How To Eat (it's harder than you think)

 

In other words, you must eat as if you aren't enjoying it. This rule also applies to sex.

😳CREEPY: old ventriloquist's dummy talks by itself!🥺

One of the creepiest films I have ever watched is Erich von Stroheim's The Great Gabbo. This is the old story of a ventriloquist's dummy taking on a life of its own - but it wasn't an old story back in 1930. This may have been the original "devil doll" movie. Unfortunately, as an early talkie, it was padded out with too many mediocre song-and-dance numbers which today look and sound very lame. Back then, when sound was new, audiences wanted (or at least, movie producers THOUGHT they wanted) anything at all that made a noise, and bad musicals ran rife for the first several years. Stroheim must have winced at this abomination, but it was the only way to get his masterpiece made. This movie borrows elements from the stark German expressionist cinema where Stroheim began making his disturbing feature films. Later he was typecast as "the man you love to hate" and even appeared as the sinister butler in Gloria Swanson's Sunset Boulevard. In The Great Gabbo, he is not just creepy but violent, punching his dummy so hard he knocks its eyes out. These are but brief scenes in a hair-raisingly macabre movie that rises above all the razz-ma-tazz padding and remains an early sound classic.

1960s Romance Comics: "Oh, Dick, I. . .I. . . (choke!) I love you so!"

It amazes me how many of the guys in these sappy romance comics are named DICK. I don't suppose the writers saw anything significant in it. But these comic books were - in a way - models for what "love" was supposed to be like - I assume in the pre-teen category of  9 - 12 years old. The message was that romance would be mostly heartbreak, heartache and "CHOKE", until that final triumphant kiss when Love Conquers All. When you get down to it, it's nothing like this. All this "romance" eventually leads to sex - and sex is nothing like this endless drama/teasing. They'll find out, for sure. And nothing will have prepared them.

MY FRIEND FLICKA: opening and closing theme

The harpstroke which begins this lush sentimental theme used to make me prick up my ears when I was a child. Though it's hard for me to believe, the show ran for only one season in 1957, and was in syndication when I saw it in the early '60s. It would come on almost randomly on Saturday, probably as a filler, so I never knew when the magic would happen. I'd usually be doing something else, such as making mice out of plasticine or cutting up cardboard with a steak knife to make a house for my trolls. Then I'd hear that "bling!" on the harpstrings and look up in delight. The show is a little sentimental, but beautifully shot and acted, particularly by the Arabian mare Flicka and the crack rider Johnny Westbrook. 

I have nothing to add. . . . . . .

 

HAUNTING: By the Waters of Babylon (we lay down and wept)

I found this recording a long time ago, ten years maybe. I sought it after hearing the song on Mad Men, the scene where Don Draper is sitting in a cafe, drinking and thinking while images flash through his head - images of loss and sorrow. I found this version on a channel I can't find now - I think it has been reuploaded so many times that no one knows exactly who created it. But it is extremely beautiful, and haunting. She overdubs all the parts of the round in her own voice. 

😣Meghan's fake "STANDING OVATION": get me the sick bag!🤢

Meghan and Harry just assume this standing ovation at Royal Albert Hall is for THEM (when everyone was applauding BEFORE they even barged in, late). Watch the man to the right of Harry - his facial expressions are hilarious! Everyone around them looks annoyed and offended, while Meghan beams, nods, even CURTSIES as she accepts the "adulation" of the crowds. The press widely reported they DID receive a standing ovation, I guess just for breathing and standing up, though clearly they crashed the party and made the most rude and narcissistic assumption possible. Poor Harry looks profoundly uncomfortable through it all.

Harold Lloyd: double trouble!

 

Some strange double-decker gifs of Harold I found in one of my files. 

🧓 IS IT OK TO GO GREY? 🧓

I guess it is!

The Troll Doll Channel: MERRY-GO-ROUND!

(Just) ONE more post about Meghan and Harry. . .

MEGHAN MARKLE and Prince Harry have been criticised for their "tone-deaf" name choice for their daughter by a US expert who said Queen Elizabeth II deserved better.

