I've been digging Christmastime lately, man. I've been digging it a lot. Man- I dig Christmas so much you could just toss a whole sack of Christmas at me and I'd be covered in bright lights and fools. But I dig that. You know man- when I was just starting out, fat men on youtube who teach harmonica would say "Hey Bob man, why don't you play some of your older stuff?" and I'd say "man, youtube doesn't even exist yet, how can you exist?" and they'd say that they were folk and free and fritters and I said "okay man, if that's what you dig, you fly with it" as they faded off into non-existence at the sudden realization, the truth, that youtube didn't exist in 1960. I love this Christmas thing a whole lot 'cause it's about love, and you know, there needs to be more of that around these days. Not free love, you understand. Nobody's free from democracy and oppressing and lightbulbs, but love where you pay in kisses. Can you dig that? I tried to tell Joan, this chick I used to needle back in the 60s, I tried to tell Joan this. But all she said was "I don't know Bob man- I don't know if I can flow with that" and I said "you gotta flow where the water's flowing" and she said "love is just a four letter word" and I said "only in the English language, Joan" and she said "what other language is there" and I pointed to French- amour. "Love in the land of the fries and frogs is amour" said I, to which she said "love is a 5 letter word doesn't sound so great, Bobby." I said "yeah, it doesn't, but it's the truth" to which she said that French isn't a really folkie language, so it doesn't count. Now here's where I differ: French is a very folkie language, they've got those clothes that the sheep buy down at the factory, you know, Chanel and all that jazz. I remember Thelonious Monk saying to me we're all folk musicians, to which I said "yeah man- except fat men on youtube who teach harmonica. They're politicians."
Because that Coco chick, she's a folk musician, just a thin one. She's like a blind folk musician. Blind Coco Chanel or something like that. Who even cares. I don't care about clothes anyway- I just care about dressin' like a cowboy. You never know where those cowboys can turn up, they could be in the subway or even in a documentary. It's just so very suspicious, if you catch my drift. You've gotta serve yourself. Or is it serve somebody. Yeah, you've gotta Serve Somebody. Isn't that right, John?
Showing posts with label bob dylan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bob dylan. Show all posts
Friday, September 4, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Love Letter to Roald Dahl (or: Fireside Stories with Karl)
This is a story I somtimes tell my Nieces, when we are all gathered around the fireplace in Vermont.
Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".
Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover.
"That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day.
"How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time.
"And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle."
"Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella.
"How dare she?! This magazine is an adult magazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable.
"Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!"
-And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine.
"What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery.
"NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..."
"Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly.
"It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog."
Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's.
"Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!"
"Ridiculous!"
"Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!"
"They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves.
"Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!"
"Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!"
"Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves.
"Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd.
"None of zis- zis children"
"No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point.
"Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!"
"Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting.
"I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?"
"They will ruin it!" the crowd roared.
"Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!"
"Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd.
"You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn.
"BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?"
"Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?"
"Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is.
"Why?" questioned Woody Horyn.
"Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!"
"Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing:
Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".
Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover.
"That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day.
"How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time.
"And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle."
"Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella.
"How dare she?! This magazine is an adult magazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable.
"Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!"
-And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine.
"What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery.
"NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..."
"Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly.
"It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog."
Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's.
"Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!"
"Ridiculous!"
"Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!"
"They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves.
"Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!"
"Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!"
"Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves.
"Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd.
"None of zis- zis children"
"No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point.
"Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!"
"Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting.
"I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?"
"They will ruin it!" the crowd roared.
"Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!"
"Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd.
"You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn.
"BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?"
"Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?"
"Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is.
"Why?" questioned Woody Horyn.
"Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!"
"Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing:
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Transcript
Karl asked me to post this transcript. Regards, Brad II.
Bob Dylan: Cathy Horyn saw Karl in the kitchen/can't say nothing, but nothing didn't happen
Karl: Boys who wear cowboy hats end up lying on the mat.
Bob: Cathy wore her beanie/And her knee highs too/Someone said "girl, you look like a hag"/She gave them them the evil eye
Karl: How do you even know who Cathy Horyn is? She's just some hockey mom.
Bob: Karl saw his models/All in a line/Cathy said "Karl, why don't you grab something off the shelf?"
