recently I've been seeing people die who were very contemporary in terms of my growing up, education, and learning process.

Like Helen Frankenthaler died a couple of days after X-mas (I can never refer to it as Christmas--I hate Christians--there, I've said it). Around 1970, I went over to Rutgers University in New Jersey and attended a Robert Motherwell show where I purchased a limited-edition print of his. My authentication cert said Robert himself was going to pull it and sign it while it was still damp. I paid $80 for the print. When they finally sent it to me, it had a fold drop-dead across its middle. I sold it a couple of years ago for $300. What's this got to do with Helen Frankenthaler? She was at that show at Rutgers. I met her. Plus, I'm not sure, but I reviewed an art exhibit held way back when at the U of Illinois in Champagne-Urbana and I'm almost sure she was exhibiting at that show.

When I met her at this Rutgers show, I knew her as Clement Greenberg's former mistress; I had no idea she was Robert Motherwell's wife. Both she and Robert were privileged little rich kids and were known in New York City cultural and social circuits as "the Golden Couple," a title which they constantly gave legend to by giving extravagant parties and such, though this best-and-brightest couple eventually corrupted itself into decadence and the marriage ended. Helen, used to Manhattan Upper East Side glamor and plenty of money, then married a stock broker who she lived with until his death a few years ago. She was a devotee of Hans Hoffmann and Jackson Pollock. Now she's R.I.P. at 83. Helen Frankenthaler, 83, American painter.

Helen Frankenthaler

And this week Ratso Rizzi died. I knew Ratso through a guy who had grown up with him in Brooklyn, my friend and next-door neighbor for 5 years, Matty Quick, the rock 'n roll drummer. Matty had a large collection of Ratso's 3D creations around his apartment, gifts from Ratso or things Matty grabbed off Ratso's studio floor. All of us at that time called him Ratso; his real name was James. 3D cutouts were his metier. I've been around Ratso a lot as a sideline participant especially during the 1970s days I wrote about in my on-line 33-chapter tome called One Spring Morning Off Spring Street, a piece of writing mainly devoted to my remembrance of rock journalist and would-be rock star, Lester Bangs, whose band, Birdland, was actually Matty Quick's band, the Rattlers--but I never really knew Ratso.

How parallel-line coincidental is it that our own thedailygrowlerwomantrumpetplayer's first big love affair was with Ratso! She could tell us things about him that might curl our toes--certainly, he must have curled the WTP's toes. Here's Ratso's Website for those of you who'd like to delight in his presence and art once more before he's lost to his own archives: jamesrizzi.com/.

Also among the recent dying is Don Mueller. I remember hearing on the radio as a very young kid that famous game between the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers. It happened October 3, 1951. This game happened after the Dodgers went into the end of August 13 games up on the Giants only to be caught and tied by the Giants by the end of September resulting in this play-off game, the winner going on to the World Series. Mueller was in that game and he was vital in it, too, except the game turned out to be tragic for Big Don.

From Don's bio: "With New York trailing the Brooklyn Dodgers, 4–1, in the ninth inning, Mueller singled Alvin Dark to third base. With one out, Whitey Lockman doubled to score Dark, but Mueller broke his ankle sliding into third. He was carried from the field, and missed both Bobby Thomson's game-winning home run that followed Lockman's hit and the 1951 World Series."

Don Mueller was what was called a heavy hitter. He consistently hit in the .300s; during the 1952 season, Mueller came in second to teammate Willie Mays for the National League batting title.

Others who died that I recall, though they weren't that important in my life were Ralph McDonald, the percussionist--he used to live around the corner from me in Mount Vernon, New York; and jazz drummer Clem deRosa.

Death Quotes:
From The Daily Growler Hall of Fame Actor Errol Flynn:
"Any man who has $10,000 left when he dies is a failure."

Somerset Maugham: "Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it." From one of Maugham's books, I learned how if you are drowning to go ahead and get it over with--just lay back and open your mouth--you'll be drowned, according to Maugham, in less that 3 minutes.

Edward Munch: "From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity." My ex-wife, the Choctaw-Mexican-Welsh beauty, had her ashes put in a hole and a tree planted in them. I would love having a huge tree growing out of my ashes. (Yes, I'm a cremationist.)

J. Robert Oppenheimer [one of the creators of the Atom Bomb]: "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."

Willa Cather [the best quote, I think]: "I shall not die of a cold. I shall die of having lived."

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler

The Art of Ronald Searle

Once Again Existing in New York City: I'm Back on Broadway

Foto by tgw, New York City 2012
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Say Goodbye to: Ratso Rizzi: I knew Ratso and his work from the time I lived on Greenwich and Spring streets and hung out at the Ear Inn: James Rizzi, 61, American pop artist.

Say Goodbye to: Sam Rivers, an innovative saxophonist from the New York City Rivbee movement (Sam Rivers and bassist Cecil McBee).
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The Clouds Have Briefly Opened Up For Me
The scenario continues to be controlled by outside direction. That's why the attempt to get the drama staged is a bumpy road. A rude road. A crude road.

I fell into a ditch--a ditch of Verizon's digging. They said they came Friday at 7 pm. I was home pissed off--I thought I heard a strange sound sometimes during Saturday morning as I was preparing to train up to the Bronx where I ended up having a true whale of a time New Year's Eve, New Year's Day, and the Day After New Year's Day.

