I swear to God, a couple of years ago this phrase kept repeating in my mind: "But it's the wear and the tear on my mind. It's the wear and the tear on my mind. . . " I thought, OK, I'll google it and the song will come up. NOTHING. I mean nothing. I tried searching YouTube. Nothing there either. I tried every permutation of the line, wear, tear, mind, blind. . . not a thing. It was as if I'd imagined the whole thing. Then - just now, just a minute ago, as Bob Dylan says in his song - voila - it pops out at me, and it has been there on YouTube for a couple of years now. It's by a Canadian named Domenic Troiano, and it's one of those names buried at the back of my brain since about age 16, which is, let me tell you, a very long time. But here it is, and yes, it's exactly the way I remember it! But it's the wear and the tear on my mind. The wear and the tear on my mind. Oh yes!
I went out to see the gypsy
To get my fortune told
She said, I don't see much in the future for you
You won't be gettin' old
That got me worried
So I went to see my doctor
He said, son, you're gonna die
Ain't nothin' I can do, ain't nothin' I can say
All that's left for you to do is cry
Lord, it's the wear and the tear on my mind
It's the wear and the tear on my mind, on my mind
Why is this world so unkind?
So I went out to see a lawyer
I asked him to write my will
He looked at me with a real straight face
And said, to whom do I send the bill?
I couldn't believe that, so I called up my old lady
And said, mama don't you start to cry
It seems I've been here too long now
And it's time for me to say goodbye
Lord it's the wear and the tear on my mind
It's the wear and the tear on my mind, on my mind
Why is this world so unkind?
It's the wear and the tear on my mind (on my mind)
It's the wear and the tear on my mind (on my mind)
Why is this world so unkind?
Why is this world so unkind?
Wear and the tear on my mind (on my mind)
Wear and the tear on my mind (help me out Lord)
Wear and the tear on my mind
Wear and the tear on my mi-mi-mi-mind
Wear and the tear on my mind (on my mind Lord)
Wear and the tear on my mind
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. Domenic Troiano died of prostate cancer at the age of 59.
Confession time: I have a "thing" for Betty Boop. It's bizarre enough to love a cartoon character "in that way", but last time I checked I was hetero, so. . . but never mind. Some corner of me that refuses to conform crushes on Betty, or at least the magnificent pre-Code Betty who could really shake that thing.
She wore practically nothing, and even what she did wear kept falling off or being pulled off her, or blown off by the wind, or suggestively tugged on by her little doggie, or whatever. She ran around practically nude, and in more than one cartoon danced the hula WITH NO TOP ON. I am not kidding, all she had on was a diminutive Hawaiian lei which shifted back and forth as she shimmied. In this guise she (nonsensically) introduced Popeye in his very first cartoon appearance by DANCING THE HULA with him. Make sense? Never mind, the piggybacking worked, and in the next Popeye cartoon he didn't have to hula at all.
It was dismaying to see what happened to her after 1934, the threshhold for "the Code" that killed everything. Her hemline plunged to her knees, she suddenly had long sleeves and a high neckline, the winsome garter no longer existed, all her clothes (and very dowdy clothes they were) stayed on her body, and all she had left of her old teasing sexy self was the "boop-boop-be-doop" and the spit curls. Thus a '20s icon was destroyed, tamed, and turned into a domestic drudge, winsomely doing housework and selling war bonds.
But we still have pre-Code Betty, a character which I am SURE was not ever meant for kids! Who WAS she meant for, then? Guys who were turned on by a line-drawing of a bizarrelly-proportioned female with next to nothing on? Must have been - or people like me, who just see her as exotic, sweetly rebellious, and totally adorable.
POSTSCRIPT. I forgot to mention that the little video-ette I made (in slow motion, and with tango music added) was taken from an old Boop cartoon called HA! HA! HA!, and it featured all the characters and a number of inanimate objects getting STONED on laughing gas (thus the vapor shimmering in the air as she dizzily shakes her booty, then literally falls down at the end). The drug connection caused this cartoon to be banned, but it does seem like shutting the barn door after the fact. Why not ban the whole thing? She's about as subversive as a cartoon character gets.