By Steven Brown

PUBLISHED: 08:45, Tue, Jun 8, 2021 | UPDATED: 11:53, Tue, Jun 8, 2021
Prince Harry 'told Queen he'd name child after her' says expert Kelly Hartog
The Duke and Duchess of Sussex's new baby, named Lilibet Diana Mountbatten-Windsor, was born at 11.40am on Friday, June 4, at Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital in California, weighing 7lb 11oz. She was named after the Queen's family nickname and also Harry's mother Princess Diana, who died in a car crash in 1997.

The name Lilibet harks back to the Queen's childhood when she could not pronounce her own name.

The only person who used the name in recent times was Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, who passed away in April.

At his funeral, the Queen reportedly left a handwritten note on his coffin and signed it "Lilibet".

Kelly Hartog, a US journalist, has claimed Meghan and Harry are attempting a reconciliation with the Firm without "doing any reconciliation work".

She wrote in her latest column on NBC News: "From where I sit, it looks like Harry and Meghan are using a Band-Aid to try to fix a gunshot wound, with Harry saying, 'Hey Grandma, I know you're p****d off with me right now, so I thought I'd take your very private nickname and put it in the public domain by giving it to our newborn daughter.'

"At best, the decision seems tone-deaf.

"At worst, it's a cynical attempt at a reconciliation without actually doing any reconciliation work.

"Frankly, the queen deserves better.

"Her late husband — the only one who really was entitled to call her by her nickname — was barely in his grave when her grandson chose to shout across the pond, 'Surprise!'"

She said the Duke and Duchess of Sussex should have attempted to heal the family rift in a "private forum".

Ms Hartog continued: "Harry and Meghan have been in the US for only 15 months, but it appears that in their eagerness to embrace the laid-back American attitude — and their desire or need for public visibility — they have chosen to throw royal rules and traditions out the window yet again.

"If Harry and Meghan really wanted to make inroads in healing this family rift, they could have done so in a private forum."

Ms Hartog is not the only expert who has lashed out at Harry and Meghan's name choice.

Royal biographer Angela Levin claimed the Duke and Duchess of Sussex were "rude" to the Queen and she will be "unhappy" that their daughter was named Lilibet.

Speaking to ITV's Good Morning Britain, Ms Levin said: "I think she's desperately unhappy because they were desperately rude about her.

"I don't think it's a good idea. I think it's quite rude to her Majesty the Queen.

"It was a very private nickname from her husband who hasn't been dead for very long.

"Prince Charles would never dream of referring to his mother as Lilibet.

"He's never used it - it was a special name, especially for the Duke of Edinburgh."

The Sussexes' press secretary confirmed the baby had been named Lilibet "Lili" Diana Mountbatten-Windsor.

She added: "Both mother and child are healthy and well, and settling in at home.

"Lili is named after her great-grandmother, Her Majesty the Queen, whose family nickname is Lilibet.

"Her middle name, Diana, was chosen to honour her beloved late grandmother, the Princess of Wales."

The new baby is the Queen's 11th great-grandchild, and the first to be born since Philip's death.

"Lilliput?" "Lily-white?" No, it's "LILIBET"

 

Touching tribute or royally presumptuous after all their barbs? SARAH VINE on why Lilibet is the name that's split Britain

By Sarah Vine For The Daily Mail

Isn’t this the Lilibet that Harry made out to be a lousy mother?

By Sarah Vine 

What’s in a name? Well, if you are eighth in line to the British throne, a great deal indeed. I always felt the Duke and Duchess of Sussex would choose Diana for their first daughter – after all, so much of Prince Harry’s life has been defined by the memory of his mother.

But what I – and I suspect many others – had not anticipated was the choice of the Queen’s childhood nickname, Lilibet.

On the surface of it, I can see the attraction. It is such a very pretty name, despite the fact it’s not a real one.

It conjures up images of a young Princess Elizabeth, of grainy black and white pictures of granny as a bonneted toddler, and of intimate family memories. It has fond connotations for all the royals, even more so perhaps since the Duke of Edinburgh passed away earlier this year – this was a nickname he used for the Queen.