New Year's Eve we ate black-eyed peas (it was called "Hoppin' John" by the cook) and drank a lot of good cheer--champagne, yes, a good one, too. Then we all spoiled ourselves and watched Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve from Times Square and, lawsy, there was the man himself--hey, so what he had a stroke and almost kicked the bucket back a few years--hey, so what, now ABC trots him out all gussied up in a suit...and, Wow, old Dick's almost able to almost talk again. [Note: Pre-stroke Dick once gave out some good investment advice: saying we should all buy into Mexican telephone stock. Think now: Senor Slim, the Mexican telephone king who is now the world's richest man.]

New Year's Day my entourage and I drove over to Marble Hill for a big Cuban dinner feast thrown by our own thedailygrowlerhousepianist's beautiful Cuban wife and cooked by her 86-year-old mother. A splendid affair. Tons of good beer and a bottle of Jameson's, a bottle of Ron Rico, white wine. Pre-dinner cheeses and humus dishes and Greek olives and crackers and wafers and such. The dinner courses opened with a pepper salad followed by the main course: beef hearts stuffed with ham and cooked in the oven with new potatoes, onions, and garlic--it has a Cuban name but I can't recall it. Along with the beef came the black beans and rice, and, Jesus, those beans were like mucho perfecto--arriba! I scarfed down what seemed like buckets of black beans they were so good. Desert was flan-Cuban-style, vanilla pudding (it reminded me of banana pudding without the banana slices and the vanilla wafers) with sticks of cinnamon in it. Packing beans away two nights in a row left me a bit fouled up gastrointestinal-wise, but I survived the food in good shape and in good spirits and without much deviating from my norm.

Sunday evening we watched the New York Giants kick the Dallas Cowboys's asses back to Big D--better luck next year, boys--and the Giants won the NFL East Conference moving on to play Atlanta this Sunday. I'm am not a Giants fan--in fact, I'm not really a football fan, but I do like playoffs and following the New York teams if they're good enough to make it like the Giants did but the Jets didn't.

How 'bout Rick Sanatorium for President?
Are people in Iowa WHITE! I know Omaha used to have a lot of Black folks. But obviously only Whites vote for Republican candidates in our White-majority hog and corn state. Rick Sanatorium as President? You talk about total disaster. These corn-fed Iowans (genetically engineered corn, I might add) must really like shooting themselves in the foot. Jesus, Rick Sanatorium? The dog-fucker! He once compared Gays making love to a man humping a dog dog style. I assume old Rick has never fucked his wife doggy style. I wonder if he's ever experimented with putting his Sword of God into that other hole back there?

I mean come on, folks, the idiot Mormon only won the idiot Iowa Caucus by 8 votes over the idiot from Pennsylvania. Both of 'em blitzed ole Libertarian idiot Ron Paul...dropped him down to third. And they blitzed poor old sweet-as-pie idiot Michelle Bachmann, the Oral Roberts School of Law grad. And Oral Roberts Law School is now owned and campused by that great American Pat Robertson, that pig-jowled deceiver, about as evil a man as you can find if you believe in good and evil. I don't myself. Unless you view it as the ancient Chinese did--there being two sides to everything their philosophy--even in their cooking--sweet and sour cooking. All of us have sweet and sour natures. Rick Sanatorium is probably a highly regarded moral man; yet, like I said, I'll bet you in bed with his wife or mistress or even if it's with the family dog, he's as evil as he comes.

Don't be surprised, folks, if the Teabaggers teabag Obama. Obama just simply refuses to counter these true idiots. I mean, Rick Sanatorium said the reason the factories left small Iowa towns--like Hamburg, he mentioned--was because of the industries being unable to compete with the Chinese, for example, because of how the American worker demands higher and higher wages that he then expects the government to subsidize--intimating as the Republicans have been doing since J.D. Rockefeller's time that the American worker is basically lazy as hell. Of course, all Ruddy Rick is following is the Neo-Con principle of driving the dollar down, thereby driving wages down, principles that do what all of this driving down results in: CHEAP LABOR. And that's been it from the git go when it comes to the Neo-Con Economics, which is Milton Friedman Economics, an Economics that theoretically works or doesn't work, though always the final results say it does work, whether it does or not, as old Milton put it. Idiots all rule us. Men who like Reagan are of very limited true education and are extremely dull of wit.

The dumbest statement Rick Sanatorium made this past week was that he defied a crowd of Iowa idiots to show him anyone in the USA who had died because they didn't have health care. Brilliant Rick, you power hungry asshole--you jerk--you hater of people who aren't of your warped sense of right and wrong. You hate Blacks, Latinos, Muslims, Atheists, Anarchists, Intellectuals, Poor People (including your own White Trash brothers and sisters who are hillbilly slovenly and glassy-eyed over expecting the government to bail them out--yeah, like the government bails out the West Virginia coal miners, the lazy bastards!).