Karl: Models don't go in lines. They go in gaggles. Actually, I'm not sure if there's a proper term for a group of models. What's the term for a jar of toothpicks?
Anna: A pickery.
Karl: Oh! There you are. I wondered where you'd gone.
Bob: And Anna's getting some medicine and gin/in the infirmary.
Anna: For once he's right. "Voice of a generation", ptf. That generation was so stoned up a rock could've been the spokesman for it.
Karl: Or a pen.
Allen Ginsberg: What, you don't like Bob?
Anna: Dirty American. It takes a lot of effort to work at American Vogue, you know. But nobody reads British Vogue. God. Coco. Pynchon. You might as well work at Cat Fancier's Weekly.
Spokesman for Cat Fancier's Weekly: Hey now! Look here, we at Cat Fancier's Weekly have been getting a lot of flak- since about the beginning of time. Even Jesus used us as a joke.
Karl: How'd the joke go?
Spokesman: Erm..um..
Jesus: Oh man, I remember. It was like- "I could hardly be God's son if he worked at Cat Fancier's Weekly."
John Lennon: Oh yeah! That was a good one! Bigger than Jesus, that joke.
Jesus: Bigger than Jesus.
Spokesman: It's just not fair. We've been going as long as Christianity! Surely we're doing something right if we're still going. Right?
Sir Edward Elgar: Surely sir, you realize that you're only in existence because of the continuity of this joke? In fact, this conversation right now is keeping your alive.
Spokesman: So..?
Karl: So you would not exist if Anna hadn't made that joke about you.
Spokesman: Am I supposed to pop out of existence at the appearance of logic here?
Anthropomorphic Panda Bear: No.
Bob Dylan: Cathy Horyn saw Karl in the kitchen/can't say nothing, but nothing didn't happen
Karl: Boys who wear cowboy hats end up lying on the mat.
Bob: Cathy wore her beanie/And her knee highs too/Someone said "girl, you look like a hag"/She gave them them the evil eye
Karl: How do you even know who Cathy Horyn is? She's just some hockey mom.
Bob: Karl saw his models/All in a line/Cathy said "Karl, why don't you grab something off the shelf?"
Karl: Models don't go in lines. They go in gaggles. Actually, I'm not sure if there's a proper term for a group of models. What's the term for a jar of toothpicks?
Anna: A pickery.
Karl: Oh! There you are. I wondered where you'd gone.
Bob: And Anna's getting some medicine and gin/in the infirmary.
Anna: For once he's right. "Voice of a generation", ptf. That generation was so stoned up a rock could've been the spokesman for it.
Karl: Or a pen.
Allen Ginsberg: What, you don't like Bob?
Anna: Dirty American. It takes a lot of effort to work at American Vogue, you know. But nobody reads British Vogue. God. Coco. Pynchon. You might as well work at Cat Fancier's Weekly.
Spokesman for Cat Fancier's Weekly: Hey now! Look here, we at Cat Fancier's Weekly have been getting a lot of flak- since about the beginning of time. Even Jesus used us as a joke.
Karl: How'd the joke go?
Spokesman: Erm..um..
Jesus: Oh man, I remember. It was like- "I could hardly be God's son if he worked at Cat Fancier's Weekly."
John Lennon: Oh yeah! That was a good one! Bigger than Jesus, that joke.
Jesus: Bigger than Jesus.
Spokesman: It's just not fair. We've been going as long as Christianity! Surely we're doing something right if we're still going. Right?
Sir Edward Elgar: Surely sir, you realize that you're only in existence because of the continuity of this joke? In fact, this conversation right now is keeping your alive.
Spokesman: So..?
Karl: So you would not exist if Anna hadn't made that joke about you.
Spokesman: Am I supposed to pop out of existence at the appearance of logic here?
Anthropomorphic Panda Bear: No.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Back from the Ashes
I really do wonder if many of you can read. I write in English most of the time, and I gather most of you speak English- so one would hope that you can all read the entries on this blog. Yet, a few of you apperently cannot read English, as evidenced by delightful comments such as "this doesn't sound like you" in reference to Bob Dylan's post. Of course Bob Dylan does not sound like me, because I am not Bob Dylan. Obviously someone cannot read bylines.
