Exchanging Glances, Presbyterian Jew Not Quite Sure Speed of Train

24 Apr


Stuffled & Stifled


Have been scanning through some of the CSS white pages. While the hype is that this makes anyone a publisher, it again forces to the top of the cup those who believe anybody can be a programmer. This stuff is dense and prickly like sandspurs in a south Georgia grass patch.

How's that desperately seeking law degree game plan edging into your routines? Do you still want a MB-sized mail archive sent to your inbox? Any movement toward KPT gifting? Have you taken a vow of silence?

Sue is now sick with head runneth overs about the time I'm finally feeling fit again. How about some billy ball tonight? Is there any reason you should not take another swing at the dynastic power of billy, yet again? Now back to the sleeve of Steve (and any who see themselves in this song)...

Perhaps you can help me work up a successful resume to storm ClarkNET with the wisdom to know the difference. I wouldn't ask just anybody for advice on this topic, but gee willikers, you might actually be able to enhance my chances with that infomercial-worthy MASThead (Most Awesome Steve Taylor) approach of yours...

Below is something I typed into a guestbook this morning:

Sweet knees and sauerkraut will cost you an arm and a leg
in the springtime next to the café down the street. You must
have a long friendlist and a good publicist to get away
with that many hits in the short time since the snowstorm
that didn't happen here happened somewhere else. I mean,
geez, Tim and Jennifer were gods in my book until they fell
silent. Clean up your act, or at least talk about the old
one, show a few pictures and get on with it...

but frisky is as frisky does. (In the field
where one puts where one is from, I wrote,
"from that part of me you can't quite finger...")

As you might surmize I am quite full of thyself
this morning, having finally fully recovered
from frocking weekend's binge boozer binge

and as usual Thursday brought that rush of
Gabmania I could only manage three or four days
a week once upon a time now down to two or three,

while you however seem an undiluted 24 seven.
You wear me out man. Go with it. You too will slow down,
but you're hardwired for burn speed and popular endurance

and will no doubt remain above the fray unless
some brain-nervous tick hits you like it stung
gentle giant Dave Clarke. It's a matter of record

that Ginsberg was a chatterbox, and now that I think of it,
he was the publicist who energized Kerouac into publication,
the front man for both Jack and Bill. So you know your role,

if you will only embrace it. What was that you were saying
about getting into the advertising racket a few wuthering
heights ago? And hey, every great writer, artist, pretender
needs an agent, a publicist, a whistle in the bucket.

Three weeks ago last Saturday over beers at the Lighthouse
you suggested I was pulling a Tim in my lackadaisial approach
to making myself known to the folks in charge of these things
like fame, fortune, and trophy women. Man, I say again,

self-trumpeting with a handshake and a dollar-sign
ain't my gig, even if I wanted it to be, but like Ginsberg's
talent for pulling the shat from a bull, it is yours.

But Ginsberg was able to cross the street, help his friends.
I'd like to think you are that capable as well, user friendly,
and graphically-interfaced. Okay, I'm muttering, but it's all

been said before. We can generate great things, it seems like
I move in great leaps when only you and I come together in unity
for even the shortest of times. Remember that first burst of web

sites concocted right there while you were FTPing for GSIS.
Well now, with our softball connection, confidence has soared,
production is over the top, and I've never felt better

(spirit if not body), yet it's no Boston to suggest
we still have yards to go for first down. Can you
blame me for reluctance to play both sides of ball,

the ball, although I've damn nearly died trying. In 1980
I wrote a line in a poem called Contrapuntus America:
"Two by two he sent them out, one to euphoria, one to disease..."

I've always needed a seconding voice. Wife—while supportive
financially and technically—has never shown the slightest
interest in the work itself. THAT's what's needed, and for that
I'm utterly fated the diseased one. YOU may well be the euphoric one.
Verily, verily, bride lived on S. Taylor Street when I met her,
and there's no slighting the gods when they are speaking...

Am busy putting some Globetrotter-generated Javascript into my pages which activates the scrolling text on the Netscape status bar. I'm getting quite a rush publishing in that scroll—by shooting some of my poetic gestures from the archived past. On the Tokyo Beach site, I used some Mishima quotes...

And lastly, here are some selected Dylan quotes I found on a website dedicated to his interviews. I was sparked by a Peter Burris e-mail logging some Nick Cave comments on Little Big Man Bob this very early morning:

Q: While on the road, how do you take care of your health and spirituality? What kinds of things do you do for yourself?

A: I try not to be a loafer. I don't work out. Maybe I'll ride a motorcycle or go horseback riding.

Q: Your son Jacob has a band called the Wallflowers. What do you think of his band?

A: His music is very humble. They have an impressible sound.

Q: Have you played any gigs together?

A: Just in the garage.

Q: What kind of music does he play?

A: I'm waiting for Neil Young to tell me.

I burst out in a huge elephant roar when I read this last line. No doubt a reference to NY's song Rust Never Sleeps, the 1980 song analyzing Johnny Rotten's impact on rock, the foundations of Elvis, and the premise that rock and roll will never die...

Q: Do current events, like the Oklahoma bombing, impact on your songwriting?

A: Chaos is everywhere: lawlessness, disorganization, misrule. I don't know if it impacts my songwriting like it use to. In the past few years, events have affected me and I've addressed them. But unless a song flows out naturally and doesn't have to be chaperoned, it just dissipates.

Q: Is America better or worse than, say, in the days of "The Times They are A-Changin'"?

A: I see pictures of the '50s, the '60s and the '70s and I see there was a difference. But I don't think the human mind can comprehend the past and the future. They are both just illusions that can manipulate you into thinking there's some kind of change. But after you've been around awhile, they both seem unnatural. It seems like we're going in a straight line, but then you start seeing things that you've seen before. Haven't you experienced that? It seems we're going around in circles.

Q: When you look ahead now, do you still see a Slow Train Coming?

A: When I look ahead now, it's picked up quite a bit of speed. In fact, it's going like a freight train now.

Q: Some people who study behavior say that each of us is only expressing one unique thing through his entire life that we wanted to express when we were 17; I think you have proved them wrong over your career. So regarding yourself, what was your continuous concern during your career?

A: That I stayed honest, that I tried to be true, and didn't lie to myself or nobody else.

Q: Do you believe in fate or in destiny?

A: Mmm - I do, sure.

Q: Do you think all was written in advance, or are we responsible for each choice we do, even if things seem planned?

A: I do believe that things are planned for everyone of us. But I also believe that we have the will to change it at one time or another, although I'm not so sure about changing the end result.

Q: Do you feel the same as when you were a child, or do you feel you have changed?

A: Well, you know it's like the French say: Everything changes but it stays the same.

Now you must know where all this leads. Sounds like Bob is a Presbyterian Jew who's not quite sure the speed of a train makes any difference to a flock of angry birds. It leads back to the beginning. Oh well, as we say in hitherland, that's my story and I'm sticking with it...


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"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""