I got cussed out good by a person over the weekend when I mentioned I saw no sense in voting since I didn't think it mattered who was president--whatever they say they're going to do they renege on and go on doing what Washington, District of Corruption, politicians do best, cover their own and their family's asses and the asses of their mistresses--savoring the good life and fuck the rest of the world! That's a true American Ayn Rand Ron Paul Fountainhead Libertarian way of thinking. G.W. Bush preached it as pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. (Let me remind you that that creepy bastard, G.W. Bush, is the one who wrecked our current economy and sent us spiraling into debt; yet no one blames anything on this little spoiled brat creep. Obama still refuses to go back and correct the mistakes of our past by arresting this little prick, his Unka Dick, a true dick, and his old Pappy, G.W.H. Bush, who I've always said is behind all this shit--starting back when he gave his 1000 Points of Light speech in which he introduced his New World Order). So Obama still has his corporate-law head in the nonexistent future. I was told I was totally and precariously wrong and that whether I liked Obama or not, we all had better vote for him or we'll get the likes of Rick Sanatorium. Jesus, it's such a Loony Tune situation, like Porky Pig, I'm signing off with a Be-ah-be-ah-be-ah, that's all, folks. The farce rolls on.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler (back online for only the gods know how long).

Existing in the Bronx

Today I'm up in the Bronx. Great New Year's weekend topped off by a splendid Cuban dinner hosted by the wife of our own thedailygrowlerhousepianist, the meal prepared by her Cubana mother, 86 years old. Now it is early morn on the 2nd of the new year and I'm up using this Gateway laptop a friend has loaned me. Cruising back down to my Manhattan digs today and then who knows when we'll be on-line again--except we can go down to our favorite Irish pub and use their WiFi or like we said yesterday work out of the public library-though working out of the library puts us exposed to CIA and FBI profiling searches.

Tomorrow our second round battle with Verizon begins.

It is so quite up here I'm going a bit batty. This month-long Verizon crap is driving me a bit more batty and my nonconforming nature is being forced to conform by this global bullshit and this corporations-can-do-no-wrong only their customers can do wrong bullshit,

I love the Internet. What a wonderful tool it is at bringing the world so right into your lap so to speak. Yet, these big global corporations are surely going to ruin the Internet and turn it into a Wal-Mart-like on-line shopping mall.

The rich continue to prosper. I wonder if a phony asshole like Donald Trump ever has any trouble getting online? Or Billionaire Mayor Mikey Bloomberg picks up his cell and there's no dial tone; you think he doesn't get immediate results?

In the meantime, truly, folks, the presidential candidates, including President Obama, are lower intellectually than the characters in a Loony Tunes cartoon. Newtie Gingrich and his sloppy pig jowls dropping off his prissy face show that he's a well pampered asshole with his millions and millions of payoff bucks from the Military Industrial Complex and now his Virginia connections since he's moved from Gawjah to Virginia. Gingrich is an idiot. Case closed. Mitt Romney is a stupid Mormon. Case closed. Dr. Paul Ryan is a mean-asshole Libertarian; yet at least he is positively against further war involvements--like the soon coming nuking of Iran--yes, we will go to war with Iran--using our unmanned drone air force as our vicious intruders--as we go about invading and occupying this country that has a huge oil reserve, the whole thing behind all our invasion-and-occupation schemes--even our invasion and attempted occupation of Afghanistan is truly about oil domination--and that pipeline we need to pump our Central Asian oil buys down to oilless Europe. Karzai, as you should know, was an oil-company executive before we made him our hand-puppet back during the Bush-Condo-Leasing Rice era. Karsai and Condo-Leasing being old oil buddies from way back.

Libya? Oil. Iran? Oil. Not because they hate the Jews. All Arab countries hate the Jews and Israel so it has nothing to do with Iran's threat to Israel. Hell, we own Israel don't forget. We also own their military and they'll do about anything we tell them to do. Remember, Israel could not survive with out our economic and military help.

The world is a chaotic place at the present. That's wonderful for guys like me who thrive on contrarian principles--an Internet sociopath.

Life will go on in 2012. The rich, I guarantee will get richer. You and me? Yes, we will get poorer. Economics will be proven to be a pseudoscience mastered by dipsticks like Larry Summers, that asshole. Robert Rubin will get around 20 million in bonus bucks from his current financial-schemer connections. Another asshole who got us into this Clinton-approved mess we are currently in. These birds will go on living the good life. Mitt Romney win or lose will go on being rich and well taken care of by the financial industry crooks. Dr. Paul Ryan? Don't worry about this bastard ever having to worry over being foreclosed upon or losing his job or having his phone and Internet service disrupted. Barack Obama? Win or lose, he's now set for life--life as a new millionaire. If he doesn't remain in politics, his old buddies will get him a high seat in some corporate law firm or major financial institution or bank. His buddy Timmy Geithner will take care of his old buddy.

It's all so beneath me. Fuck politics. I'm holing up in my cave with Occam's Razor.

