Ladies and Gentlemen, the Poet Laureate of Rock'n'Roll (and other bullshit)

So, the short version is: I'm watching Bob Dylan play, and his people have issued a very stern edict that no photos may be taken of Mr. Dylan, at all, by anyone. I didn't intend to take any, until I saw the house security people actually going into the crowd to yell at people to put down their cell phone cameras OR ELSE. It was totally absurd. BD was 50 yards from the closest barricade, and his tour manager guy was pointing out teenage hippies for the security folks to shake down. I couldn't resist.

The first couple of shots are of the JumboTron and the utter cock of a security guard who yelled at a very sweet young kid with a camera. The others are from the other side of the stage, and are significant not only because they're kind of out of focus (though still better than the AP or Reuters wire photos, which were clearly snagged from the same spot), but because they were snapped within five feet of the guy who was leading the charge to intimidate the people in the crowd who wanted to get a little snap of their hero to post on their blog.

Dicks.

Oh yeah, Dylan was great. He can't sing anymore and the new arrangements of his songs (incl. Maggie's Farm, Hwy 61 Revisited, Don't Think Twice, Like a Rolling Stone, Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues, Positively 4th Street, All Along the Watchtowr) were so boogie/swing-ed out that you could be forgiven for thinking he was making fun of himself, there's just no denying his irreducible Dylanness. He really seemed to be enjoying himself. That matters. And he didn't play "Down in the Flood," which seemed like an obvious choice. He never makes the obvious choice. Even now.

So Much Violence, So Much Stillness

So... I'm in New Orleans, one of the great cities, and I guess I just wasn't prepared for what it would look like. The devastation in the ninth ward remains shocking. Which is to say: the devastation in the ninth ward remains. Shocking. I had some sense that work had been done. If it has, that's even more shocking. I bought a camera for this trip, and I took over 200 photos just today. I've posted the good ones (well, I think they are; and by good, I mean indicative of the STUNNING RUIN THAT SHOWS NO SIGNS OF BEING CLEARED AWAY ANYTIME SOON) on flickr, here. They actually run in the exact reverse of the order i intended, but hey. It's my first flickr posting.

The mood here is not morose--not even close. There is going to be an amazing party this weekend.

I Have a Question

Radio?

Thank you for your consideration.

The First is that I Love You. The Second is that I'm Not an Artist.

If anyone ever doubts that Woody Allen was once a genuinely great filmmaker, I would direct that person to the last sixty seconds of Bullets Over Broadway. It's basically the greatest movie ending of all time. It's basically perfect.

Curse You, Comcast!

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that the most frustrating part of this is the recurring use of my Christian name, unseparated by commas, no less.








They're coming on Thursday.

Dr. Everything's Gonna Be All Right

It has been brought to my attention (not that I didn't know) that this blog has been a massive bummer of late. I mean, obviously, unless you're rooting for my demise, pretty much everything that happens to me lately is a driggety DRAG. And while it would be disingenuous of me to apologize, per se--ain't no guns to my head when I post these dispatches--I do feel a certain... what, responsibility? No, that's too lofty. Impulse. I do feel a certain impulse to impart some news that isn't unbearably morose. That's why I didn't even post about how I really clocked my knee on the trailer hitch of a big pick up truck outside the foam store yesterday. It was hard and loud enough to (A) stop traffic on Roosevelt, (B) cause two girls to pause and raise their hands to their gaping mouths in horror, and (C) make the clerk inside the store come out to see if I was all right. Nice one. Oh, wait, the good news: I went to Easy Street Records yesterday and had a proper binge that included the new Morrissey, a Big Daddy Kane compilation, that Figurines record, a couple of comedy albums, some Gil Scott Heron, and a vinyl copy of the Bee Gees' Odessa, among several other purchases. But that wasn't the good part. The good part was when the clerks put on Purple Rain and I quietly sand along with every word of the whole perfect glorious record, barely suppressing my urge to dance and leap around to "Let's Go Crazy," a song that still, still manages to blow minds for a living.

Of course, I couldn't very well dance with a knee the size of a waterlogged grapefruit, but still. It was nice to hear Purple Rain, you know?

For more happy times, please watch this wonderful video clip of a great new band I discovered on Joan Hiller's blog.

Drum Roll...

...aaaaaand: Liver Disease! And I have it! It's not Hepatitis B or C or one of those fancy kind, nor is it cirrhosis. But it could easily lead to cirrhosis. That's the good news. The bad news is I have to not drink alcohol, at all. I go, "does that mean I shouldn't have a glass of wine with dinner every couple of weeks?" Gastroenterologist goes, "Well, some people have a glass of wine with dinner every single night, but I wouldn't recommend it." Good motherfucking times.

For those of you keeping score, this makes 2006 officially magical. Totes magical, you might say.

As the precocious child actor in Life With Mikey once said, "What am I, Job?"

Strapping on a Pair

In the past couple of days, I have installed a new shower head, complete with a new pipe extension that makes the nozzle tall enough for me to wash my hair without bending over backwards; a new lighting fixture that required me to creatively solve a problem involving a recessed junction box; and a 48-foot rope light. These things are not major events in the world of home improvement, but given that I'm normally the kind of person who hires people to change my lightbulbs, they do make me feel significantly more competent than I normally feel... a poor thing, but mine own.

Loser Dust, slight return

I almost forgot my favorite part.

This is what the bank guy told me, with regard to the importance of paying attention to small charges on one's account:

"I've seen people literally get milked to death and never know it."

I'm sure it means something that this made me just as mad as the stolen funds...

More Fun in the New World

So... somebody stole my bank card number and charged over $1,600 dollars worth of stuff, all in increments of around $400. I appear to be a victim of identity theft, the irony being, well... YOU CAN FUCKING HAVE IT! But not the money. No, I'll be needing that, you fuckers. The bank is on the case, and they've cancelled the card, but apparently, the way it works is that you have to let the charges clear, THEN they refund you the money. I'm having them send me the past year in bank statements to see if there are any other charges like this. OH, THOSE INCREDIBLE BASTARDS (or BITCHES)! And the thing is, I never pay attention to my statements; I just keep a vague mental tally of how much I have in my various accounts. I guess this is a good argument that my approach up to now has been faulty. I've always felt like the risk was worth the not having to deal with the hassle. Alas...

I guess the question this experience really raises, in conjunction with the fact that every area of my life is basically fucked, is simply this: WHEN DID I GET COATED IN LOSER DUST????

An unrelated question (with apologies for the blurry picture): Was this really necessary?