Dylan, Dylan and A Simple Desultory Philippic

My last two years in high school I took an art class with Mr. Sebes at BRHS-West. The classroom had a kiln, art supplies of all kinds and a record player. For some reason (probably because they were the most assertive and everyone went along with it) there were a couple of girls who controlled what we listened to, much the same way that some people like to be in charge of the remote when families or friends watch television.

No one seemed to mind, though, because the records they selected to play were always Simon & Garfunkel. Parsley, Sage Rosemary and Thyme; Wednesday Morning, 3AM; Sounds of Silence; Bookends... Without effort we learned the words of nearly every album because I don't believe they ever played anything else.

One of the songs was a spoof on Bob Dylan called "A Simple Desultory Philippic (Or How I Was Robert McNamara'd into Submission)" which appeared on Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. The song is rather hilarious, especially the talking part in imitation of Dylan's delivery on songs like "I Shall Be Free No. 10."

In November, after reading Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas: The Two Dylans by Jeff Towns and K.J. Miles, I felt a need to become more acquainted with the life and work of Dylan Thomas. To be honest, I only knew of him but had never read him. To do this I borrowed several books from our library and did a little devouring. One of the books, a massive volume, featured all of his poems. One was a book of literary criticism that included an overview of his life, another a book of essays by other critics, and the fourth a Christmas tale he wrote called A Child's Christmas. His most famous poem is probably "Do not go gentle into that good night."

Much of his poetry struck me as evocative even when you didn't fully grasp what its meanings, vivid imagery throughout. It wouldn't be too far a stretch to compare some of his writing to Finnegan's Wake, or a linguistic hybrid conjoining Jackson Pollock's paint splattering with Dali's hyper-schizophrenic scenes such Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War).

The Welsh poet won many accolades with some critics calling him the greatest living poet. Like other "rock stars" he seems to have lived a life of self-destruction, and indeed died during his 39th year on earth.

All the above flashed through my mind as i thought about the reference to Dylan Thomas in Paul Simon's parody of Dylan. Here are the lyrics, with the Dylan Thomas reference highlighted in bold. 

A Simple Desultory Philippic (Or How I Was Robert McNamara'd into Submission)

I been Norman Mailered, Maxwell Taylored
I been John O'Hara'd, McNamara'd
I been Rolling Stoned and Beatled 'til I'm blind
I been Ayn Randed, nearly branded
Communist, 'cause I'm left-handed
That's the hand I use, well, never mind

I been Phil Spectored, resurrected
I been Lou Adlered, Barry Sadlered
Well, I paid all the dues I want to pay
And I learned the truth from Lenny Bruce
And all my wealth won't buy me health
So I smoke a pint of tea a day

I knew a man, his brain was so small
He couldn't think of nothing at all
Not the same as you and me
He doesn't dig poetry
He's so unhip that when you say Dylan
He thinks you're talking about Dylan Thomas
Whoever he was
The man ain't got no culture
But it's alright, ma, everybody must get stoned

I been Mick Jaggered and silver daggered
Andy Warhol, won't you please come home?
I been mother, father, aunt and uncled
Been Roy Haleed and Art Garfunkeled
I just discovered somebody's tapped my phone

Folk rock
I've lost my harmonica, Albert

Songwriter: Paul Simon

A Simple Desultory Philippic (Or How I Was Robert McNamara’d Into Submission) lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group

If you're unfamiliar with the tune, check it out here.

Now what's really hilarious is that when I Googled the lyrics for the song, a different version came up, whereupon I learned that Paul Simon originally recorded an England only version on his own before the Parslet, Sage version with Art G.

I was Union Jacked, Kerouac'd
John Birched, stopped and searched
Rolling Stoned and Beatled till I'm blind
I've been Ayn Randed, nearly branded
Communist 'cos I'm lefthanded:
That's the hand they use, well, never mind!

I've been Walt Disneyed, Dis Disleyed
John Lennoned, Krishna Menoned
Walter Brennan punched out Cassius Clay
I've heard the truth from Lenny Bruce
And all my wealth won't buy me health
So I smoke a pint of tea a day

I knew a man his brain so small
He couldn't think of nothin' at all
He's not the same as you and me
He doesn't dig poetry. He's so unhip that
When you say Dylan, he thinks you're talkin' about Dylan Thomas
Whoever he is
The man ain't got no culture
But its alright, Ma
It's just sumpthin' I learned over in England

I've been James Joyced, Rolls Royced
Mick Jaggered, silver daggered
Andy Warhol won't you please come home?
I've been mother, fathered, aunt and uncled
Tom Wilsoned, Art Garfunkled
Barry Kornfeld's mother's on the phone

When in London, do as I do
Find yourself a friendly haiku
Go to sleep for ten or fifteen years

* * * 

Was this version recorded somewhere? The references on both are hilarious. Fwiw, Tom Wilson was Bob Dylan's producer in the early sixties, as well as Simon & Garfunkel's. "It's alright, Ma" is a classic from Bringing It All Back Home. "It's just something I learned over in England" is a variant on I Shall Be Free No. 10

Channelling Papa: Scott Stavrou's Collected Blog Posts of Ernest Hemingway

OK, so you're a Hemingway fan. You've read everything you could find that he has written. Then you've read all the books you could find about his lives, his wives and the places he's lived. What else is out there?