But it is perhaps because Lilibet is such a very rare and special name that no other royal children have thought to use it.

Even if they had wanted to, they might well have felt – out of respect for Her Majesty – that it was overstepping an invisible line, presuming rather too much.

Not the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, though. As ever, they are not preoccupied with protocol and propriety, and the gesture has naturally won them plenty of praise from fans.

It is seen as a rapprochement, a ‘reaching out’, an ‘olive branch’ extended across the Atlantic to the folks back home – an emotional act of typical generosity by two people who, as ever, have been harshly judged by a cynical media.

So it is with some trepidation that I venture any criticism – after all, in certain quarters anything other than fawning praise for this pair is tantamount to blasphemy.

But while Harry and Meghan may have had the absolute best intentions in naming their new arrival Lilibet, in the light of their recent uncaring attacks on the Queen part of me worries that it feels like a rather shameless, attention-grabbing attempt to boost their royal brand – a brand on which their future earnings and bankability very much depend.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m delighted at the new arrival. But one can be simultaneously happy for them and Archie, who now has a little sister, and utterly flabbergasted by the absolute cheek of it. Lilibet Diana? Seriously? Quite apart from the strange juxtaposition of the two names – which in itself is an entire psychodrama – isn’t this Lilibet the same person who according to Prince Harry was a lousy mother to Prince Charles, and who passed on her lousy parenting skills to him so he in turn was a lousy father to Harry?

Isn’t this the same Lilibet who, so Harry and Meghan suggested in that Oprah Winfrey interview, presided over a bigoted, dysfunctional family of emotional pygmies?

The same Lilibet who allowed Diana to be frozen out, who failed to ensure Meghan was given the support she needed when she was struggling to cope with her royal role?

Harry and Meghan’s supporters have rushed to point out that the couple reportedly asked the Queen for permission to use Lilibet, and she approved. But she couldn’t exactly have said no, could she? Not without the fear of another TV interview in which she would no doubt be accused of snubbing them.

Given everything that the Duke and Duchess of Sussex have said and implied about the Queen over the past few months, you might have thought she was the last person they would want to name their precious baby daughter after.

Indeed if she was to be named after a relative, then surely Meghan’s own mother Doria, who as far as I can tell has been a constant and selfless source of strength to her daughter, might have been more appropriate.

Oprah, too, would have been a possibility given how the queen of interviews has been playing such a dramatic role in the couple’s lives.

But the actual Queen, this supposed villainess, this heart- less matriarch? Doesn’t it seem rather odd, not to mention more than a little opportunistic? Because, let’s be honest, all Harry and Meghan’s criticism of the royals hasn’t actually gone as well as they thought it would.

In fact, it’s fair to say there’s been a bit of a backlash.

Of course, they could have just openly and honestly apologised; but why do that when you can turn your misjudgements to strategic advantage?

Because Lilibet Diana, as a name, certainly has its benefits.

By calling their daughter after the Queen herself, and using the most intimate and private name by which she is known, they have ensured that however frosty and distant relations with the royals back home become, in the eyes of the public the association with the British Royal Family will never be forgotten.

Whatever the future now holds, the Queen will be forever a part of their lives. And, crucially, of Brand Sussex.

⭐SUPER-BLOOPER: Bogart and Bette Davis ⭐

There is just something so blissfully beautiful about this - my two all-time-favorite Old Hollywood genius actors, together at last, in a truly off-the-cuff moment. Betty comes charging in at the wrong time, quickly realizes her mistake and darts off-camera again. Then she and Bogie come out to ask the director what they're supposed to be doing. It only lasts a minute, and I've slowed it down to make it last longer. . . but oh, is Bogie gorgeous in this, as is Bette the natural firebrand beauty, just so casually blazing. Charisma streams off these two, yet strangely enough, they do not cancel each other out. I don't think they ever starred as a romantic couple - I think this was Dark Victory, in which Bogart only played a minor role. But who cares? Having them in the same UNIVERSE together is magical, powerful and special. No one lives to equal them, but I am grateful that they "were" - and, even better than that, we have a record.