Okay, so I may cut my throat with that razor.

thegrowlingwolf
for the sometimes and sometimes not The Daily Growler

The Daily Growler Shut Down by Verizon

Foto by tgw, New York City 2011
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DUE TO THE TOTAL UNRELIABILITY OF VERIZON HIGH-SPEED INTERNET SERVICE, A LOUSY SERVICE, THE DAILY GROWLER WILL BE DOWN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. WE LOST OUR INTERNET CONNECTION 15 DAYS AGO AND VERIZON HAS YET TO RESTORE THE SERVICE. WARNING: WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT USE VERIZON FOR YOUR INTERNET CONNECTING. I'M TOLD IT'S ALL RUN OUT OF INDIA.
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To just start writing. As I start writing I think of William Saroyan writing. Sitting in a chair in the window of his house watching the people in the neighborhood. Spotting on one. Focusing. Then beginning to write about that person. Characterizing what he thought that person was like alive. Thinking of William Saroyan saying in the introduction to that book of short stories that a writer had to write at the appointed time they'd set to write. Sit down in front of the typewriter, put a sheet of paper in it, and, BOOM, write. Even, Saroyan said, if all you wrote was gibberish. You know like: "I flew into a charming rage this morning as I gulp the winds from the primary bulb that firmed in terra firma for a foreign number of calliope strains...." or even, "Brrrrr. Guzimond peedo impdkline=de90 dillicuss t8i marge eetlk...." At least you are writing. Writing being the demon that keeps you living. Living being our most valuable source of pleasure. Pleasure the only reason we're living. Pleasure that will take our minds off the fact that being alive means we're on death row. The planet's death row. That's why we human beings are so angry at Mother Nature--the jungle from which we sprang--though, just think, since the originals of us sprang from the sea, there's a little saltiness in all of our instincts.

And all writers are writing about and of themselves. All writers, especially those of great success, are egomaniacal to the point if they peter out they'd rather be dead than living.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler


ONLY THE GODS KNOW WHEN WE WILL BE BACK ON LINE AGAIN.
Back in late November, we signed up for Verizon DSL high-speed Internet service. From Day 1 the service started falling apart. The first thing that happened was our phone was shut off and we were told there was a cable break in our neighborhood and that the break would be fixed on December 5, almost two weeks away. Turned out we didn't have phone service for 8 days--and then it came back on. Everything was fine then and we were high-flying in high gear for a week or so when one fine morning, ZAP, the phone line went dead and the Internet connection service went dead, too. Since then, for two weeks now, we have had neither phone or Internet connection. This time Verizon says the problem is the line into our building, which they said a service person would be coming to our building on December 30th. This person never showed so as we enter this new year, the only way we'll be able to get on line is to go to our favorite Irish Pub and use their WiFi or to the public library. In the meantime, we are referring this matter to the NY Public Utilities Commission--and also we are currently searching for a replacement connection service. Rumor has it that this DSL service is run out of India. Enough said.

thestaff
for The Daily Growler--until further notice.

HAPPY NEW YEAR anyway!

The Daily Growler Visits the Monkey House

Foto by tgw, New York City 2011
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Say Goodbye to: Bob Brookmeyer. I first heard of Bob Brookmeyer through his work with Jimmy Guiffre, a Dallas cat and North Texas graduate who was one of my early-times jazz mentors. Jimmy hired Bobby I believe after Ralph Pena his bass player quit his working band ("The Train and the River")--I first HEARD Bob on a Storyville LP called Morning Fun I bought directly from Storyville's offices in Boston (George Wein started Storyville Records) featuring Bob Brookmeyer and Zoot Sims, with Hank Jones on piano, Bill Crow (he's enjoyed the Growler at least once) on bass, and Papa Jo Jones on drums. Bob after awhile was consistently high up on the Down Beat Miscellaneous Instrument division of their popularity polls because he didn't play a trombone, he played a valve trombone--that put him in the company of the great Don Elliott and his Mellophone and a newcomer out of Indianapolis named Roland Kirk whose miscellaneous instruments were the Manzello and Stritch. Bobby Brookmeyer has left the coil at 81. I'm right now listening to he and Zoot playing Basie's "The King" from that Storyville LP (reissued in the 90s on a Black Lion CD out of Germany). Bob Brookmeyer, 81, American jazz valve trombonist.
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Making Monkeys Out of Monkeys
I was thinking, what if nobody showed up to vote in a presidential election? Wouldn't that be great! President Obama gets 0 votes. Newtie Gingrich gets 0 votes. Or what if say only 30 people in the whole USA showed up to vote and they wrote in Adolph Hitler's name, would Hitler be declared president? By the Supreme(ly dumb) Court? How would that work?

I mean, you talk about monkeys acting like monkeys. I'm sorry, folks, but I can't vote for any of these fools that are being trotted out as wholesome honest men with holier-than-thou visions, including the better-at-being-G.W. Bush-than-G.W. Bush-was President Obama. This man's a two-faced dog (my apologies to Cecil the Dog-faced Boy III of Lake Flaccid fame). They talk about a Mormon-idiot like Mitt Romney and a pig-jowled idiot like Newtie Gingrich flip-flopping like scared-shitless just-hooked fishes (calm down, boys, maybe Jesus Christ'll serve you up at the next Sermon-on-the-Mount get-together), but what about President Obama's flip-flopping? Check out his promises in 2008. Check out his recent flip-flopping on vetoing this insulting 600-billion-dollar 2012 National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA)... Come on, the guy is a lying dog, same as all the rest of them.

