dinsdag, mei 24, 2005

Happy Birthday Bob

In case you needed some ground rules, here is How To Celebrate Bob Dylan's Birthday.

And if you were curious, here is what was going on the day little Bob was born.

Naturally you can imagine the Hibbing Daily Tribune has something to say about the subject, where Bob Dylan's annual birthday bash starts Friday and runs through Tuesday.

Although a few days late, The Bob Dylan Show, a tribute band from Australia will perform with it’s all-star band in celebration of Bob Dylan’s Birthday at The Cat And Fiddle Hotel in Balmain on Saturday, May 28. Just enough time to fly down...

NPR's interview last year with Bob Dylan.

For the real freaks, there's the Bob Dylan Pool which tries to predict the songs he will play in concert. Pity there isn't a pool for predicting what percentage of the songs he sings will be coherent.

And of course, there's the Bob Dylan Coffee Mug Set, as if one coffee mug just wouldn't be enough...

If you hadn't heard about it: “Gilligan’s Island,” starring cartoon versions of Bob Dylan as Gilligan.

A collection of jokes he made on stage followed quickly by Bob Dylan quotes

None of which mentions Tangled Up In Jews.

We could do this all night kids, but enough's enough.


If you see her, say hello, she might be in Tangier
She left here last early spring, is livin' there, I hear
Say for me that I'm all right though things get kind of slow
She might think that I've forgotten her, don't tell her it isn't so.

We had a falling-out, like lovers often will
And to think of how she left that night, it still brings me a chill
And though our separation, it pierced me to the heart
She still lives inside of me, we've never been apart.

If you get close to her, kiss her once for me
I always have respected her for busting out and gettin' free
Oh, whatever makes her happy, I won't stand in the way
Though the bitter taste still lingers on from the night I tried to make her stay.

I see a lot of people as I make the rounds
And I hear her name here and there as I go from town to town
And I've never gotten used to it, I've just learned to turn it off
Either I'm too sensitive or else I'm gettin' soft.

Sundown, yellow moon, I replay the past
I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast
If she's passin' back this way, I'm not that hard to find
Tell her she can look me up if she's got the time.

zaterdag, mei 21, 2005

Inglan is a Bitch
Linton Kwesi Johnson

w'en mi jus' come to Landan toun
mi use to work pan di andahgroun
but workin' pan di andahgroun
y'u don't get fi know your way aroun'
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi get a lickle jab in a big 'otell
an' awftah a while, mi woz doin' quite well
dem staat mi aaf as a dish-washah
but w'en mi tek a stack, mi noh tun clack-watchah!

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
noh baddah try fi hide fram it

w'en dem gi' you di lickle wage packit
fus dem rab it wid dem big tax rackit
y'u haffi struggle fi mek en's meet
an' w'en y'u goh a y'u bed y'u jus' cant sleep

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch fi true
a noh lie mi a tell, a true

mi use to work dig ditch w'en it cowl noh bitch
mi did strang like a mule, but, bwoy, mi did fool
den awftah a while mi jus' stap dhu ovahtime
den aftah a while mi jus' phu dung mi tool

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u haffi know how fi suvvive in it

well mi dhu day wok an' mid dhu nite wok
mi dhu clean wok an' mid dhu dutty wok
dem seh dat black man is very lazy
but it y'u si how mi wok y'u woulda sey mi crazy

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u bettah face up to it

dem have a lickle facktri up inna Brackly
inna disya facktri all dem dhu is pack crackry
fi di laas fifteen years dem get mi laybah
now awftah fiteen years mi fall out a fayvah

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi know dem have work, work in abundant
yet still, dem mek mi redundant
now, at fifty-five mi gettin' quite ol'
yet still, dem sen' mi fi goh draw dole

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch fi true

is whey wi a goh dhu 'bout it?

dinsdag, mei 17, 2005

How Sweet It Is

The Modern Drunkard Magazine has an excellent article on the myth, madness and magic of Jackie Gleason:

"Picture it: It’s 1950 and you stroll into Toots. The first thing you take in is the circular bar, lushly appointed and wrapped around a spire of liquor stacked to a distant ceiling. In the deepest corner of the room a crowd roars with laughter and you naturally gravitate toward the source. First you pass through a sea of gawking tourists willing to pay premium drink prices to get a glimpse of their idols, then a moat of newspaper columnists, their ears cocked for material for tomorrow’s column, then finally the inner circle itself—Frank Sinatra drinks Jack Daniels with known mafia kingpins, Humphrey Bogart nurses a double whiskey and a triple hangover, Joe DiMaggio pours champagne for his wife Marilyn Monroe. Milton Berle, Charlie Chaplin, Bob Hope, Walter Winchell and Mickey Mantle stand enthralled, waiting for the next hilarious word. At the very center of this thick ring of American heroes stands the then relatively unknown Jackie Gleason, holding court, doing what he does best—working the room for laughs. He makes light of himself, he makes greater light of those around him; mining huge egos for uproarious laughter. And they take it, daring not to show weakness, because if Jackie smells blood he goes in like a shark.

via A Large Regular

*****Music On The Mind******

Is Matisyahu the new king of hasidic reggae?

via Radio Active, the completely normal and boring New Yorker.


When the President Talks To God, via The Scottish Patient.


As always, great new live video and audio clips via 3 voor 12



by Erik Satie

Drunk in a cafe, some French coastal village
you wouldn't know. Studying
the mirror, all bubbled
and discolored, that hangs over the bar:

"I like it there's no piano here.
Pianos: just furniture, really.
The music of an open wallet,
my friend, obbligato of popping corks . . . ."

Signaling with consummate grace
for another bottle, seen only
by the proper waiter,
then tightening his tie suddenly:

"Did you know that Herr Beethoven,
for his majestic final symphony,
earned the equivalent of sixty
of your American dollars?"

A smile that could not possibly
be transcribed: "Although
my information is incorrect,
I do not vouch for it."


Don't look now but it looks like The Chimps Are Running Kansas - original link via Search Blog


How To Eat At The Dollar Store:

"Your edible meat choices at the dollar store pretty much come down to tuna, tuna and tuna. Sure, there are other options, but they consist of meat whose origin, both with regards to location on the planet and on the animal itself, is questionable. Besides the aforementioned corned beef hash, other meat-like products that I did not put in my basket included Vienna sausages, off-brand chili and turkey SPAM.

I did, however, throw some Dinty Moore Chicken Stew in the basket. When I look back on it, I have no idea why. Maybe because it was a brand name. Maybe it was because I've never seen Chicken Stew before. All I know is that I'm too scared to eat it. Knowing how crummy the meat is in a homemade beef stew (it's supposed to be tough, cheap meat that softens up over the hours it's simmering in the stew), I can't imagine what kind of chicken meat is of such low quality that it only is suitable for canned stew. I just stare at the can periodically, wondering what kind of unpleasantness lurks just under that lid."


Unintentionally sexual comic book covers via The Best Page In The Universe.


All through life you can go without ever realising there are two types of shoes in the world:

Fuck-Me Shoes and Fuck-You Shoes.

So dress carefully.

vrijdag, mei 13, 2005


Desolation Row

They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As the Lady and I look out tonight
>From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong To Me I Believe"
And someone says, "You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave."
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have Mercy On His Soul"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
>From Desolation Row

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outta Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
>From Desolation Row

-- Bob Dylan

vrijdag, mei 06, 2005

Tony Charles Lynton Blair: White House Poodle or Third Term Wonder?

The son of a barrister has done it again.

They say it is historic third term - historic in that only 22% of those eligible to vote backed Labour - the lowest figure they have received at any post-war election apart from 1983 when the figure was 20.6%.

Another rerun of the Tony Blair Witch Project.

They say he limped away with victory and a bloodied nose on Iraq as well.

Cut down to poodle-size.

Even the Guardian thinks he was cut down to size:

"As the results came in last night it became compellingly clear that enough voters were determined to switch from Labour to other parties - mainly to the Liberal Democrats in safe seats but also to the Tories in southern marginals - for Tony Blair's ascendancy to be brought spectacularly down to earth."