Oh me, oh my: LOVE Aunt Jenny's Pie! (and it's made with SPRY!)

 

I just don't know what to say about all of this. I was compelled to post these incredible Norman Rockwell-esque images after seeing them on a Facebook page which features a new vintage recipe book every week. This one was a humdinger, folks! But after about the twentieth image, I get a little sick of looking at "Aunt Jenny" and her eternal bushy-tailed grin and her "bakin' and broilin'" - as if she can't get her brain around an "ing" ending to save her bustling, ever-useful life. This is a character which has been invented, built from the ground up by some Madison Avenue team not unlike the Mad Men crew, with guys in suits sitting around a boardroom table sipping bourbon, smoking Luckies and loudly arguing over who the characters should be in this little domestic drama. "Maybe the husband should be, oh, let's see - Ralph?" "No! Calvin, like Calvin Coolidge." The distant echo of Calvinism and all its prudery is likely not a coincidence. This is Middle America, folks, in the middle of the 20th century. These are good, decent, God-fearin' people, and let's not forget it.

Calvin is such a wag, asking his wife "c'n I lick the spoon?" when she makes her Spry frosting for her Spry cake, praising her chicken (fried in Spry) and her strawberry shortcake (made with Spry) with a rapturous, slightly stoned expression glued on his face, and generally acting just like those menfolk always act, all thumbs in the kitchen, just helpless and needing to be constantly tended to and fed. 

And let's not forget Aunt Jenny's role as matriarch of the community (I left out an INTOLERABLE image of her sewing circle chattering away about frying things in SPRY), "starting brides off right", which means breaking them in to a life of servitude over a hot stove for the next forty years. No wonder young women were so keen to get married.

Then there's Grandpa Briggs up at the Old Soldiers Home ("Old soldiers never die", remember? They just go to live up at the Home) who'll eat any kind of pie so long's it's "aye-pull" (which is the way you KNOW this fictional Aunt Anybody character would pronounce it). And as Aunt Jenny keeps  hammering on about, foods cooked the SPRY way are DIGESTIBLE - in fact, that seems to be one of its main virtues, so that even children and old people can somehow ingest it without becoming violently ill. 

But the really weird thing is this. If you take a good look at the folksy, g-dropping, ever-grinning Jenny, she doesn't really look grandmotherly at all. She's an actress who is probably in her thirties and made up to look "old", which translates to a grey wig, a print housedress and glasses (which in those days automatically spelled "biddy"). This is character-invention in the nature of Irene Ryan as "Granny" on the Beverley Hillbillies, who was maybe 45 when she played the role, and even the Italian Mama on Golden Girls - whatever her name was, I don't want to look it up - who was actually a couple of years younger than that dinosaur Bea Arthur and all the rest of them. (The same Bea Arthur who got pregnant and had an abortion on Maude when she was pushing SIXTY.) And oh yes, the same deal as on Mama's Family, in which Vicki Lawrence played Mama even though she was 15 years younger than Carol Burnett. 

So we have this little well-greased domestic universe (and don't ask how Jenny and Calvin survived their wedding night with so little sexual experience - perhaps that tin of Spry next to their bed tells the whole story). We have the daughter Sylvia, who never really makes an appearance here (I left some of these out, though even at that, they seem to go on and on and ON until you want to smash Calvin in the face with one of those famous "paaahhhhs"), and even two "bachelors" (gay men had to call themselves that in the "good old days"), Ebenezer Todd and Hank Parsons, who frequently hang out together "down by the depot" but never seem to get a decent meal there. Aunt Jenny seems to have adopted these two social strays as a sort of missionary work.

 

And even though this whole thing smacks of a rural setting, it's odd how formally-dressed everyone is, particularly the men. They're wearing white shirts, ties, even suits when they sit at the table, so it's unclear to me what the exact social stratum is in this scenario. These aren't farmers, they aren't blue collar working stiffs, in fact, I have no idea WHAT they do except sit in the kitchen and eat with a fatuous look of joy on their faces.