Maybe it goes all the way back to voodoo and burning your enemies in effigy, but humanity has always had a very strange relationship with dolls. They're both cuddly and creepy, calling forth a weird mixture of maternal tenderness and hair-raising shock. We don't expect them to talk, and most especially they weren't supposed to talk in Edison's time, which is what made this doll so - unique. The fact that the mechanism inside them (which was actually a teeny-tiny phonograph that played a miniature disc) broke after one or two uses meant that their popularity soon faded. Most of the dolls were returned. A few must have survived more or less intact. It was decades later that Chatty Cathy took over as the most "possessed" doll (meaning, of course, that more little girls owned them) in history.
I had no interest whatsoever in dolls when I was a child. I was more interested in frogs, toads, newts, snakes, polliwogs, mud puppies, millipedes, salamanders, and anything else that crawled (or barked or whinnied or meowed). I have no idea what has happened to me in the past few years, but my doll collection (if you count the trolls) has boomed, so much so that I don't know how many I have now, and don't want to count.
I can't account for this, except to say that the reborn doll craze has given rise to dolls that are much more realistic and less creepy (some would say MORE creepy due to the uncanny valley effect) than the staring-eyed, round-headed, stiff-limbed hunks of plastic we used to play with. I've knitted clothes for my dolls, made tons of videos about them, bought more and more of them - and, of course, during the pandemic, have relied on them as a source of comfort. They say we return to the enthusiasms of childhood as old age approaches - but in this case, I seem to have aged backwards, and am catching up on what never appealed to me in childhood.
I still like crawly things, and LOVE birds, which have become a serious interest in the past few years. Sometimes the only thing that pulls my spirits out of a bog of sludge is feeding the red-winged blackbirds at Burnaby Lake. The glossy, sassy males tilt their heads this way and that, their brilliant red and yellow wing patches flaming in the sun. The females, much more practical and industrious, are no-nonsense creatures who get right down to the business of eating, without any flirtation needed.
I can't see ahead right now - can anyone? Are we out of this woods yet? It seems to me it grows darker with every step. Each day HAS to be sufficient unto itself, because I can't plan. We try to focus on how much better our situation is than someone else's - but don't I also bleed for them, my fellow suffering humans?
For some reason - this is terribly disjointed, sorry - a song jumps back into my head, one that gave me great comfort during another time when I couldn't see ahead. I'd be walking through the woods with this song playing in my ear and try to find some sense in what was happening to me. Mostly I was just trying to stay out of the hospital, and when I was unable to find the light, I had to try to develop a taste for the dark. I don't know how I survived that time, why those soul-destroying times kept returning, and why I am not in that state now when I suppose I have every reason to be. Maybe the message was finally delivered.
You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand You see somebody naked and you say, "Who is that man?" You try so hard but you don't understand Just what you will say when you get home Because something is happening here but you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
You raise up your head and you ask, "Is this where it is?" And somebody points to you and says, "It's his" And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Well, what is?" And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?" But something is happening and you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
You hand in your ticket and you go watch the geek Who immediately walks up to you when he hears you speak And says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?" And you say, "Impossible!" as he hands you a bone And something is happening here but you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
You have many contacts among the lumberjacks To get you facts when someone attacks your imagination But nobody has any respect, anyway they already expect you to all give a check To tax-deductible charity organizations
Ah, you've been with the professors and they've all liked your looks With great lawyers you have discussed lepers and crooks You've been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books You're very well-read, it's well-known But something is happening here and you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you and then he kneels He crosses himself and then he clicks his high heels And without further notice, he asks you how it feels And he says, "Here is your throat back, thanks for the loan" And you know something is happening but you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
Now, you see this one-eyed midget shouting the word "Now" And you say, "For what reason?" and he says, "How" And you say, "What does this mean?" and he screams back, "You're a cow! Give me some milk or else go home" And you know something's happening but you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, you walk into the room like a camel, and then you frown You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground There ought to be a law against you comin' around You should be made to wear earphones 'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
I've wanted to write a commentary on this song for so long, it's hard for me to even remember. Even when I first heard it, when I was maybe 15 years old and stoned out of my mind on alcohol and hashish, I found it kept pushing me away even as it dragged me into its dark and dysphoric core. Its effect is that magnetic, and that frightening. Maybe it can't even be analyzed, but since it's been haunting me so much lately, I will give it a try.
