Archive for August, 2007

Through Tump and Dingle: Silverwolf’s Journey to Matilka.

August 7, 2007

   Silverwolf was about to take off to give another of his blog readings at the Matilka Community Centre (and let’s retain British spellings since they did do us the favour of inventing our language) and as he was passing through the placid rusticity of the tiny dog-bark free hamlet of Holland, before tackling the ascent and persuant descent of Hope Mountain that would debouche him in front of said centre, he was accosted by Blue Dog who informed him as to the medical status of Judge Ted.  The Judge is just about the friendliest good ol’ boy you could hope to find, till it comes to the topic of Fascists.  His verdicts on these are well known throughout the county, and not fit to be put into print. Seems the Judge is having a bit of trouble with the old plumbing, since he likes his daily constitutional, despite the fact that Silverwolf has explained to him how booze leads to low zinc levels in the prostate gland, which in turn can lead to prostatitis, or even worse.  We hope to see the Judge back on the bench soon, helping to keep the county “Fascist rein”.

    As Silverwolf descended the dingle that leads from the dog-bark free rustic hamlet of Holland to the approach to Hope Mountain, he began to chew over the colonial injustices of the Dutch (undoubtedly triggered, the Freudians in the audience will asseverate, by associations catalyzed by the town’s name) and the disruptions caused by bass speakers in auto- and home- stereos, two of his pet peeves (he is hoping to breed them). Here he must strongly disagree with Gardener Bill, the unofficial “mayor” and “police chief” of Holland. Bill thinks that dog barks are worse than stereos, bad as they may be.  Silverwolf takes the opposite tack, and vociferously differs with him. Sometimes they get into some pretty heated verbal fisticuffs, but nothing that cannot be calmed by the halcyonic bromides of Balzac’s coffeepot and Franklin’s chessboard.  Bill arrived in Holland being regarding as something of a pariah, and was at first viewed as a bit of a hot head for calling folks up at 3am after their dog had been howling for an hour. “Is your dog O.K.?”  Yep, why? “I just thought he might be sick since he’s been howling non-stop for an hour.” Nope, as far as I know he’s fine.  ———– Gardener Bill also had a penchant for driving his noisy old truck up in front of someone’s house when their dogs were barking on and on at 2am and getting right in front of the dogs and then leaning on the horn for 15 seconds.  It worked countless times.  Now that their property values have soared ’cause Holland is the quietest berg in the whole valley, the Hollanders ribbingly call him “Mr. Mayor” or “Sheriff Bill”.  But any noisy-dog owner who would threatened their newly-elevated property values would quickly be drummed out of Holland and driven all the way down the dingle and then up over Hope Mountain all the way to the semi-ghost town of Matilka.

     But forgetting dog barks, the matter of the Dutch squandering what they had pilfered during their colonial administration of the “Dutch East Indies” caught the solemn consistory of Silverwolf’s consciousness, for it illustrated both an economic and a moral turpitude. Up until not many years ago, a Dutch citizen working in government positions could claim disability due to “stress” and receive a pension equal to 100% of their old salary beginning at age 50.  Of course, as any Libertarian economist of the Austrian school, for example, Von Mises, Hayek, Rothbard or Rand, could have predicted, the fund eventually went bankrupt due to abuse, since all one needed to do was claim overwhelming psychological stress to get your free money.  A similar phenomenon occurred in Poland just before the fall of the Commies.  It was possible under their regime for government workers to retire at 50 with a pension equal to their old salary.  On this they supported an extended family of possibly 10 people. Of course, as Toqueville could have predicted, these extended families always made sure they all voted, and there were so many government and ex-government workers that the Commies always won.  And then, of course, just like all collectivist paradises that think there is a free lunch, (and all you have to do is rob the rich, middle class, and upper working class, and take that money and have bureaucrats make loads of plans as to what to do with that money, instead of letting the free market make those decisions, and having all that tax money that was collected float around in the free market to give it a filip instead of sitting in government coffers or being wasted in non-competitive bids) the Peoples Proletarian Paradise of Poland  finished up pisspoor and had to go save itself by going over to that wicked capitalism (loud weeping and lamentation from the benches on the left).