This whole thing was cooked up, baked up, dreamed up, by Madison Avenue to further the cozy domestic dreams of housewives in the '40s and '50s, to present an ideal setting with a good plain country cook who speaks no nonsense and always welcomes you into her comforting circle. But there was no Aunt Jenny, no Calvin, not even a Grandpa Briggs up at the home or those two poor old sods down by the depot. She didn't actually exist except as a 30-year-old supply model who did glamourless magazine spreads for a living and sold buckets of grease with a promise of domestic Paradise, in which no one fights, no one fucks (well, not much), and everything is soaked in bubbling rivers of SPRY. 

DAMN CAT!!!

A Serious George Gershwin Problem, Volume Two

 

Link to Original Slideshow by Astairical

POST-IT NOTES: I found this rhapsodic (in blue) tribute a few years ago, God knows where, and took a liking to it immediately. I had been trying to chop my way through a 900-page tome on Gershwin's life (90% of it was a minute and detailed dissection of the show tunes he wrote before he became really famous; only one chapter 50 pages long was devoted to "Gershwin the Man".) When I found this, I thought - hey, why not? This fan tribute really gives us the essence of who and what Gershwin was. It's also plain this girl was CRAZY ABOUT THE MAN - mad about the boy - and expressed it in contemporary language that I actually find quite charming. I blew it up here to make the text more readable. I don't know what happened to Astairical after this - haven't been able to find anything on her (at least I THINK it's a her), but this stands as one of the most unusual Gershwin tributes - hell, one of the best tributes ANYWHERE about ANYONE or ANYTHING, period!

As with Dylan, I'm drawn back to Gershwin cyclically, pulled back into his orbit again and again. There were similarities: Gershwin broke all the rules, all the while beguiling his public with a magnetism that is hard to describe. But unlike Dylan, who is still doing amazingly well at age 80, he died horribly of an undiagnosed and agonizing brain tumor at only 38. Because his death on the operating table was so shocking and unexpected, it's possible he did not know he was dead, which can cause a great deal of spiritual disorientation. It's said that his ghost roams freely, and even his brother Ira, who did NOT believe in such things, saw him waving at him from his study shortly after he passed. Ira did not tell anyone about this until he was on his deathbed, afraid people would think he was crazy. But others saw him too: sitting mischievously at a player piano in a town square, hurrying along the street with his head down, his face just visible in a crowd - no, wait a minute, it COULDN'T be.

I myself felt a visitation. I can't prove or disprove this, but it was a gift, so I don't throw it away. Paul Biscop, a former friend and spiritualist medium, had a way of disparaging MY experiences (though his were always bona fide - he had two Masters degrees and a PhD, so anything he said about spiritualism automatically trumped mine, and he often wrote off the experiences I shared with him as "fantasies").

I won't write a lot about how he died, but I had my mojo working on him not long before that: I made a formal request, or spell, or whatever you want to call it, not that he'd die or anything, or even suffer, but that he'd SEE, for once and for all, just how destructive his dismissive behaviour could be, how hurtful to others his pose as a "nice" person who had a very dark heart.  I will admit this involved beads, candles, incense, chanting, and even a little Haitian voodoo. Some of it I had learned in a course I took from Paul called The Anthropology of Religion. 

Within a few months I received a message from his longtime partner, also named Paul, that he had passed. Later I was to find out that he left Paul (a simple soul who seemed far less mature than his actual age) in HUGE debt, a massive amount of money that he could not possibly repay. He was rendered virtually homeless. Some people from the spiritualist church which Paul had founded (then stomped away from, bitterly, when they refused to do everything HIS way) tried hard to raise some money so Paul could at least figure out his next move. But he had a mortgage to pay, along with other debts he had  known nothing about. His memorial was NOT held in the spiritualist church but in the local Masonic hall, and to scrounge some money, Paul's tomes on spiritualism were on sale at a table in the back. 

