Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Lay Lady Lay

When your horoscope says, “Cycle is low,” that is code for “Do not, under any circumstances, leave the house. Ever.”

My “cycle is low,” but that’s OK. I know what’s wrong with me because Bono just told me in my car. He said, very clearly, “You’re dangerous because you’re honest. You’re dangerous because YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT.” God, Bono knows me so well.

Speaking of rock stars, I watched the Bob Dylan special No Direction Home on American Masters last night. Um, were you aware of how inarticulate our man Bob is? I was not. I mean, I am not a big fan of Bob, but you know he is certainly emblematic of a certain generation that I am not a part of—careful now—but that is just behind me. Like my brother and sister’s generation, let’s say.

I remember my brother mooning over Joan Baez and buying the new Dylan album and playing the Hurricane song really loud and swooning in liberal white man outrage over the wrongly accused boxer. I remember that.

But man, the deal with last night’s show is: everyone ELSE was OH SO MUCH MORE interesting. Like Pete Seeger and Liam Clancy, to name a few. Even ole Bob was visibly moved by those two in particular. The only time he was remotely interesting was when he turned to the camera, with a slight smile that looked like it would make his putty face crack in two, and talked about how “profound” Liam Clancy was “after about 50 Guinesses.” He also smiled when talking about two high school fillies that turned him on to poetry.

I’ve never bought into the whole Bob Dylan as a poet gig, though, and I sure as hell was relieved of that notion last night. He was all noncommittal about naming himself after Dylan Thomas and he was not enlightening, respectful or even interesting on the subject of the man whose soul he co-opted, Woody Guthrie. Some attention must be paid, dude.

THEN I remembered that, duh, Martin Scorsese, who directed this Dylan piece, also directed The Last Waltz. I am very, very weird about The Band. I am fascinated with Robbie Robertson and near-obsessed/reverential about Levon Helm, so much so that I almost named m’ firstborn Levon. True story.

Anyhoo, something is for sure happening to me. It’s tidal, gravitational—a shifting, moving presence. I think in layman’s terms it is called: A Nervous Breakdown. Either that or my astrological cycle is just “low,” and I need to wait for it to be “high” again.

Or maybe I need to get “high.” And lay across a big brass bed.


Cynicism is another word for reality

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