Bob Dylan

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Ask A Texan: The Summer of the Dog Days Is Upon Us

/ Phil Strawn / 18 Comments
The Texan

Is It Really This Damn Hot In Texas, Or Did I Accidentally Set Myself On Fire With A Cherry Bomb?

I recently read that only two of the original members of The Grateful Dead are still breathing, which is a feat in itself considering all the drugs and other things they ingested, not that they remember any of it. Now, are they ‘truly grateful they are not dead quite yet?’ Old musicians are the biggest whiners. Springsteen is now a competent politician and is glad to tell you about his breakdown, when he isn’t trying to remember which chords to play on his out-of-tune Telecaster, which doesn’t say much for him, since there are no competent politicians and he is no musician. He can’t sing anymore, not that he ever could; hell, even Bob Dylan sounded better than him, and at least Joanie could harmonize with Bob, and The Band did all the heavy lifting.

I was outside for a short while yesterday and came back in with brown, crusted skin akin to homemade bread left in the oven a few minutes too long. It was 106 degrees in the shade, and 138 degrees in the sun. My hair is at least two shades whiter thanks to the sun bleaching. Momo believes I suffered a mini-sun-stroke, or something similar, but it’s actually early onset Dementia, or Oldtimers, and my neurosciencetist comedian doctor gave me some cute little pills to take care of it, says in two months I’ll be 25 percent better as long as I continue to play my instruments, which stimulate my brain and keep me focused on something other than sitting by the window and waiting for the postwoman to deliver the junk mail. I asked him if, if I upped the dose, I would be 50 percent better in four months. He has a nice laugh and drives a Tesla. Momo is a retired RN, so she knows he’s full of shit.

Now I sit in my music room, play my mandolin all day, and write nonsense on my computer. Soon, I will embark on my podcast adventure using my Garrison Keillor whisper voice combined with the folksiness of Walter Brennan talking to Pepito about driving the tractor through the living room of the farmhouse. Of course, being a Texan, you won’t be able to understand my accent, so I’ll attach a scrolling screen of the words I speak for those of you who don’t speak Southern. How in the hell did Terry Southern, Larry McMurtry, and Truman Capote ever make it through life with their Southern affliction? I believe Taylor Sheridan would appreciate my unique vocabulary in one of his many TV shows that are filmed around our town.

My buddy, Mooch, is turning 80 next month, and wants he and I to get together for one last songfest on our guitars. He can’t remember the lyrics, I can’t remember the chords, and neither of us can carry the heavy equipment, and our drummer is reduced to playing Ricky Ricardo bongos (without Lucy), so it is bound to be entertaining. We had our rock days back in the sixties, so it deserves one final suck on the oxygen tank and a geriatric version of Inna Gadda Da Vidda, Wagon Wheel, and Blackbird.

Catch you on down the road. The Texan

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The Times They Have Changed

/ Phil Strawn / 13 Comments

At least that’s what Bob Dylan said

It has to be me, or the results of my brain injury from five years ago: but have you noticed, the times have changed, and Dylan knew it was coming, and it started about the time he was swapping spit and writing prolific pot inspired lyrics with Joan Baez. Sitting in that crappy New York apartment, plucking on that old Martin guitar with a bowed neck and rusted strings. Bob was poor as a hobo with no soup can, and couldn’t afford new guitar strings, so Joan boiled them in water and vinegar, and he got a few more months out of them. That trick actually works; I’ve tried it, and it’s good for your finger calluses as well.

Dylan knew the Beat crowd was old history, at least everyone but Kerouac and Ginsberg. He knew the Commies were already here and planning to ruin our youth with their pious speil, and now their spawn has taken up the red flag of Mao. Pete Seeger told Bob about Woodie Guthrie and his Fascism killing guitar, and he thought, “well, if Woody can do it, so can I,” and he did. Joan was far too clingy and wrapped him in her musical web, so, of course, he had to ditch her after the Newport Folk Festival, at Johnny Cash’s insistence. ” Walk the line boy, get yourself a gal with some meat on her bones and can cook a pot roast with carrots and taters, and your song writing will soar” says ole Johnny C. Bob was as obstinate as a politician, and didn’t heed the advice, but he did spit out some more tunes, had a motorcycle wreck and met a group of musicians from Canada, and one from Arkansas, that fit his style. He made them as famous as himself.

The Beatles had already come over the pond and changed folk-loving young folks into mop-top-dancing fools. Spectors wall of sound still ruled the studio, and Brian Wilson was writing as fast as he could in between nervous breakdowns. Whose hand were we supposed to hold? That hair across my forehead gives me pimples. Chubby Checker had a conniption fit because the Fabs stole his song about the twist and added a shout to the title. Nobody did the twist anymore; that was for parents’ martini parties at the country club and basement parties in New Jersey.