Paul had dissed my Gershwin connection, the powerful sense I'd somehow - I can't explain it - "felt" him steal into the room, wordlessly, longing to connect with someone who would believe in him and deeply listen. I wrote about this in a blog post I've re-posted several times called Gershwin's Ghost. 

Gershwin won this struggle, and Paul ended up showing his true colours. DID some of that negative energy bounce back at him, after all? All I can say is that a similar situation happened with Lloyd Dykk, with whom I had some really poisonous experiences, and he too dropped in his tracks at age 60, felled by a stroke, just like Paul.

So what's the message here? Nothing, except that dear George still inspires strong feelings, and he DOES hang around because of the unfairness and confusion of his early death, his head cracked open by ignorant surgeons only to find a grapefruit-sized tumor that had been there for years, causing him agonizing pain and ruining his co-ordination so he couldn't even play the piano any more. Right up until his death, his deterioration had been considered a manifestation of "neurosis". He deserved so much more than that. Incredibly, he wrote the exquisite song But Not for Me very shortly before he died - kind of ironic, considering the circumstances:

"They're writing songs of love, but not for me

A lucky star's above, but not for me

With love to lead the way, I've found more clouds of grey

Than any Russian play could guarantee. . ."

Goodbye, George. We haven't forgotten you. I don't want you to wander the world as some sort of musical orphan. Look what happened to your detractor, the man who scoffed at my vision, my tender connection with you. Not that I want to strike anyone dead, but I am NOT particularly sorry that Paul Biscop no longer walks this earth. How you treat people, especially the ones you are supposed to love the most, says everything about you. George loved and was loved mainly for his songs, and for that he was deeply melancholy. But it's that sadness behind the jazziness that still touches us, grabs us, and keeps him alive in our ears and souls and nervous systems, forever.

FOLK ROT: Something is happening, but you don't know what it is

As I chop my way through YET ANOTHER Bob Dylan biography, this time by his longtime cheerleader/groupie/apologist Robert Shelton, the going is thicker and sludgier than last year's oatmeal left crusted in the pot. Still I make my way, relentlessly, because the book helps me go to sleep better than taking a couple of Seroquel, and there's no hangover the next day because I've forgotten what I've read. 

What interests me, aside from the fact that Shelton inserts himself into practically every paragraph (it's written in the first person, so that Shelton is the subject of the book and Dylan merely the object) are the bits and pieces out of the folk archives of those early times, when no one quite knew what to make of the skinny little kid from Minnesota who had a voice like a howling coyote and a fast-slashing wit that slipped unnoticed between the ribs of pundits and critics, creating bafflement, confusion, resentment, and even a degree of fear.

The way these indignant, insulted, obviously threatened stuffed shirts blathered on and on about how Dylan knew nothing and was stomping all over the folk tradition with muddy work boots makes for mighty embarrassing reading today. Which is why this is the most enjoyable part of this lumpy, bumpy, really-not-very-well-written-at-all biography-cum-memoir. Shelton knew Dylan like Dick Cavett knew Groucho and does not let us forget that fact for a moment, which nearly sinks the book in a sea of pretentious tedium. He also commits the most unforgiveable sin for a Dylan purist, or even a casual fan: HE GETS THE TITLE OF HIS MOST ICONIC MOVIE WRONG, spelling it "Don't Look Back" - when the filmmaker purposely left out the apostrophe. It is on every poster, in every review, and in the film itself, which makes you wonder if he even watched it.

But the sycophantic Shelton DOES provide us with, very likely, the last remaining documentation of one of the most stupid-ass periods in folk music history. Nobody else kept any of those shitty old copies of Sing Out! anyway, did they? But like back issues of TV guide piling up in an old boomer's attic, Shelton kept every issue and obsessively quotes from them for the book's entire 573 pages.