For those of you keeping score at home, here is the voter's scorecard.

FT says Blair's Hope of a Thumping Majority dashed:

"Mr Blair's frozen smile said much. Though a historic victory no Labour government has ever served three successive terms the prime minister's critics will argue with justification that he has lost the magician's touch that powered him to two previous landslides."

And not that it matters to much to some as he may decided to quit sooner than expected to let the other dullard take over.

Indeed, how long will he last?

According to Polly Toynbee, Tony Blair alone bears the blame:

"Tony Blair tried to persuade himself that the Iraq war was a chattering class obsession, but it was everywhere, even among those who usually pay scant attention to foreign policy. It became the symbol and the icon for any disappointment or grievance with the government over the last eight years. It all came down on Tony Blair's head."

Even the NYT got into the act, acknowledging that for Blair, victory was not so sweet this time.

And speaking of what they think in 'Merica, in case you wondered what King Karl Rove thinks of it all...he donned a red rosette and walked away.

Maybe he too realised that Labour is flaccid and empty-headed.

But it could have been worse.

What all this means, of course, that although he has stooped to crawling in a sewer he should never be allowed to rise from, Michael Howard's days are numbered.

Not only that but Shadow education secretary Tim Collins' defeat was a major blow for Howard.

Labour's Jacqui Smith won the majority in my area again although her voting record is rather dodgy.

And how did the REAL alternative perform?

Not too shabbily. They won they're biggest seat total in 76 years.

They heralded a new era.

They may even turn into a reality check.

In the end, after all the money spent, the days campaigning, the words wasted, It was nobody's triumph

Except for Dirty George Galloway, who won his street fight over Oona King

Here's the map in case you are curious about who did what where to whom.

And if you're looking for a bit of lit with your political jones, Maud Newton's there and here edition does it quick and brill.


Other information of note having nothing to do with the UK's elections:

Thursday and Empire is quite a good read.

A long-overdue tribute to Screaming Lord Sutch formerly of the Official Monster Raving Loony Party.

Verse Daily

*****Going Out In Style*****

That's all for today kids. Now Go out and kill Americans or if you're too busy to bother, just go out and get a piece, Son.

And yes, you can:

Mommy Can I Go Out And Kill Tonight? - The Misfits.

maandag, mei 02, 2005

Jaap Stijl Translates The Hits

This is a hydroponic collection of poems taking the titles of famous poems and ruining them with his own incandescent style of translation. It is a style that follows syllabolically but not thematically. A style to feed to wild dogs. A style to feed starving children with. A style that knows it's own limits but leaps wildly past them anyway and has the scar to prove it.

The Collection itself will eventually fold through apathy and forgivenonsense.

1. The Snowman Can:

(a translation from insurance bureaucratese to gibberish of Wallace Stevens'The Snowman:

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.


One must build the snowman winter
through button eyes and mutton mouth
carrot noses that never run;

Brrr, this ain't no renaissance
it's ice age cold Tolstoy's even frozen,
they can't sell him on the open market

of the thinking man's snowman slowly dripping
and there goes another several years down the drain,
and not a plumber in sight,

So the land is the sound of
the snowman's cold cry
that is lost in the same dull dripping

For the buckets full, that slowly overflow,
with nothing snowmen who
duly noted their existence you never built.


2. The Roadblock Has Spoken

This is a translation of The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost from the ancient new england hallmarkian to pub dirgese:

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same, 10

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


TWO days I stumbled drunken as a bum,
And sorry I ran out so quickly
and have not a drop more for myself
And shook the bottles searching no luck
so they were all useless to me now; 5

Then came the roadblock that stopped me there,
And having perhaps the better gun,
Because I thought I could aye blow it down;
Though I tried to reason with it
My chances were pretty much kaput, 10

But there was no reasoning with this
roadblock that stood there steadily.
Oh, I punched my fist in the deadly air!
Yet I knew it was done futily,
So I doubted I'd be back for lunch. 15

I shall be telling groaning pain
Somewhere out there in the favoured land:
A roadblock emerged for me, and I—
I knew the roadblock has spoken,
And that has made all the difference. 20