Hey, the War in Iraq is over! (Yes, F. Scott, I am laughing at my own joke.) Osama bin Laudin is dead. The jobless rate is down! (Yes, F. Scott, I am laughing at my own joke.) The economy is recovering! The banks have been successfully bailed out and back to their old pirating tactics of ruining world economies again, Praise this God who keeps blessing this country. And Goldman-Sachs, the true rulers of the world, will be doling out some of the biggest bonuses in Goldman-Sachs crooked history that dates back all the way to the Civil War. Goldman-Sachs criminals, like Robert Rubin, will be garnering multimillions in bonuses in just a few weeks. Goldman-Sachs pretty much rules the USA right now, too, with its dick-boy Timmy Guethner as head of the Treasury and another of their dick-boys as head of the Federal Reservs, which in secret has doled out upwards of 26 trillion--did you get that figure?--26 TRILLION dollars in secret funds to both US crooked banks and foreign crooked banks.

Goldman-Sachs rules the world. The current phony heads of Greece and Italy--bankrupt countries--are Goldman-Sachs Europe executives. There is currently, ironically in terms of from whence came Goldman-Sachs, a Nazi-fication of Europe going on in terms of Germany now powerful again and holding a new reign over the current falling apart of the European Union--Great Britain--totally bankrupt if truth be known--is threatening to pull out of the Union. Why all this trouble? It all started when these countries fell into line with both of G.W. Bush's phony invasions and occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq. And I still say our invasion and attempted occupation of Afghanistan was just as phony as the invasion and occupation of Iraq, which our current Commander in Chief is now going about the country tooting his tin horn in declaring that war as being over (yeah sure)--he is in full campaign mode now--praising our BRAVE TROOPS--those bold brave volunteers--those hearty American boys who it has been shown through secret documents found in an Iraq garbage can this week went about murdering Iraqi men, women, and children as a kind of sport--military records showing one bunch of wild-spreeing brave troopers stopping cars at check points and if the cars had children in them these jerks shot the children in the heads and then let the cars go on through. Wow, come on, Commander in Chief Bush...er-ah, sorry, I mean Commander in Chief Obama, give those brave troops medals of honor! (Yes, F. Scott, I am laughing at my own joke!)

Like Gary Null, I can't watch any of these idiot debates or speeches they are so beneath me in terms of several phases, one being in terms of culture and nobility, that if I do watch such bullshit I tend to watch it the same way we kids used to go out to the Fair Park Zoo Monkey House and mock our monkey relatives to the point some of the more sensible ones had learned how to shoot the bird at us and others to turn their rear ends toward us and then whip around and throw a handful of monkey feces at us. Newtie "the Family Man" Gingrich, Mitt "the Mormon" Romney, Ron "the Super Libertarian" Paul, Rick "Dog Fucker" Sanitorium, Michelle "Chimpy" BachMANN, and yes even Barack Hussein Obama, to me are nothing but political monkeys putting on a monkey house show for the stupidest monkeys in all the zoos, We the People Monkeys of the USA.

The 99% vs. the 1%--that's bullshit. It's more like the 50% vs. the 50%. Remember, G.W. Bush, the worst president ever up until Obama came into the White Man's Monkey House, got almost 50% of the vote in his two fraudulent runs for president. Remember, Rick Perry wasn't chosen by God to be one of the worst governors ever of Texas (the state with a history of horrible and crooked governors) but was elected overwhelmingly by the good citizens of Texas. Michelle Bachmann didn't fuck her way into Congress, her Minnesota constituents evidently love her and her idiotic reasoning enough to trust her as their representative. The Repugnicans didn't take over the House of Representatives by not getting the majority of votes in their bailiwicks. Anthony Weiner, the Brooklyn Democratic jack-off meister, a very "Liberal" dude, was replaced by his constituents with a rightwing Repubnican. Scott Walker, the Governor of Wisconsin, didn't just fly into office on angel wings. Hell no, a majority of Wisconsin cheese-heads put him in office. In most of the United States states, Liberals, Commies, al-Queda, Hippies, Atheists, Anarchists, Progressives are all seen negatively. Why do you think Dumbocrats try so hard not to be seen as Liberals? Why do you think the Democratic Party advised Obama to steer clear of Roosevelt New Deal tactics? Even here in New York City where we are now absolutely living in a Corporate-Police state, a majority of voters keep electing this billionaire bastard originally from Boston mayor creep who is literally rezoning this city to please his billionaire hedge-fund and private equity buddies--this little Napoleonic-complex "girly" man who, I swear, is going to declare himself Mayor of New York City for Life next time it comes time for him to step aside and give us a chance to try a new mayor for awhile, though, more than likely, we'll elect one of the same old kind we've always elected, and I give you: Jimmy Walker, William O'Dwyer, John Lindsay, Abe Beame, Ed Crotch (I can't call him Koch), David Dinkins, Rudolph "Mussolini" Giuliani, and now Mayor Mikey Bloomberg. What a stupid bunch of men. New York State since I moved here in 1969 as a wide-eyed true believer in New York City as being the culture center of the USA (boy was I surprised) has been constantly broke--and the City has been broke--and taxes and rents and everything have gone up to where New York State is the most expensive state in the Union.

So, what if nobody voted in the upcoming Presidential election? What would these little phony elitists do?