   Beginning the ascent of the incline that demarks the end of the dingle, and the start of the upgrade towards Hope Mountain’s pinnacle, Silverwolf noticed his soul’s solemn consistory had devolved its attention onto economic matters, but now he sucked in the inspissating fragrance of the spring blooms, sweated out of them by the calenture of summer. Turning his muzzle to the right, he cast his glance towards a little tump of Doug firs up on the slope, amongst which might be discerned a cabin of well-aged wood.  This was the residence of She-lah, a female wolf (one of the few other wolves residing in the valley) an eccentric but not at all bad looking she-wolf whom Silverwolf  had conversed with from time to time on sublunar topics.  He could hear her computer blaring out, playing the secret Nixon phone-calls that C-span had just released and which She-lah evidently enjoyed more that almost anything else in the world.  However, the Nixon tapes were usually interlarded with trumpet concerti of Pachelbel and Fasch, at which time she was approachable.  But while the Nixon tapes were on, she would stalk up and down, yelling at the top of her lungs what that “B-st-rd Tricky Dick had done with her diamonds”, or how he had  “stolen her gold mine”. Silverwolf believed her, but most of the valley seemed to think she was a kook, far more eccentric than Gardener Bill. However, Silverwolf found them to be the only normal folks around.

      “He that can have patience, can have what he will.” —-Benjamin Franklin

I’ll howl to that. Hoowwwwwwwwwwwwwooowwwwwwwwwwww——–Silverwolf 

The PitBulls of Democracy: The Feeding Frenzy Continues

August 4, 2007

   Silverwolf had grown tired of bashing the Stralasian Dollar, the currency of “Nazis with suntans” as those denizens of the “land down under” are sometimes referred to, and switched his operations to the Nicadian Dollar, the currency of a country which had,  by smashing seal-pups into a bloody mass in front of their mothers, and then skinning them alive and selling off the skins in order to strengthen that currency, insured its people’s prosperity.   A humane people, they used this wealth to provide health insurance for the citizenry, the socialized medicine of the “Socialists Up Over.” 

  So, growing wearing of getting his knee well up into the marriage prospects of the Nicadian Dollar bulls (is it named after their huge holdings of Nickel and Cadmium?), and tiring of their plangent cries at the removal of their financial testimonials, Silverwolf once again turned his “consciousness cerebellumsis” to the hearings being held by the PitBulls of Democracy on the machinations of the Backshooters of the Bill of Rights.  After relishing the Stampeding of Gonzo, it was exciting to see new meat being thrown to the (all of a sudden) guardians of Liberty, baited into a slathering frenzy by the fetid odor of fresh Fascist. Kinda like coming upon an old episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, or The Twilight Zone that you’ve never seen (or forgotten since the last time you saw it you were nine years old).  So Silverwolf  kicked back with a cuppa industrial grade caffeinated beverage and caffeinated the old neuron nexus till the synapses were caracoling with each other like Mohammed Ali fighting himself, and watched this exceedingly important piece of American history: a feeding frenzy for Freedom.

     At least Gonzo had a fighting chance; after all he had been trained in this obfuscate-before-the-committee Art, whose practitioners have risen to new heights in the development of  their technique in recent decades, and Silverwolf even heard a  rumour that the Gonzo had had a wad of cannabis stuffed in his upper lip to give him Dutch courage in front of the committee.  But he is sceptical as to the veracity of this rumour, and views it as possible slanderous calumny.        However,  as the PitBulls of Democracy circled the new victim it was clear that this Consistory of the Constitution was in no laughing-boy mood.  And it was clear the new victim was a small dog, a polite dog, a clean well-groomed dog ……a Scottie.  This tiny Terrier with the cerebellum of a Chihuahua, was soon gudgeoned into some contradictory testimony.  It was pretty funny to hear the Scotties’ defences of his alleged violations of government laws forbidding the use of government property and funds to promote private partisan political ends, laws that form one of the cornerstones of the American constitutional Republic.  Then they got him two or three times when he started using the “must recuse myself under the Prez’s claim of exec privelege” cop-out on everything. They’d ask him two questions involving the White House so he could plausibly use the cop-out, but then ask him a question that involved matters and people obviously outside the White House or for his legal opinion on something and he’d whip his excuse out by rote. Then they’d point out that the question had nothing to do with the WhiteHouse, or merely called for his opinion on e-mails already in the public record and provided to the committee.  After consulting his counsel, he woke up enough to give an answer a couple of times.  “W. C. Fields” Spector even made him look infantile by dragging in Scottie’s parents, and asked him a series of questions in that cross-ammo fusilade style of his which made the Scottie look like a too-uxorious husband trying to becalm a shrewish wife. Just what the Backshooters of the Bill of Rights deserve. “Actionable lacunae in testimony”. The caloric blast of the public’s garlic breath in the face of the politicians has resulted in a calenture that has left the pitbulls slathering at the muzzle. Best news Silverwolf’s had since he heard war-criminal Nixon had phlebitis.