The times started to change. I got an electric guitar, ditched the mandolin my father gave me, ditched the violin, and he loaned my Gibson J45 to a relative who never returned it, so the times changed for me. Kennedy was still in office for a few more months before our deep state took him out, and Nikita was pounding and breaking everything with his size 10 Gucci leather shoe. A breathy speaking Jackie invented Camelot, JFK was humping Marilyn, and the world was on the brink of a nuclear war as Castro was rolling cigars for Nikita. I kept playing my electric guitar; it didn’t faze me in the least. But Bob, he was writing songs about all of this Alice in Wonderland, Fantasia-inspired world his head was in. The times had changed in a matter of months. Was it history, or did Bob inspire it? Maybe a bit of both.

Then, Dylan picked up a Fender Strat, plugged into a Fender Super Reverb amp, and Al Kooper made the Hammond B3 church organ into a legend. The world was aghast. Peter Paul and Mary had a collective breakdown, and Joan was history, still writing those tired songs and whining about a long dead Joe Hill.

Russia was on the move. Their young folks wanted Dylan, and the Beatles, but Nikita wouldn’t let them in, so they became good little Communist and toed the line, much like our own good little socialist commies are doing today. With an Ivy League education, you get two worthless degrees, one that wont do you a damn bit of good, and the other is a masters in socialism. Nikita would be proud of New York City these days. A Commie Islamist smiling Devil for a mayor, my-my, Dylan knew it was coming. He warned us as Pete and Woody had before. We didn’t listen to the music close enough.

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Ask A Texan: Minneapolis Ain’t Lake Wobegon

/ Phil Strawn / 9 Comments

Sometimes Questionable And Often Brilliant Advice For Folks That Want To Be A Texan, But Can’t Afford To Get Here

The Texan

This Texan received a dispatch from a Mr. Hardy Wood Guthrie of Okemah, Oklahoma, written on the back of a Walmart sales receipt. It seems his wife, Little White Dove, is dead set on going to Minneapolis to join in all the fun the protestors are having.

Mr. Guthrie: Mr. Texan, please excuse my bad manners for writing on a Walmart receipt. Just so you know, my wife bought all that useless stuff, except for the Chili Pork Rinds, which are my favorite snack, and of course the carton of Marlborough’s and the Natural Light Beer. Little White Dove, my Cherokee Indian wife, has lost her arrows. She’s watching the news and seeing all these protesters up in Minneapolis playing in the snow, throwing snowballs, and making snow angels with the help of those nice ICE boys. Now they’ve taken over Target Stores and are getting all that free stuff plus $200 a day for protesting. She’s real fond of that Pioneer Woman stuff and is hoping to get a new set of cookware and a bathrobe for free. I told her it’s about to get really serious because the Army boys are coming to town, but she got really smartie-pants with me and said, “I’ll do what I want to, this land is your land, this land is my land.” She said not to worry, she has a friend named Alice, and she has a restaurant where she can get anything she wants, over in Edina, where all the rich folks live. She is a big fan of that schmuck Garrison Keillor, Mister Handsy Man that lives over in Lake Wobegon, and is going to look him up and have a Lutefisk sandwich with him. She thinks it’s all a big party, sort of like Woodstock on ice, and won’t listen to me. I’m so frazzled, I’m thinking about writing a protest song about all this mess. Got any advice for me?

Little White Dove

The Texan: Well, Mr. Guthrie, sounds like Little White Dove needs a visit from the medicine man. I have a little experience with protest and such, as I went to the University of Texas in Austin, with all those hippie folks, and most of them are still there, riding around on their handicap scooters and smacking visitors with their walking canes. Back then, they weren’t collecting a paycheck for protesting, rioting, and burning things up; they got hopped up on those funny cigarettes and just did it for the fun of it. Not trying to name drop here, but I also spent some time with old Bob Dylan and his squeeze, Joan B. I think Bob is a poet and didn’t know it. and you can tell Little White Dove to be careful, because after all, the times, they are a-changing. I’m sending her a nice bouquet of big sunflowers to stick in the barrels of those Army boys’ guns, a Garrison Keillor VHS tape of Prairie Home Companion, and you a box of cherry bombs to relieve your anxiety. I’ll be watching the news to see how she does.

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Dylan In One Paragraph: Going Electric And Country

