Beer, Dylan, Silence
Happy Beer Season
Well okay it’s the Memorial Day weekend and the unofficial start of summer but for Budweiser and Miller and Sam Adams and those guys – this the start of beer season where consumption of the more or less hoppy depending on the flavor and recipe brew spikes upwards. Somebody did a post a while back defending Budweiser from its critics in the beer world – the defense seemed to consist of a) say Budweiser didn’t completely suck and b) Sam Adams isn’t a micro brew. Which seems to be fairly faint praise indeed.
The only place I drink bud is at Shea because that’s what they sell – I don’t now what they put in Bud or what happens but if I drink Budweiser I get a headache right away every time. The one good thing about that is that it cuts down my been consumption at the game and at 6.25 or whatever they charge these days that’s not a bad thing no?
I like Sam Adams – first time I drank it I thought – well this is good and I haven’t changed my mind. It’s a little heavy for the summer but I can deal. Or I’ll drink Carona, I think that’s just I like putting a Lime wedge in my beer – ah the foibles of human beings.
I remember reading somewhere that poetry original started as prayers and magic incantations that are if they have a structure and form (and sometimes a rhyme) are easier to remember. I also remember reading somewhere that writing started because the king wanted to be able to see how many sheep he had without having to go out into the field and count the blessed things. Also the vague corners of my head remember something about how writing was also first used to preserve recipes like the recipe for beer (which the ancient Egyptians made – more like a wheat beer they didn’t have any hops that came later).
It might have started something like this:
“Man this is great.”
“Yeah”
“I mean really great, it makes all that growing stuff worth while.”
“Yeah. Another?”
“Hell yeah.” Pause “one thing worries me.”
“What?”
“Well you know how to make this stuff.”
"Beer”
“Yeah Beer, but what happens if you get called away for pyramid duty and I’m stuck here.”
“Yeah, hadn’t thought of that.”
“If there was only some way of, I don’t know drawing on paper how you do it so we don’t have to worry.”
“Brilliant!”
“What?”
And off it went.
It’s also Bob Dylan’s Birthday – who if anything has gotten odder as he’s gotten older but I have to say Chronicles the book he wrote a few years ago was terrific and in the sad and chaotic days after 9/11 he was one of the only voices that I could listen to (that and Mott/Ian Hunter) the rest sounded too lightweight to deal with the madness and nightmare we had been presented.
I don’t have time to talk about Dylan’s influence on me – it’s huge - when I started writing songs he was the template I stole (I freely admit that) from. And that he a) wrote about anything and b) was butt ugly to boot (One book said, trying to put it nicely as possible said he lacked sex appeal, okay fine whatever) – which with my issues about my looks made him another hero.
Going to go home and drink Sam Adams and listen to bringing it all back home – maybe Blonde on Blonde, Blood on the Tracks even. Combine the two deals.
More when I have time – it’s a standard Friday with the added pressure that we are all off Monday and we are supposed to be leaving early – so all the gibberish of a Friday is now served in concentrated form. Yetch.
While scanning the web the other day came across the Poem by Lord Bryon “When We Two Parted” which took me back to the days of my first serious relationship. This was one of her favorite poems – I remember her face as she read it to me, it kind of glowed. I remember a lot about her but I’m not going to go into boring details suffice to say it was very intense, doomed from the start, and ended very very badly – we haven’t said a word to each other now for about 20 years. Which is why the poem hit me when I saw it yesterday. The Poem’s about a break up and it’s the last few lines that hit home.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
It’s sad to realize that now, if we met, there would be nothing to say. Nothing at all. To go from what we were to being nothing. Indeed something more distant than strangers. There is some potential with strangers.
Life eh?
Gotta go – work to do, beer to drink, music to listen to.
Peace, Love, it’s alright Ma I’m only bleeding
Well okay it’s the Memorial Day weekend and the unofficial start of summer but for Budweiser and Miller and Sam Adams and those guys – this the start of beer season where consumption of the more or less hoppy depending on the flavor and recipe brew spikes upwards. Somebody did a post a while back defending Budweiser from its critics in the beer world – the defense seemed to consist of a) say Budweiser didn’t completely suck and b) Sam Adams isn’t a micro brew. Which seems to be fairly faint praise indeed.
The only place I drink bud is at Shea because that’s what they sell – I don’t now what they put in Bud or what happens but if I drink Budweiser I get a headache right away every time. The one good thing about that is that it cuts down my been consumption at the game and at 6.25 or whatever they charge these days that’s not a bad thing no?
I like Sam Adams – first time I drank it I thought – well this is good and I haven’t changed my mind. It’s a little heavy for the summer but I can deal. Or I’ll drink Carona, I think that’s just I like putting a Lime wedge in my beer – ah the foibles of human beings.
I remember reading somewhere that poetry original started as prayers and magic incantations that are if they have a structure and form (and sometimes a rhyme) are easier to remember. I also remember reading somewhere that writing started because the king wanted to be able to see how many sheep he had without having to go out into the field and count the blessed things. Also the vague corners of my head remember something about how writing was also first used to preserve recipes like the recipe for beer (which the ancient Egyptians made – more like a wheat beer they didn’t have any hops that came later).
It might have started something like this:
“Man this is great.”
“Yeah”
“I mean really great, it makes all that growing stuff worth while.”
“Yeah. Another?”
“Hell yeah.” Pause “one thing worries me.”
“What?”
“Well you know how to make this stuff.”
"Beer”
“Yeah Beer, but what happens if you get called away for pyramid duty and I’m stuck here.”
“Yeah, hadn’t thought of that.”
“If there was only some way of, I don’t know drawing on paper how you do it so we don’t have to worry.”
“Brilliant!”
“What?”
And off it went.
It’s also Bob Dylan’s Birthday – who if anything has gotten odder as he’s gotten older but I have to say Chronicles the book he wrote a few years ago was terrific and in the sad and chaotic days after 9/11 he was one of the only voices that I could listen to (that and Mott/Ian Hunter) the rest sounded too lightweight to deal with the madness and nightmare we had been presented.
I don’t have time to talk about Dylan’s influence on me – it’s huge - when I started writing songs he was the template I stole (I freely admit that) from. And that he a) wrote about anything and b) was butt ugly to boot (One book said, trying to put it nicely as possible said he lacked sex appeal, okay fine whatever) – which with my issues about my looks made him another hero.
Going to go home and drink Sam Adams and listen to bringing it all back home – maybe Blonde on Blonde, Blood on the Tracks even. Combine the two deals.
More when I have time – it’s a standard Friday with the added pressure that we are all off Monday and we are supposed to be leaving early – so all the gibberish of a Friday is now served in concentrated form. Yetch.
While scanning the web the other day came across the Poem by Lord Bryon “When We Two Parted” which took me back to the days of my first serious relationship. This was one of her favorite poems – I remember her face as she read it to me, it kind of glowed. I remember a lot about her but I’m not going to go into boring details suffice to say it was very intense, doomed from the start, and ended very very badly – we haven’t said a word to each other now for about 20 years. Which is why the poem hit me when I saw it yesterday. The Poem’s about a break up and it’s the last few lines that hit home.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
It’s sad to realize that now, if we met, there would be nothing to say. Nothing at all. To go from what we were to being nothing. Indeed something more distant than strangers. There is some potential with strangers.
Life eh?
Gotta go – work to do, beer to drink, music to listen to.
Peace, Love, it’s alright Ma I’m only bleeding
posted by Unknown at 9:07 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home