Yet another "reader" said that I wrote a poem about Rei Kawakubo a long time ago. Again, there is this wonderful thing called "bylines", which if you had bothered to read you'd realize the poem was by Rei Kawakubo. Golly goose. Are you all morons? How do you even breath, hmm?
Thank you to You Know Who I Am for her comment. I love you too, dear. Even if you're also creepy (and have tourettes). And thank you to Ronald and R- is there something about the R's today? Your comments entertained me.
So! Where have I been? I've been busy with a swan, to be honest. I'm sure you've all read my quote about how a swan captured me- I think one of those British newspapers published it, I don't really pay attention to their names. I pay attention to how they smell.
Anyway, after I talked about the evil swan who captured me as a child, I decided to go find that swan. I went back to Germany and went to the pond where that swan lived, and there it was- white and mean looking. It must've been 80 years old by then, yet it was still alive. It glared at me. I glared back. It glared harder. I glared even harder, until I realized that he probably couldn't see my glare very well since I was wearing my dark sunglasses. I took off my sunglasses.
"It's young Karl!" the swan exclaimed.
"It's you," I said.
"Where are your lederhosen, Karlie?" the swan said, in that silver-white voice of his.
"I do not wear lederhosen! I wear suits!" said I.
The swan leered at me.
"What business do you have here, young boy?" said the swan.
"First of all, I am not a young boy anymore. I am certainly not old, yet I'm not this young boy you are talking out. I don't even like children. They're obnoxious. I have a daughter, you know. What sort of young boy has a daughter? Apart from those in the British tabloids, of course. She's chic like me. And she's not a swan."
"I would hope not", says the swan haughtily; his head held high above the water.
"How have you been?"
"Not bad- but it's such a horror- every time a swan dies, they play a swan song. It is always the same one. The one by Saint-Saëns- on cello. All weepy and so on."
"I know the one."
"It simply gets repetitive- frankly, I loath the fact that Saint-Saëns wrote the piece in the first place! Before that swans just died like normal creatures- no music or anything. Then that dreadful man wrote that dreadful piece of music."
"I'm not a big Saint-Saëns fan myself."
"Oh, if you were I, you'd want to hunt the man down and throttle him with your beak."
"He was very clever though, no?"
"Oh yes- virtuoso kind of music. Violin concerto, organ symphony, and so on. But so emotionless. I mean, that's the only music swans play- Saint-Saëns. I do wish for...something else."
"Mozart?"
"Sounds the same."
"Schubert?"
"Non, non!"
"You're meant to be a German swan."
"Ja"
"Why not Schubert?"
"Too many fat German ladies sing him."
"Paganini?"
"Show off."
"Ysaye?"
"Belgian."
"Beethoven?"
"Oh dear...I actually rather like Beethoven. Drat."
"What were we talking about anyway?"
"Don't worry about it, you're only a guest star."
In other news, I've been recording vocals- sounds like I'm a singer- for the "Totally Spies!" movie. I play the villain. I thought to myself "Now Karl, if I were a 12 year old French girl, would I like this movie?" The answer was "no", because I'm better than everybody else, but maybe if I was normal. Actually, maybe not, but I did it anyway. I like villains, who doesn't? They get better outfits.
Yet another "reader" said that I wrote a poem about Rei Kawakubo a long time ago. Again, there is this wonderful thing called "bylines", which if you had bothered to read you'd realize the poem was by Rei Kawakubo. Golly goose. Are you all morons? How do you even breath, hmm?
Thank you to You Know Who I Am for her comment. I love you too, dear. Even if you're also creepy (and have tourettes). And thank you to Ronald and R- is there something about the R's today? Your comments entertained me.
So! Where have I been? I've been busy with a swan, to be honest. I'm sure you've all read my quote about how a swan captured me- I think one of those British newspapers published it, I don't really pay attention to their names. I pay attention to how they smell.
Anyway, after I talked about the evil swan who captured me as a child, I decided to go find that swan. I went back to Germany and went to the pond where that swan lived, and there it was- white and mean looking. It must've been 80 years old by then, yet it was still alive. It glared at me. I glared back. It glared harder. I glared even harder, until I realized that he probably couldn't see my glare very well since I was wearing my dark sunglasses. I took off my sunglasses.
"It's young Karl!" the swan exclaimed.
"It's you," I said.