And currently our Congress is voting overwhelmingly (a unified Congress) to take away several more of our Constitutional rights through this new 600-billion-dollar the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) bill that is giving our Commander in Chief the right to declare the USA a combat zone (in the Holy War on Terror) and thereby use for the first time in our history the US military as his enforcement organization (he's already using unmanned drones in this country) to go about arresting and shipping off to Guantanamo (didn't President Obama promise to shut down Guantanamo?) where they can be locked up and the key thrown away any US citizen our President (and his SS goons) decides is a terrorist sympathizer (al-Queda and the Taliban are the underlined devils in terms of key terrorist organizations), enemy combatant, or anti-administration protester.

So why vote to reelect so two-faced a man as Barack Obama? And certainly nobody in his or her RIGHT mind would vote for Newtie Gingrich (check out his pig jowls). Let me do a little soothsaying and say, I'll bet you, Barack Obama is a puppet--I'll bet you a hill of fresh doughnuts, he does whatever these corporate puppetmeisters who have their hands up his ass tell him to do. Obama is just another George W. Bush. Who's really running this country? Why, Goldman-Sachs, that's who.

So there. I'm not voting for these fools. Shit, I'd rather go underground--like the best of the anarchical hippies and Yippies did. Hey, Angela Davis, you're still around, how come you're not very active anymore? Tom Hayden, where are you, dude?

Orwell.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Anarchy Issue of The Daily Growler

The Daily Growler Jots & Tittles Man Returns

From the Algae-Crammed Waters of Lake Flaccid, New York, Comes The Daily Growler Jots & Tittles Man: barabbas munn-dayne
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And a hearty Winter Solstice to you one and all. This is the time of year you live off the profits you made from your abundant fall harvest. Fearing invasion and occupation of my cabin, I went into town yesterday to Aunt Milly's Tea Room and Backroom Gun Dealership and looked at pistols. I've got my shotgun still, but I don't know, I feel like I ought to have a pistol. I know...I know, I've been watching too much teevee here lately--and in the shows I've been watching everybody has a damn pistol or firearm of some sort, men and women, cops and criminals and terrorists, no matter. Also, I'm being affected by what's predicted coming our way. Like, according to some folks [and recent Growler posts], OK, so they're atheistic mad scientists and gurus and such, but anyway they're saying that as soon as next year we humans are gonna get hit by a herd-like galloping of solar flares (plasma) as the Sun, our true God, is at its maximum belly full in terms of its heat being turned up to maximum high, expanding its belly until it lets out a mighty burp--which propels out these flying tongues of flaming plasma and this time the storms created by this plasma blowing out into the universe are aimed directly at the good ole USA. Afterwards, these predictors say, there will be a Holy Disorderly Order of Chaos where we'll all be fighting over survival issues like food, water, safety, or vulnerability. I'd feel better in such a circumstance if I had an equalizer.

I know, conspiracy folks, fanatics, doomsday clowns...the end of human life as we know it coming--if not via solar-flare-plasma storms then by the Sumerian-predicted ancient planet's remains hitting us dead center--bull's-eye head on--and thus, as those Sumerian astronomers predicted, the human race will be exterminated.

I remember back when President and Alzheimer's Poster Boy Raygun Reagan, our grade B actor president, the Great Communicator, had his shaky finger on that red telephone in the oval office. The red telephone with the red button on it--isn't that the way it worked?--Ronnie hits that red button and Armageddon begins--and back then I imagined old Ronnie Reagan waking up in the middle of the night in a bit of an Alzheimer fog and imagining the Soviets had fired a missile at the White House--"Mommy, wake up, help me down to the Ovaltine office so I can get on that red phone and warn the Air Force, like I did in...Mommy, what was that movie where I was an Air Force hero?...er-ah...." "Oh, Ronnie, relax, take a shot of that Aricept, you've had another nightmare...what was it this time, that I was bangin' Frank Sinatra behind your back?" And in those days I was thinking, "Yes, Mr. President, you fool, go ahead, push the red button, end human life for ever"--and I wanted to be wide-eyed and bushy tailed when that big red glow appeared in the night sky marking the nuclear end to mankind. I want to witness the end of my kind. A world left to cockroaches.

Aunt Milly showed me the couple of handguns she had left. "They been hittin' me hard in the handgun department. I got some choice assault rifles over here if you'd rather." "No, Aunt Milly, I was thinking more like a Glock." "Tell you what I can do. I gotta contact in the New York City Military Police Department who obtains, that's the word he uses for it, me Glocks at way under wholesale." "What, are they hot?" "Naw, nothin' illegal. They're confiscated off Black guys, raids on Black hip-hop clubs, you know, those boys in blue have ways of gettin' 'em." "What do you get for a Glock?" "Tell ya, what, Barabbas, my boy, since I knew your mom and pop, tell ya what I can do, give me four-hundred smackers on this barrelhead here and I'll have you a Glock by next week. You'll want one around this time of year. Lotta truckers come through here lookin' for folks to kill as a hobby."

There was no arguing with Aunt Milly. That's why I didn't tell her there's no way she could have known my mother and father since not only have they never been up here but they've been dead 30 years now.

The passage of time is amazing to me. How slow time passes when we're young. How ironic is it that time passes faster the older we get--the closer we get to the end of our time.

My father and mother would not have approved of my getting a weapon. My dad always requoted over and over the cliche "if you own a pistol, one day you're gonna have to use it." Of course it's when you don't own one that you need one the most.