/ Phil Strawn / 10 Comments

Bob was a restless cat. His hair was longer and wilder now. Minnesota was a dream or at best, a faded picture on a postcard from home. The Martin guitar didn’t do it for him anymore, nor did Pete, Woodie, or Joan. He hooked up with some Canadian boys with electric guitars and organs and traded the acoustic for a Fender Strat and a Super Reverb Amplifier. He was hip…he was in the scene…current and cool. He was tired of writing songs about nothing that seemed like something after a few bottles of wine and some grass. All these young hippie kids thought he was the Messiah of music..the second coming, he tried walking on water and almost drowned, all for believing the hype. He was done. Joan B. was clingy, handsy, folksy, and too natural for his taste. She didn’t shave her armpits or legs and he was sick of her traditional whiney folk music. He had been to Monterey and played grab-ass with Janis. New York can go to hell. He was going to Nashville and pick with them cats that played cool as country water. Chet Atkins invited him to dinner. Johnny Cash invited him into the fold. He was sold on country cooking and Gibson guitars. Nashville Skyline was his opus. Cash led him to the promised land. He found Baby Jesus in a snow globe at the Bluebird Cafe. He put the Menorah in his pantry and laid out the “Good Book” on his coffee table, next to the crystal ashtray and his roll-your-own cigarettes. Bob was a Christian now, his Jewish days behind him for a while, but he would revisit them often. Joanie wanted a rematch..said she would be less competitive and write even crappier songs, Bob said no way, he couldn’t take another round of her. He thought about buying another motorcycle, but just for a minute. Naw…I don’t need another broken neck and leg. He purchased a machine gun in case the Black Panthers came to Woodstock, he would be ready. He wrote ten thousand songs and won the Pulitzer Prize. He kept the money. His son, Jacob is too hip and hangs out with girls from Laurel Canyon that have no talent for anything except spending his money and wailing. Bob tells him to get a haircut and a real job, he is now his own father back in Minnesota. Bob sells his song catalog for a Billion dollars to a group of Japanese. He’s flush with cash. He calls Paul and Ringo and tells them to stick it, he’s richer than they are now. Paul writes a song about it. Ringo sends him some Kale cupcakes. He revisits the Village. All the old hangouts are now fast food joints and iPhone shops. He walks the street, but no one recognizes him..he’s good with that. His cell phone rings, it’s Joan B., and she wants to meet for a salad and mineral water lunch. He wants a burger, he tells her he loves meat, and she gags and pukes on her Samsung phone. Bob laughs and walks into McDonalds for a Big Mac. The girl behind the counter asks him if he’s that guy on that “Survivor.” TV show. He says “No, I am a survivor.”

Grifter Swifter

/ Phil Strawn / 12 Comments
The original Tortured Poet

After reading all the glowing, foot-kissing reviews of Swifter’s new album, “The Tortured Poet’s Department,” I take back a few of the skews I gave her, but only a few. I had no idea the poor dear had lived such a sad life. I doubt her feet touched the ground until she was five years old, and every spoon in the house was pure silver. A downtrodden, entitled little rich girl confined to her Barbie bedroom writing little kid songs on her half-size Martin guitar. She never played in a bar, a club, or anywhere for that matter, except for her doll babies. Pop’s paid millions to get her into that Nashville brotherhood, which shows us how far that once holy ground has slipped. Did the poor waif have ever have a decent relationship with a male, not counting her current knuckle dragger? Doubt it, so the tortured poet title might fit her, even though what she writes is far from good poetry.

There have been many before her who qualified for the title: Harry Nillson, John Lennon, Bobbie Gentry, James Taylor, and Willie Nelson are a few. The original Homeric tortured poet, Bob Dylan, still holds the title: Swifter is no more than a grifter.

Welcome To Crazy Town City Limits

/ Phil Strawn / 9 Comments

Are we not living in “Crazy Town?” Fifteen Thousand clean, well-fed, cell phone-carrying invaders are on their merry way to our Texas/Mexico border, most of them adult military fighting-age males, ready for action. ” Come on down, free everything for life,” and our government does nothing, which they do well, to stop this invasion of our once sovereign land. Since our National Guard, hands tied to their waist, can do nothing, I suggested sending thousands of Boy and Cub Scouts to the border equipped with Daisy BB guns, ” the BBs won’t kill anyone, but damn, they hurt.” This may or may not stop the hordes of brain-eating Zombies, but maybe our folks in DC will get the message. Really, I’m kidding; this is a dream I had while under the influence of my pain meds. Sounds good though.

The NFL is experiencing a boost in game attendance when Taylor Swift is holding court in the owner’s luxury suite. Thousands of her young “Lemming Swifites” are in the bleachers, holding up ” We Are Here For Taylor” signs, clutching her CDs to their breasts, and praying for a glimpse of the anointed one. There is talk on the street that she may run for President. The country will need the “Auto-tune” app on their phones to understand what she is saying. Isn’t social media a grand thing?

I believe she just wet herself. Poor Travis

28 miserable years since my once wonderful football team, The Dallas Cowboys have made a Superbowl appearance, and now the owner, a Rummy-Eyed, jabbering, scotch-pickled Beverley Hillbilly from Arkansas is about to give his quarterback a 60 million per year contract to keep the team in their mediocre bubble. To Jones, it makes perfect sense; if the boys win a Superbowl, then they will be expected to produce a winning team every year, so just give the fans a smidgin of hope, enough to keep his Deathstar stadium full of hungry pilgrims, there to witness mediocracy at it’s best. I can’t bear to watch this trainwreck; at least our Texas Rangers delivered a World Series after receiving their new stadium. Please send Tom back down to Earth for one season.

Saint Tom

Momo is roaring back from her bionic knee replacement, sort of. We went shopping in Fort Worth yesterday, hitched up the wagon, and trekked to the big city. She’s happiest when spending money, so Old Navy, Acadamy, and Half Price Books got a token of her appreciation. I did notice that HPB’s is now carrying re-issues of the old classic rock albums. Back in the 60s, we paid around six bucks for one; now, they cost around twenty to forty bucks, and the vinyl is paper thin. I purchased a reissue of Bob Dylan’s “Nashville Skyline” to replace my long ago stolen original. Who thought that digital engineering of music would sound better than old-school analog. Wasn’t me, and it doesn’t.

Dylans Maximus Opus