time is like a jet plane, it moves too fast

So I went to see one Mr. Bob Dylan play last night. Yes, I waffled a lot on whether it was worth it to attend. But the tickets ended up being a lovely birthday gift from Lance, so that was it, we were going! And I was really excited. I’m a big admirer of his art, his storytelling, his longevity, his dignity in irreverence. You see, he’s discovered a way to say the stuff that all of us have known. He earned a Pulitzer for his "profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions of extraordinary poetic power." The guy’s a damn poet.

It’s with that said that I declare his live performance last night, at almost 70 years old, to be … eh, shoulder shrug. The thing is, he can’t sing. His voice is shredded, more gravelly than it’s ever been, incapable of sustaining extended notes. Pinch-nosed talking has always kinda been part of his singing style, so it wasn’t that big of a deal. I did miss hearing him belting some shit out, though. “Lay Lady Lay,” for instance—you can’t just talk through that. It needs a little more finesse. “Like A Rolling Stone,” however, you can squawkingly spoken-word that one. Whatever, though, I wasn’t even there for the performance. I was there to be in the presence of a legend and a strange genius. And on that count, last night was 100-percent success.

P.S. My mom just informed me via telephone that have actually seen this man play before. I was four or five, and they took me to Denver to see the Moody Blues play. I don't remember Dylan, but I do remember  wondering why grown up stuff is always so damn boring, and I remember falling asleep in my seat.

October life

I love fall, I think I’ve said this before. I love these warm liveable days. I love it when there’s fifty kinds of weather in one day—the air’s all charged and the heavens are a jumble of purple clouds split by points of pale sunshine. It was amidst this scenario that we stopped by Tigard on Saturday. Billy blasted backside ollies, while Catherine acted as a coat rack due to her bum knee. Then on to Newberg for a sunny afternoon of trick learning, or trick re-learning, as the case may be. Burritos along Main Street Newberg, then a quiet drive home through a festival of rainbows. A perfect Saturday, if you ask me.

What else? We just finished watching The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly last night. An old classic, but I’d never seen it. Three hours long and pretty slow—it wasn’t my favorite movie ever, but the last 40 minutes got me. I’ve never seen a depiction of the Civil War quite like that. When Blondie and Tuco stumble upon the Union army staked out by the bridge … it’s like the Vietnam pictured in Apocalypse Now. Dark, intense, chaotic … and sort of futile. And Tuco’s desperate sprint through the cemetery at the end—he’s scrambling for the confederate gold, but all you see is the ocean of fresh graves in the background. So many dead.

Anyway, see that tag line? Amazing.

Happy Birthday To Me

It happened. I outgrew "birthday cake." This year, all I wanted was some fish and chips from the Horse Brass. And a lovely birthday Guinness.

goodbye summer...

In case you’re wondering what the hell “Sherowski” is, it’s Polish! I still think Polish jokes are funny, though, because all the dumbest people I know are actually NOT Polish. So the joke’s on them, sort of. Anyway, I went to the Polish festival in North Portland this weekend, but not to get in touch with my roots or whatever—I went for some damn perogi! Have you had them? Magnificent dumplings of awesomeness. Potato, cheese, onion, and whatever else all boiled up into a melty package. There were also potato pancakes, and polish sausage, and slaw, and kraut, and all sorts of other aromatic cabbage and onion concoctions. We piled up our plates and then sat on the grass in the sunshine to people watch. Have you ever noticed how fond old Slavic women are of flamboyant fabrics? I’m hoping someday that I, too, will find myself in bright pink windpants and gold lameé. Seriously.

Deertick played at Edgefield on Sunday night. For free. Edgefield is a pub/theater out in Troutdale, and so it was less Portland hipster, and more “Oktoberfest!”  Phew. You never know, you know? Lance and I ventured there on what may very well have been the last warm evening of the year, and we soaked in about a half-hour of the raucous beer-stained happening. Just a little taste. And then gawked at the starry night sky on the drive home.

John Phillips

Man, I love me some John Phillips. Not everything, mind you—not the Mamas And The Papas really, or the later stuff with saxophones. But that first solo album, John, The Wolfking of LA, well that’s become soundtrack-to-life music. “Someone’s Sleeping,” “The Mermaid,” “Malibu People,” “Topanga Canyon” … it’s just good livin’ music, music to relax in, beautiful sun-washed scenery, and a lovely sense of longing.

So … it’s pretty weird to hear that Phillips had sex with his daughter for over a decade, plus he apparently injected her with heroine at the age of 16, et cetera. I don’t have all the facts, but sounds pretty raw. Listen, everyone has their secrets. But these are BIG secrets. And I haven’t really played the album since I found out—because I’m creeped the frick out! So here’s the question, is the art separate from the person? I don't know. But ... yuck. That's all.