"Where are your lederhosen, Karlie?" the swan said, in that silver-white voice of his.
"I do not wear lederhosen! I wear suits!" said I.
The swan leered at me.
"What business do you have here, young boy?" said the swan.
"First of all, I am not a young boy anymore. I am certainly not old, yet I'm not this young boy you are talking out. I don't even like children. They're obnoxious. I have a daughter, you know. What sort of young boy has a daughter? Apart from those in the British tabloids, of course. She's chic like me. And she's not a swan."
"I would hope not", says the swan haughtily; his head held high above the water.
"How have you been?"
"Not bad- but it's such a horror- every time a swan dies, they play a swan song. It is always the same one. The one by Saint-Saëns- on cello. All weepy and so on."
"I know the one."
"It simply gets repetitive- frankly, I loath the fact that Saint-Saëns wrote the piece in the first place! Before that swans just died like normal creatures- no music or anything. Then that dreadful man wrote that dreadful piece of music."
"I'm not a big Saint-Saëns fan myself."
"Oh, if you were I, you'd want to hunt the man down and throttle him with your beak."
"He was very clever though, no?"
"Oh yes- virtuoso kind of music. Violin concerto, organ symphony, and so on. But so emotionless. I mean, that's the only music swans play- Saint-Saëns. I do wish for...something else."
"Mozart?"
"Sounds the same."
"Schubert?"
"Non, non!"
"You're meant to be a German swan."
"Ja"
"Why not Schubert?"
"Too many fat German ladies sing him."
"Paganini?"
"Show off."
"Ysaye?"
"Belgian."
"Beethoven?"
"Oh dear...I actually rather like Beethoven. Drat."
"What were we talking about anyway?"
"Don't worry about it, you're only a guest star."
In other news, I've been recording vocals- sounds like I'm a singer- for the "Totally Spies!" movie. I play the villain. I thought to myself "Now Karl, if I were a 12 year old French girl, would I like this movie?" The answer was "no", because I'm better than everybody else, but maybe if I was normal. Actually, maybe not, but I did it anyway. I like villains, who doesn't? They get better outfits.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I'm So Free
Hey man! How do you feel about that exclamation mark? Does it excite you cats? Man, it sure excites me when I see an exclamation mark just prodding itself outta oblivion like that, like Ma Rainey or something. Risin' from the ashes like some one-eyed phoenix, in this age of Charles Atlas and swine flu. Man, I've been away a lot; travelin' the road, playin' shows, diggin' chicks. I dig chicks a lot man! Who doesn't? I dig chicks so much I dug myself a hole, and I jus' didn't know how to get outta it for a while there! I was trapped. But man, I built myself a sorta ladder to get outta that hole. All you cats with holes dug by chicks should do the same! 'Cause man, I ain't doin' it for ya. I can't do it for you, even if I wanted to. Those are ladders and stairways, snakes and ladders, that only you can make, and dice only you can roll. I was with this one chick, and she was makin' me an old man and I ain't even 25! But she had the sweetest little pussy. With proper protection that is! But I ended off taking my protective gloves one day, and man- I fell into some hole. I got dragged down by demons and dogs and devils and dentists. Dentists- dentists are the worse. They'll grab you with their sterilized hands and put you to sleep you with their needles and their bows. I don't dig dentists.
So who have I been diggin' lately? I dunno, you're all so flattering and fake, you chicks and cats. How am I meant to lay an egg with you all lookin' 'round? You used to be cool, man. You used to make me laugh. But now you're like- you're like a shadow. Actually you were never cool, with you comments on this blog. "Oh I love you Karl!" you say, whilst piping everyone your blog address. Who gives a monkey's ass what you think? Oh, do you think I care what you think? Oh man, what are you even doing here? I don't even care that you're reading this. You- you're just all shadows man! I've been diggin' my new chick, that's what. I've got multiple new chicks! Monogamy is old. It's for squares. I ain't a square. I ain't even a triangle. Man, what sort of person digs triangles? A hipster, that's who.
I'm free. None of you know what it's like to be free! In your square, four-by-four lives, with only one girlfriend or boyfriend, with your "no drugs" rules. It's medicine man. And your colleges. Only old people go to colleges! I'll tell you...by the time you're in college you'll be in a retirement home. Man, I'm so free that I have twenty six chicks in my attic. I dig it.