So I transcribed some of the juicier bits, which reflect just how CLUELESS these folkie pundits were, how stodgily encrusted their beliefs, and what a freaking strait-jacket they wanted to put Dylan in, probably because he scared the hell out of them:

Since 1950, when the folk audience was small, Sing Out!, under editor Irwin Silber, had laid down the "correct line" on folk song. Trumpeted by these men, the folk aesthetic denounced show business and mass culture, and advocated that Leftist, humanist views always be reflected in folk song. Deviation from belief in "art as a weapon in the social and class struggle" meant a sellout to commercial forces. Small wonder that Dylan's freewheeling exploration was apostasy.

Silber's "Open Letter to Bob Dylan", published in Sing Out! in November 1964, was particularly sharp: "I saw at Newport how you had somehow lost contact with people. . . some of the paraphernalia of fame were getting in your way." Dylan was outraged that Silber was telling him in public how to write and behave. Why didn't he telephone or write a personal letter? Silber was just using him to sell his magazine.

In September 1965, singer Ewan MacColl scourged Dylan again in Sing Out!:
“. . . our traditional songs and ballads are the creations of extraordinarily talented artists, working inside disciplines formulated over time. . . the present crop of contemporary American songs has been made by writers who are either unaware or incapable of working inside the disciplines, or are at pains to destroy them. ‘But what of Bobby Dylan?’ scream the outraged teenagers of all ages. . . a youth of mediocre talent. Only a completely non-critical audience, nourished on the watery pap of pop music, could have fallen for such tenth-rate drivel. ‘But the poetry?’ What poetry? The cultivated illiteracy of his topical songs or the embarrassing fourth-grade schoolboy attempts at free verse? The latter reminds me of elderly female schoolteachers clad in Greek tunics rolling hoops across lawns at weekend theatre school. . .”

Izzy Young’s Sing Out! column for November 1965: “Dylan has settled for a liaison with the music trade’s Top-Forty Hit Parade. . . the charts require him to write rock-and-roll and he does. . . Next year, he’ll be writing rhythm and blues songs. . . the Polish polka will make it, and then he’ll write them, too. . .”

Animosity reached its high-water mark in the Sing Out! of January 1966. Tom Paxton lashed out in a column headed “Folk Rot” “. . . it isn’t folk, and if Dylan hadn’t led, fed and bred it, no one would ever have dreamed of confusing it with folk music.” Josh Dunson complained: “There is more protest and guts in one minute of good ‘race music’ than in two hours of folk-rock. . .”

May I say at this point that Josh, Tom, Izzy, Ewan and Irwin are so full of shit they are overflowing, and can in fact "sit on this and rotate" through all eternity. Most of them are dead now anyway, and weren`t particularly alive even while they were walking the planet. Meantime, 80-year-old Dylan lounges on the porch with his dogs on his property in Key West, sipping a glass of Heaven`s Door whiskey and quietly working on the lyrics for his next album.

CODA. Yes, Dylan DID answer his critics. The song is legendary enough that anyone remotely a fan of Dylan will know it. But I want to say it for him again, this time DIRECTLY to "that other Bob", Robert Shelton, and all the hangers-on as well as the detractors who wound up being SO WRONG about the whole thing, and dissed a man who would later go on to win the Nobel Prize while they sat around turning into alcoholic wanna-be/has-beens-who-never-were in some dingy 4th Street bar.

Positively 4th Street

You've got a lotta nerve to say you are my friend
When I was down you just stood there grinnin'
You've got a lotta nerve to say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on the side that's winnin'

You say I let you down, you know it’s not like that
If you're so hurt, why then don't you show it?
You say you've lost your faith, but that's not where it’s at
You have no faith to lose, and you know it

I know the reason that you talked behind my back
I used to be among the crowd you're in with
Do you take me for such a fool, to think I'd make contact
With the one who tries to hide what he don't know to begin with?

You see me on the street, you always act surprised
You say "how are you?", "good luck", but you don't mean it
When you know as well as me, you'd rather see me paralyzed
Why don't you just come out once and scream it

No, I do not feel that good when I see the heartbreaks you embrace
If I was a master thief perhaps I'd rob them
And now I know you're dissatisfied with your position and your place
Don't you understand, it’s not my problem?

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is to see you