What the HELL was that? Two days ago President Bush makes an unexpected visit to the floor of the NYSE.
And he gets a hero's welcome. Those guys clapped for ten minutes straight. They clapped and cheered the Texas simpleton like he was F.D.R.
Do they know something we don't know?
The NYSE is to our American culture what the Oracle at Delphi must have been for the Athenians. Those guys in suits applauding Bush are the priests of our civilization. The tickers and trading boards are chicken guts which these charlatans read. The market is their voice of God.
And the market seems to like Bush. The market likes war. The market likes go-getters. Those stock traders applauded Bush like they understood his manuevers better than any of us ever will.
Democracy is pretty much finished. There is just the oracle at Wall Street. The temple of American wealth.
How about a pay-raise for American fighting forces in Iraq? If the Iraqi oil act is going to yield the kinds of profits that oil companies are planning on, then American enlisted troops should be getting one million dollars each per year. What are we paying them now? To walk on point and start firefights with committed insurgents who have NOTHING to lose? What do they get - $50,000/year? You could make more as a P.A. here in Hollywood. Let's give them a piece of the action.
Cause I mean what are they fighting for? For American security? NOT.
Are they fighting for Iraqi democracy and mid-east peace? O God no! Anybody who thinks that, at this stage, is a sorry fool.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
The city looks better when I feel better. It's good to socialize you know. Stick out a hand to the guy who's alone. Hey man, what's up? This is especially true when you're with a big rollicking group. That's the best time to include other people in it. By other people I mean passers-by. It becomes a show. I see the tension in people everyday. It's right there locked in struggle with the part that wants to go beyond - everything that's ever been done before.
It's all about making an entrance. You have to come busting in. Once I heard it described as the center-stage moment. (tap the micrphone - hey, hey is this thing on?)
My friend has got this car. It's probably the most badass car in all of Los Angeles. A primer-black 1948 Buick. No door handles. No hood. Just the frightful looking old time radiator, a five foot long, painted-red valve cover on the engine. This black rockabilly sled has two shiny rebuilt *Stromberg 97s* carbuerators. The engine layout is so weird and old-fashioned he has to use a 6 volt forklift battery. Just walking up to the engine smells like a barn in Mississippi. The windshield wipers are gone and the stems are capped with chromed bullets.
The most striking detail is the wheels. Big, perfectly *whitepride* whitewalls, on red wheels with silver dogdish hubcaps. Those red, white and silver shoes look like spats on a clown. A clown who has a Tommy-gun and a cigar. Johnny, the owner of the beast, told me how he burned the springs with a blowtorch, settling them so the frame almost rests on the ground. When he drives it across a deep L.A. street wash, the rusty steel structure slams into the asphalt, scarring it. Just imagine the sound of a 1949 Buick banging off the pavement. It's an artful soundscape. Everybody laughs when they see it. Little boys with Davey Crockett hats shout hey ma, Ma! Look at that guy's car!
Inside the interior saloon of the sled, rust has sleeplessly eaten the entire floor. There are shiny steel plates tack-welded to the few steel points left on the fire wall. I can sort of see light down there, on the pavement. The emerald-green glimmer of broken glass. The three-on-the-tree column shift has an eight-ball on the end - of course. This car tops out speed-wise at 50mph. It sounds like a tugboat. When Johnny parks the car in Beverly Hills, in front of Doctor Phil's house, he flips down the visor on my side so that the licence plate shows. I ask why he has it set up like this.
"You can't have a reflective licence plate on the front of a car like this. It looks gay. The back is bad enough."
Just riding in the Buick with Johnny over to Doctor Phil's place showed me that I must have a 40s car. I'll keep my '71 so that I have something newish for when that need arises.
It's all about making an entrance. You have to come busting in. Once I heard it described as the center-stage moment. (tap the micrphone - hey, hey
My friend has got this car. It's probably the most badass car in all of Los Angeles. A primer-black 1948 Buick. No door handles. No hood. Just the frightful looking old time radiator, a five foot long, painted-red valve cover on the engine. This black rockabilly sled has two shiny rebuilt *Stromberg 97s* carbuerators. The engine layout is so weird and old-fashioned he has to use a 6 volt forklift battery. Just walking up to the engine smells like a barn in Mississippi. The windshield wipers are gone and the stems are capped with chromed bullets.
The most striking detail is the wheels. Big, perfectly *whitepride* whitewalls, on red wheels with silver dogdish hubcaps. Those red, white and silver shoes look like spats on a clown. A clown who has a Tommy-gun and a cigar. Johnny, the owner of the beast, told me how he burned the springs with a blowtorch, settling them so the frame almost rests on the ground. When he drives it across a deep L.A. street wash, the rusty steel structure slams into the asphalt, scarring it. Just imagine the sound of a 1949 Buick banging off the pavement. It's an artful soundscape. Everybody laughs when they see it. Little boys with Davey Crockett hats shout hey ma, Ma! Look at that guy's car!
Inside the interior saloon of the sled, rust has sleeplessly eaten the entire floor. There are shiny steel plates tack-welded to the few steel points left on the fire wall. I can sort of see light down there, on the pavement. The emerald-green glimmer of broken glass. The three-on-the-tree column shift has an eight-ball on the end - of course. This car tops out speed-wise at 50mph. It sounds like a tugboat. When Johnny parks the car in Beverly Hills, in front of Doctor Phil's house, he flips down the visor on my side so that the licence plate shows. I ask why he has it set up like this.
"You can't have a reflective licence plate on the front of a car like this. It looks gay. The back is bad enough."
Just riding in the Buick with Johnny over to Doctor Phil's place showed me that I must have a 40s car. I'll keep my '71 so that I have something newish for when that need arises.
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