So who have I been diggin' lately? I dunno, you're all so flattering and fake, you chicks and cats. How am I meant to lay an egg with you all lookin' 'round? You used to be cool, man. You used to make me laugh. But now you're like- you're like a shadow. Actually you were never cool, with you comments on this blog. "Oh I love you Karl!" you say, whilst piping everyone your blog address. Who gives a monkey's ass what you think? Oh, do you think I care what you think? Oh man, what are you even doing here? I don't even care that you're reading this. You- you're just all shadows man! I've been diggin' my new chick, that's what. I've got multiple new chicks! Monogamy is old. It's for squares. I ain't a square. I ain't even a triangle. Man, what sort of person digs triangles? A hipster, that's who.
I'm free. None of you know what it's like to be free! In your square, four-by-four lives, with only one girlfriend or boyfriend, with your "no drugs" rules. It's medicine man. And your colleges. Only old people go to colleges! I'll tell you...by the time you're in college you'll be in a retirement home. Man, I'm so free that I have twenty six chicks in my attic. I dig it.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Bob Dylan's 6548th Dream
Hey man, so this one cat told me that I should do some writin' on this blog, 'cause I've got a new record coming out in April and I just thought you should all know. And here's a song I wrote, uh, some time ago back when I was raking in those blondes, man. Could say I was raking in the pennies! I was doing more than raking those chicks though, if you dig.
One time I was walkin' down the streets
I was walkin' down your front town
Where I spotted some kids who were playin' ball
And I walked right over to them
To see what kinda game they wanted to play
They said I look like a panda bear
And I said "well panda bears don't have this much hair"
And they said they did, and I realized they were right
So I hailed a train but it didn't have no bite
I said kids, "could I interest you in some visions?"
Some visions of Johanna, someone's gonna get stoned;
They asked me if it tasted kinda like a milkshake
I said yes, and took out some pills
Then a policeman came most hurriedly
And arrested me on account of free love;
I gave him a receipt, the very next day
And I came back to the kids the very next day
I saw them there, with my friends,
I gave them each a medallion;
I stood so straight and tall, you know
And I said "I'm taller than you"
They said "we know"
Now they started moving all funny, you see
I think maybe something started going out of whack,
I said "hey man! you stonned or somethin'?"
They just starred at me funny so I called up the operator of time;
"Call an ambulance! They're stoned, they stunned!" said I
But all the operator did was tell me it was nine o'clock and I hung up
"What do you want to be" I asked one kid:
He said "a fireman" and I stopped dead,
"You know what a fireman does, don't you?" I asked the boy,
I explained that a fireman has too much lace;
"Oh" said the boy, as I gave him a lolly
And offered him a ride in my Cadillac car
(Good car to drive in a war)
Now at this point the boy's mother comes in,
And she's waving and wailing at me like I done something wrong,
I get on my motorcycle, and I start to crash
And I wake up on the psychiatrist's couch
(Luckily it's a chick)
--
I used the rest of the paper to roll a cigarette, man.
Monday, March 16, 2009
On making love to every woman (ever)
If there is one thing I have learned from when I was alive, it was that you cannot make love to every single woman.
"What?!" you are thinking, in shocked muted tones. "Uncle Yves surely cannot have made love to a woman?"
I've never made love to a woman in my life, not in the sordid little way you're thinking about. I've been something of a Cassanova in matters of lovemaking, too. If you're a woman who's ever bought a dress by me, I have made love to you. I've seen your nether-regions, I have felt le breasts (if you're endowed with such- throughout my career as a designer I witnessed the breast size go down until the models had the breast size of a double bass player). I have made sweet, French love to you and poured your wine and kissed you on the neck, my lips cushioning into your lovely flesh. I have done all this. I have done it to millions of women. And oh, some of these women are very adept lovers. Very adept, indeed.
Ah yes, light of my loins. Fire of my soul. You women make me quiver with passion. My knees get positively weak with anticipation as you put on one of my dresses, and put your lovely delicate feet into my muddy heels. Mm, I feel your breath on my French neck, every hair (washed in olive oil) alight. Passion of passions! My passionfruit is a mountain, and your back the sun. Let me rhapsodize about your painted toes, and sing about your painted face! O moon, O pancake factor number one!