OR, you have a friend who is into Hemingway in a big way. He or she has read everything by him, about him and about his lives and wives and the places he's lived. Is there something new and different that you might find for this special person's stocking this Christmas?

The answer is yes. Scott Stavrou's Collected Blog Posts of Ernest Hemingway could be just what you're looking for. The Collected Blog Posts is not only a hilarious read, it's an excellent example of parody. The actual correct title is Hemingway Lives: the Super-Secret, Never-Before-Published Blogs of Ernest Hemingway.

Stavrou, who lives in Las Vegas, is a graduate of Georgetown University. He's a writer of both fiction and non-fiction, with a notable PEN International Hemingway Prize for fiction under his belt. The story which earned him this award was true and good, bearing the title Across the Suburbs and Into the Express Lane at Vons.

The Collected Blog Posts is Stavrou's fourth book, the first three being Wasted Away, Picketing With Promethues, and Losing Venice: A Novel.

There are three reasons I've been enjoying the book. First off, because it's great fun. As I move through the stories I keep smiling, and who doesn't like smiling? Second, because I'm a Hemingway fan, so it resonates. And third, most importantly to me, each chapter--or blog post--seems to trigger creative juices.

It's not that I need to write like Hemingway or do parody, but it opens the door a crack to show more possibilities for one's writing. Are you a writer who has begun to feel like your work is getting stale? Do you need a cherry bomb to disrupt you or get your attention. That's what Stavrou's book is doing to me.

Here's a line from the introduction that sets the tone: "Many things are lost, not just generations. Things like innocence, faith, keys, or universal remote controls."

It's drenched with Papa references, a 21st century Hemingway like you've never known before. Chapter titles include At Noon the Bell Tolls, The Cold Man & the Seasons, Mailmen Without Women, The Dow Also Rises.

Theoretically, it could be a fun party game to have ten of these books (if you had ten guests) that you pulled out and said, "List as many references to Hemingway stories and books as you can in the next fifteen minutes." They'd be required to use the Table of Contents only. Afterwards everyone gets to keep their book and you can all check in once a week to find out how many you found in each chapter.

If you don't want to invest in that many books, you can just buy one and photocopy the table of contents. (This won't work very easily with the Kindle version.)

As a blogger I especially enjoyed this chapter: Hemingway Titles Retitled to Boost Website Traffic. (That one was a shorter blog post.) The book also has some great illustrations.

Hemingway Lives: the Super-Secret, Never-Before-Published Blogs of Ernest Hemingway isn't a book that you read in one sitting. No one will ever, to my knowledge, read Ennyman's Territory from beginning to end in a single sitting, or multiple sitings. Blog posts are intended to be bite-sized, not feast-sized, reading. Stavrou's book is a moveable feast that you can carry with you anywhere you go, and nibble from as you go along, whether on a subway, in an airport or at tonight's AirBnB on the other side of the river and through the woods.

Meantime, life goes on. Dig it.

Related Links
Interview with Scott Stavrou
Hemingway Lives on Amazon

The Old Man and the Pea

SHORT STORY MONDAY

This was my entry in an Imitation Hemingway short story competition. The rules were simple: a set length, entertaining parody, and a reference to Harry's.

The Old Man and the Pea

He was an old man who shopped alone in downtown Los Angeles and he had gone eighty-four days without remembering what he had gone out to buy. The old man was definitely salao, which is the very worst form of unlucky, and very close to senility as well.

When he found the pea he bargained hard to obtain it. He could not believe its size and even with ten Hail Marys could barely lift it. After that he walked around L.A. three days before he found his apartment building again. This is good, he thought, my mind is not harmed in any way except for the memory. That can easily be replaced. He was on the second floor landing when the first cockroach hit.

The cockroach was not an accident. He had come from deep inside the wall, so fast and without caution. He broke through a crack in the baseboard and ran alongside following the scent. He was a very big cockroach, built to run as fast as the fastest.

When the old man saw him coming, he knew that this was a cockroach that had no fear and would do exactly as he wished. He prepared his pocket knife and shifted the weight of the pea while he watched the cockroach come along.

The old man's head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great pea that straddled his shoulder as he watched the cockroach come in close. I cannot keep him from hitting, but maybe I can get him.

The cockroach climbed fast and leaped and when he hit the pea the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the pincers as he drove forward into the pea just below the stem. The old man could hear the skin tearing when he whirled and lost his footing on the stairway. Then, on his back with his legs thrashing, the old man cried out, bad luck to your mother, and he bashed the cucaracha into the terrazzo.

He began to climb again. He did not like to look at the pea any more since it had been mutilated. It was too good to last, he thought. I wish I had gone to Harry's now and that I had never found this monstrous pea. I have seven flights to go to reach my flat, and now they have the scent. The cockroaches are many and they come.

All night he climbed and battled and when dawn began to come he had nothing left except a piece of the stem. The key broke off in the lock and he went to sleep in the hallway.

In the morning a boy came to him and the old man was still sleeping on his face. And he was dreaming about Harry's.