As I left Aunt Milly's through the tea room, she hollered after me, "If you need some trainin' on handlin' a Glock, I'm startin' a new firearms class next Wednesday night out at the Big Chief's Shootin' Range. Your Glock ought to be in by then so come on out. We have a ball shootin' our firearms out there, plus there's cold beer and a stick of salami and some brewer's bread from Uncle Don Shines's bakery over by Mount Vanhoevenberg."

As I was leaving the tea room, I noticed a sign on Aunt Milly's bulletin board. It said, "Remember, Dr. Donald Smedley's Pansies Are the Finest Pansies in These Parts for You Pansy Lovers."

I putted on back out to the lake and my cabin. Got cold as Hades over night up here. Temperature was 22 on my back porch early this morning. Winter up here is not bad. The lake doesn't smell as bad as it does in the summer--oh, it still smells, but the cold air keeps the smell low-level, like swamp gas stays hovering just above its watery surface. Getting lonely up here; I miss a woman. There, I've confessed on line. I haven't had a woman in my arms since Cecil the Dog Faced Boy III's sister visited up here from Florida...Jeez, speaking of time flying by...2 years ago now--and still, no one's heard a word from Cecil. His house is still boarded up--though some pranksters did paint swastikas all over the boards--why swastikas, nobody up here knows. Unless it's the Native Americans doin' it. Cecil wasn't Jewish, though, hell, maybe he was. I never even considered that.
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Jots & Tittles

--It's hard to believe that Newtie Gingrich has suddenly rearisen back to the top of the GOP presidential ladder. Newt "the Family Man" Gingrich, a total phony wholly devoted to representing the Military Industrial Complex, Newtie's home district back in Gawjah being home to Martin-Marietta and Lockheed...or have they merged yet?...anyway, Newtie gets his millions of back-room payoffs every year from those big parasitical defense contractors who couldn't exist without We the People of the USA (the true 99%) surrendering one-quarter of our earnings (without ever seeing it) every year to the US government via the IRS out of which Congress just recently voted 600 billion to the Department of Defense. I mean can you imagine what 600 billion dollars looks like? And what it would buy in terms of getting us out of debt or putting those of us out of work back into some kind of wage-earning position, even if it's digging ditches or shoveling shit. Six hundred billion is ten times more billions than Little Billy Gates is worth or Old Good Ole Boy Warren Buffett is worth; why that's 5 times more than Gates and Buffett's combined billions. And you talk about a draft-dodging coward of a John McCain type; and, yes, like McCain, Newtie's a philanderer, a crook, a purveyor of fabulous reasoning (Palestinians are an invented people); yet, he is now being seriously discussed as a serious candidate on the commercial-pap teevee politico shows--and I'm sure Newtie was the center of conversation on all the Sunday morning politico (right-wing) shows.

--Obama showed up at the Army-Navy football game Saturday--those two second-rate college football teams playing 60 minutes of high-school football while the President did his photo op at midfield with Good Ole Joe, Joe Biden, just back from a junket to Iraq, tagging along, smiling, waving, everything hunkie-dory in their "we hit a gold-mine" lives. And then our compassionate president and second-term presidential candidate praised our fighting men and women for their brave victories against world terrorism--and I'm thinking, but wait a minute, Mister President, you mean you consider the invasions and occupations of Iraq and Afghanistan successes? How are our troops heroes? They were totally and feebly unsuccessful at stopping 20-plus drunk-the-night-before Saudi-Arabians wielding box-cutters as weapons from attacking us within our borders on September 11, 2001 and blowing down both World Trade Center architectural-tacky towers. Where were these American heroes that day? Obama may as well give the Medal of Honor to Commander in Chief George W. Bush who has to be a hero if our troopers are heroes.

--Did you ever wonder how many people die in automobile accidents every year in the USA? Here's the figures for 2007, from the Census Bureau:

Table 1067. Motor Vehicle Accidents—Number and Deaths: 2007
Motor vehicle accidents 10.6 Million
Deaths within 30 days:
Passenger cars . . . . . . . . . . . . 16,500
Light trucks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12,400
Motorcycle riders . . . . . . . . . . . 5,200
Pedestrians. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4,700

Notice: That's "Deaths within 30 days," which means those figures are how many folks died in car accidents per month in 2007. Which means around 430,000 people in the USA died in automobile accidents in 2007. Do you know how many people die from drug overdoses in this country per year? I recall years ago in Harper's Magazine's list of ironies they used to run, they showed a statistic that showed only 5 people had died from a cocaine overdose one year; yet that same year we spent like 60 billion dollars on the War on Drugs--always headed up, by the way, by an ex-military high-ranking goon. Ex-generals, by the way, make out a bit of alright when it comes to military retirement pay, pensions, quarters pay, health care, plus more than likely they'll get a multi-million-a-year job with a big Military Industrial Complex contractor or they'll land a job with a lobbying firm representing the Military Industrial Complex.