People have debated endlessly about who Mr. Jones is, whether it's Albert Grossman (the manager who boosted Dylan's fame, then took him for a ride that didn't end until the 1980s, when Dylan found out he'd been swindling him for years), or the journalists who kept asking him lame questions like "Why don't you write protest songs any more?", or the "over-30s" who were then seen as the enemy (Dylan was, after all, only 24 when he recorded this dire masterpiece) - or - or -
I've always believed, almost from first listening, that this song is autobiographical. It's an attempt to capture the chaotic nightmare he found himself trapped in, bizarrely self-created by an almost grotesque level of fame, the kind that eats people raw. Dylan by this time looked terrible, was underweight, pale as a ghost, smelled bad (according to the many bios I've read, he's not much of a bather), had hair like a wild bird's nest, didn't eat, slept even less, and was fuelled mainly by cocaine, LSD and speed. The famed "motorcycle accident" that brought this hell to a screeching halt may well have been a planned exit from a lifestyle that was sucking him down into a hellish vortex. Had he continued, he might not even had made it to age 27, when so many rock legends were cruelly harvested.
I don't need to say that Dylan is one of the great minds of our time, but the fact that he squeaked through this drug-soaked period, dragged down by sycophants and hangers-on, attests to both his inner strength and the stable, happy childhood that launched his confoundingly unique artist's life. Say what else you will about him, Dylan is a family man, and it is this solid foundation that has kept him from flying off the edge of the world, both then and now.
Of all the songs in this particularly fruitful period, when his creativity was in constant overdrive, this one gets closest to expressing the horrifying dystopia he found himself in: the queasy shifting and lurching of reality, the draining and soul-sucking parasitic "relationships" which he knew were false and phony (and LORD how Bob Dylan hates a phony!), and the dissolving of a real sense of self, a lapsing of identity which must be the most frightening experience there is. It is a hollowing-out, a stealing of one's humanity, and Mr. Jones is enmeshed in it, with no idea who, what or where he is at any given moment. Or how to get out.
You raise up your head and you ask, "Is this where it is?" And somebody points to you and says, "It's his" And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Where what is?" And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?" But something is happening and you don't know what it is Do you, Mr. Jones?
It isn't just the words, which are harrowing enough, but the delivery, which is so full of pain that it's hard to listen to now that I hear Dylan so differently. I'm noticing aspects of his voice in listening to pristine re-released/cleaned-up recordings on a quality headset in the middle of the night, especially when I've had a wee nip of cannabis oil (purely medicinal, but my how it brings those songs into focus). People would complain he was a lousy singer, but particularly at this time in his career, when he was riding out on the far fringes of existence, his voice is so raw that it grabs you where you don't even know you live.
This isn't just dada or nonsense or surrealism or anything else that can be labelled. This is writing on the level of T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland, brought up to date for 1965. Dylan lays heavy on the keyboard on this one - I can tell it's him because he's not a very sophisticated pianist, but wrings the guts out of it anyway, each chord reverberating with a sense of doom.
I still haven't gotten it, have I? How can you begin to analyze a song that contains the lines, "You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground"? This is why I kept not writing about it, though I have analyzed the hell out of Desolation Row and a few others. If Ballad of a Thin Man (and Dylan was practically transparent at this point) were a painting, it would be by Hieronymus Bosch, dismembered human body parts crazily rearranged and reality disassembled and shot all to shit.