Senator Leahy’s Mole: The Game of Nostalgics

August 2, 2007

   Silverwolf says: As I have mentioned earlier, I really enjoyed watching The  Stampeding of Gonzo by that pack of the Pitbulls of Democracy led by Senator Leahy.  I enjoyed it so much, I went and re-viewed some of the debacle towards the end.  Still, remembering that the Good Book says we should not gloat at the fall of an adversary (heehee), I felt I had indulged enough in that pleasant emotion, and at that moment my attention was arrested by the mole on Senator Leahy’s bald pate. It was then that I decided to play a little game with myself: The Game of Nostalgics.

   The Game of Nostalgics, though played by countless millions for eons thousands, consists in throwing the mind back and letting it track the associations it comes upon, and for each new association picking just one of the myriad paths that association offers and following that through, much as playing even the most heavily analysed chess openings soon leads to uncharted territory where both players are out of the books. I first heard this game formally described on an album of true comic genius put out by Shelley Berman around 1959 or so. It involves (in my version) letting the mind move from image to image, and from topic to topic, of people, events, ideas and observations of the far-removed past.  I have found this game to be of immense value when riding the Greyhound Bus, or waiting a half hour on the line to get through to the IRS.

   So for some reason I started playing Nostalgics when I looked at Senator Leahy’s mole, and suddenly forgot the un-Biblical enjoyment I had felt at seeing the Pitbulls of Democracy stampede the Backshooter of the Bill of Rights over the cliff of veracity and into the LaBrea Tarpits of “actionable lacunae” in his testimony; and that mole, screaming out at the camera like a dark brown-black planet in a clear firmament of cleanest pink flesh, and flanked by two milky way-swathes of flocculent grey, led me off into the lethe of a game of Nostalgics.                       

   First off, I wondered if it could be something more severe, say even a melanoma.  I hope not ’cause I like Leahy’s intelligence in cross-ammo.  Well, Leahy’s mole led me to think about the research I had done on skin cancer, which showed that rates had soared since around 1988.  The rates back then were around 1 in 245 people getting it each year.  Now its about 1 in 85.  So they really thinned out the atmosphere.  And this led me to think of those two hypocrites of capitalism, Mrs. Thatcher and Mr. Reagan.  I recalled how, at a time when enviros were called for an immediate ban on ozone-depleting chemicals, the glimmer twins of the Spirit of Free Enterprise, agreed to a  phase-out after … eight years.  How many thousand, tens of thousands, or millions have gotten melanoma, how many have died, because these two so-called champions of the rights of the individual, were willing to cause the deaths of countless individuals in order to protect the profits of their big corporation buddies? Who knows, because the dead certainly didn’t get the publicity Saint Reagan got when they stuffed him in a vault.  And Thatcher who sank the Belgrano during the Falklands War, drowning over 500 sailors. Of course, let’s remember the moral blame lies on the Argentinians for trying to use force to overthrow a Democracy.  And it did lead to the end of Generals Galtieri and Videla, and the preservation of the Falkland Islands as a bastion of British liberal Democracy.  The Falklands, Keep Them Free! went the chant.  I’ll howl to that.

   Now it’s interesting that the Jew-hating Argentinian government were very crafty anti-Semites, for while the percentage of the populace that was Jewish was about 5%, the percentage of the Jewish inductees into the army was 10%.  It was at this time I recall the disgusting behavior of Menachem Begin, Israeli Prime Minister, who delivered arms including parts for planes to the Argentinians.  Begin, supposedly the guy who would defend the Jews wherever they were discriminated against, was giving arms to an anti-Semitic dictatorship to be used in attempting to kill Democrats fighting for democacy, a democracy which had a proud history, since Cromwell’s time, of first welcoming and then protecting the Jews and their civil rights as Englishman equal before the law.  When criticized for his immoral behavior, Begin tried to Quisling out of it by saying that the arms delivered had been contracted for before the outbreak of the war, and Israel always lived up to its pre-existing contractual obligations,etc. blah, blah, blah. The usual sophistry of the blatant immoralist. Begin and  war-criminal Humphrey, what a team they’d have made! Two moral trashbins.

     Begin, Humphrey, Cromwell, Galtieri, the flotsam and jetsum of the past drifting on the vast ocean of consciousness and memory, and like a beachcomber coming upon a piece of driftwood which he recognizes as the same as a part from his first childhood scooter, and then finds his name carved into it, so the ego-memory ranges through the old stamping-grounds of consciousness, looking for something to chew on. But there are a hundred warehouses full of memory, bursting to overflowing.  One needs only the desire to look around, and the persistence to dig in the piles of boxes of bric-a-brac.

   But Silverwolf is a wild animal, and soon grows tired of human games, even the best.  He must range the woods tonight and howl at the Oregon moon.