---US cops are being trained in Israel. Why are We the People of the USA so in awe of Israel? OK, I know it's not politically correct to say anything negative about the Jews in general which includes Israel, Zionism, Israel's having a nuclear weapon arsenal, Israel's now being the longest foreign occupier of a sovereign nation in history--Palestine, which they've occupied now for 63 years. And, yes, I read where New York City Police Chief Ray Kelly has been to Israel more than 20 times to study their police and military methods of continuing to occupy Palestine and laying siege to the Gaza Strip--especially inviting one of the most brutal Israel policemen ever, a dude named Dichter, to New York City to give Mayor Mike Bloomberg's 56,000-man ARMY terrorist training--a dude whose spies in Gaza told him that a Palestinian rebel was sleeping in an apartment building--what should they do? Dichter said, blow the place to smithereens. They replied, but, sir, it's a big apartment building, hundreds of families live there, children.... Dichter said, blow it away, so we kill a few Palestinian dogs along with this terrorist bastard...blow that motherfucker down. So the Israeli Army blew the building down--yes, Praise Yahweh (Allah), they killed the Palestinian rebel (how dare he mean terror toward the kindly Jewish people), but they also killed 8 Palestinian children, 30 some-odd adults, and left 150 people injured and homeless and desperate. Israel's cops and military are more Naht--zee...BUT, oh no, you can't say that can you?

--Sergei Khrushchev... yes, that's right, that old Soviet Khrushchev relation, his son, Sergei. Bet you didn't know that Sergei was or still is a Professor at Brown University on the Providence Plantation.

--On a recent PBS "Secrets of the Dead" episode on the Battle for Stalingrad during World War II--deeply impressive in terms of the horror of WAR. I mean these people had graphic film footage of that battle from both the Nazi side and the Soviet side. Hitler wanted to make a big impression on Uncle Joe Stalin by demolishing the city named after him. But the Soviet forces proved more valiant and defiant than Hitler ever figured. I mean, folks, you watch the footage of this rather large city being bombed off the face of the earth by the German Luftwaffe--the Germans had a camera trained on Stalingrad from across the Volga and you can visually see its once gleaning white buildings being one by one bombed back to the Stone Age. Then the cameras inside the city show bodies every where, pieces of bodies, burnt bodies, smoldering bodies--of the thousands of people living in Stalingrad at the time, only a handful survived. Millions of troops and civilians died in this brutal winter fighting, in the snow and ice and storms--yet these human beings went on destroying and killing and maiming and the Germans captured so many Soviet soldiers they couldn't care for them and kept them in outdoor pens without water or food--and as the German soldiers starved and froze to death, so did those Soviet prisoners. I mean, I can't imagine such slaughter happening in this country; yet, I know damn good and well it surely could one day happen here. Watch that god-damn docudrama--in the PBS show "Secrets of the Dead" archives.

Stalingrad during the Battle of Stalingrad thanks to 3.bp.blogspot.com/

--Progress should spell an end to wars, but it doesn't. No, it ironically makes wars more deadly than before.

--Progesterone--is an anti-brain-aging supplement.

--Women farmers: Of the 3.5 million farmers still left in this country, a million of them are women. Women own 14% of some 2 million farms. Women farmers, per male prerogatives, are discriminated against when it comes to getting loans from the U.S. government.

--Ortega y Gasset wrote: "For life is at the start a chaos in which one is lost. The indivdual suspects this, but he is frightened at finding himself face to face with this terrible reality, and tries to cover it over with a curtain of fantasy, where everything is clear. It does not worry him that his 'ideas' are not true, he uses them as trenches for the defense of his existence, as scarecrows to frighten away reality."

--Why stop quoting him?: Ortega y Gasset wrote: "Blood, language, and common past are static principles, fatal, rigid, inert; they are prisons."

--Merrill-Lynch (and yes they did lynch a hell of a lot of us) is being allowed to transfer its derivatives debt onto the failing Bank of America--thereby pushing the debt onto We the People of the USA.

--Albert Pujols--shit yes he left the World Champion Cardinals for the worthless Los Angeles Angels (once the California Angels and Anaheim Angels) and a 5-year deal giving him $254 million bucks. Can you imagine, a baseball player being worth 254 million bucks--$77 million bucks a year? Good for Albert though. He is a great one--though how much you bet he'll DH in the American League--quit playing first base. Maybe I'm wrong. And, hell yes, I would have bailed on the Cardinals, too, though I can't imagine why if he's worth $254 million to the LA Angels, why wasn't he worth maybe $260 million to the Cardinals? Tony LaRussa's retiring, so maybe Albert knows something we don't know about the Cardinals's future. The administration of baseball is run by corporate-crook speculators who invest in these teams as a hobby. Most of them aren't aware of the beauty of the sport.

--In a Sestra commercial: a smiling mid-30-ish actress looks at the camera and says, "In a matter of minutes...(heavy breathing)...I WAS THERE." Where was Sestra when I was a Casanova? I remember being romantically involved with a young woman years ago on our first night to be so involved and as we got undressed and climbed into her bed, she said, "There's a tube of Prolong in the nightstand there if you're the kind of man who needs it." And thus my Heights went a Withering.

--A Verse from Elmer Snowedin (thedailygrowlerpoetlaureate):

Those Who Believe

Those who believe
will believe anything
and anything they'll believe
others follow and believe
and believers all believe
and what is believed
is unbelievable.

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A short but pleasurable return from me,

barabbusmunn-dayne,thethedailygrowlerjots&tittlesman
for The Blue Monday Edition of The Daily Growler