I still find it hard to listen to, and that moan at the end seems almost like a last gasp. We know it isn't true, that right at this moment he's probably lounging in one of his many mansions (he owns property all over the world, and why shouldn't he? Who has worked harder to attain what he has and who he is?), coming up to his eightieth birthday, maybe hanging out with some of his family (and at this point we know he has at least six kids and multiple grandkids) - the genius has come full circle and is now living comfortably with people who love him.
But the shadow remains. This man's eyes are haunted, incandescent with knowledge of things we probably were never supposed to know. The realm of genius is lonely, and at such high altitude the air is rarefied and very thin. He came in with this near-freakish gift, I'm convinced, will go out with it, and never chose it. He has no idea where the songs come from, but knows it's his duty to write them down, work them through, refine them and give them back to the world.
As a kid, I watched the Little Rascals (which was how the Our Gang comedies were re-branded for TV) every damn day, it seemed, and some of them were strange indeed. Even in the early '60s, this technology seemed ancient and creaky, with radio tubes blowing up and a guy's hair standing on end from electric shock. I retained memories of this particular episode because I couldn't quite forget "that guy", the guy with the hair that kept blowing up. What I had to do here was find the episode (on a very poor-quality video shot by a camcorder off an old 16mm print), isolate and make gifs of the parts with "the guy" in them, string the gifs together, make a video of the long gif, then add music that I thought was appropriate. Then upload it to my YouTube channel. So here are all the best bits, with "the guy".This is my VERY low-tech way of making videos, and it works for me so far.
My adorable new trollie, and a few observations on what we can do without during the pandemic - such as, trips to the stylist. I haven't tried to grow out my hair for 40 years, and have had it coloured for 30, so I had no idea what it would look like. I would call it "50 shades of grey", except that now I'm getting used to it and I don't think I want to change the colour. My new troll is very sweet, but my God, where does it end? When my office explodes from troll overload.
This is a strange, a VERY strange YouTube video with the cryptic title WHMTEAHIU. Make sense? It didn't to me, until I realized what I had here. To backtrack a bit, Pogo was wildly popular in the 1950s, but by the '60s times had changed and the long-running comic strip began to run out of steam. Warner Brothers somehow got a deal with cartoonist Walt Kelly to make an animated Pogo TV special - without any creative input from the man himself.
Chuck Jones took over, and though his animation could be inspired (think of the Road Runner cartoons and the Grinch), he just did not GET the eccentricities of Kelly's menagerie from Okefenokee Swamp. The result was simply atrocious, a slick, un-Kelly-esque travesty that just misfired on every level. Pogo's voice was dubbed by June Foray, making him sound like a slightly more precious version of Rocky the Flying Squirrel. The whole thing was a disaster and Kelly fumed, vowing to undo the damage.
Walt Kelly was dying of untreated diabetes by then, had had a leg amputated and was half blind, but was still determined to get his own vision of an animated Pogo on the screen. All we have of this project are preliminary sketches which he put together on his own, without the help of any studio - narrating all the voices himself and hiring his son-in-law to do the music. No one took him up on it, which is a tragedy, for this sketchy, several-frames-per-second story is a small masterpiece in which all his characters come alive. It's Pogo through and through, and gives us a taste of what might have been if Kelly had lived past 60.
I don't know how I ever even found this curiosity with its incomprehensible title. I couldn't find much about it at all, and in fact it was thought to have been lost for decades. It's called an "unlisted" video for reasons unknown. But the title stands for something: We Have Met the Enemy, and He is Us - probably the most famous Kelly-ism of them all.
This curiosity is remarkable for yet another reason. Its message is environmental. We are ruining the landscape with our carelessness and our greed. At a time (1969) when the only environmental message was, "Give a hoot! Don't pollute!" - or, even worse, "Don't be a litterbug" - Kelly was way ahead of his time.