Now anyway. The point being you can't make love to every single woman because uh..
Have you ever seen High Fidelity? It's this movie about this music person who breaks up with his girlfriend or something...I can't really remember. He had lots of music though. I don't understand why the movie couldn't've just focused on him selling music. So uh.
Have you ever listened to Blood on The Tracks? It's by Bob Dylan. I'm not sure what it has to do with this.
Well- uh. Don't do drugs like me or else you'll end up being slapped by Karl. You'll also make some pretty amazing collections that people go on about even though most of them weren't even born.
Girl: Oh, Yves Saint Laurent was a genius!
Other girl: He was like a totally important designer
Girl: Like GUESS.
Other: Yeah, GUESS is a totally important designer.
Girl: Soo post-modernist how his name is spelt like, in capitals. And only one name, like Madonna.
Other: Or Jesus!
Girl: Oh I don't think I've heard of him. Was he around with Balenciaga.
Other: Before Balenciaga.
Girl: Woah.
But drugs are bad. Elvis says so! And so do I. I'm having some hash right now and I'm sketching and typing. I wish I'd have someone type out these like Karl does. So I'm also typing. I'm thinking of doing skirts......yes, skirts and......and.......some colours. Everybody likes skirts. I'm wearing a skirt right now. I feel pretty.
"What?!" you are thinking, in shocked muted tones. "Uncle Yves surely cannot have made love to a woman?"
I've never made love to a woman in my life, not in the sordid little way you're thinking about. I've been something of a Cassanova in matters of lovemaking, too. If you're a woman who's ever bought a dress by me, I have made love to you. I've seen your nether-regions, I have felt le breasts (if you're endowed with such- throughout my career as a designer I witnessed the breast size go down until the models had the breast size of a double bass player). I have made sweet, French love to you and poured your wine and kissed you on the neck, my lips cushioning into your lovely flesh. I have done all this. I have done it to millions of women. And oh, some of these women are very adept lovers. Very adept, indeed.
Ah yes, light of my loins. Fire of my soul. You women make me quiver with passion. My knees get positively weak with anticipation as you put on one of my dresses, and put your lovely delicate feet into my muddy heels. Mm, I feel your breath on my French neck, every hair (washed in olive oil) alight. Passion of passions! My passionfruit is a mountain, and your back the sun. Let me rhapsodize about your painted toes, and sing about your painted face! O moon, O pancake factor number one!
Now anyway. The point being you can't make love to every single woman because uh..
Have you ever seen High Fidelity? It's this movie about this music person who breaks up with his girlfriend or something...I can't really remember. He had lots of music though. I don't understand why the movie couldn't've just focused on him selling music. So uh.
Have you ever listened to Blood on The Tracks? It's by Bob Dylan. I'm not sure what it has to do with this.
Well- uh. Don't do drugs like me or else you'll end up being slapped by Karl. You'll also make some pretty amazing collections that people go on about even though most of them weren't even born.
Girl: Oh, Yves Saint Laurent was a genius!
Other girl: He was like a totally important designer
Girl: Like GUESS.
Other: Yeah, GUESS is a totally important designer.
Girl: Soo post-modernist how his name is spelt like, in capitals. And only one name, like Madonna.
Other: Or Jesus!
Girl: Oh I don't think I've heard of him. Was he around with Balenciaga.
Other: Before Balenciaga.
Girl: Woah.
But drugs are bad. Elvis says so! And so do I. I'm having some hash right now and I'm sketching and typing. I wish I'd have someone type out these like Karl does. So I'm also typing. I'm thinking of doing skirts......yes, skirts and......and.......some colours. Everybody likes skirts. I'm wearing a skirt right now. I feel pretty.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Chemical Romancin'
Hey man,
I wasn't going to come here no more. I was gonna take the high road, and press on tourin' and all that kind of groovy so-and-so. But I just heard that not-so-groovy covers band, My Chemical Romance, is doing a parod-- I mean man, a cover of my song Desolation Row.
That's not so free, man. I don't dig it. I don't dig that at all. You gotta go where you gotta go, man, but don't go trampin' up my backyard.
Who's these Chemical Romance cats anyway, man? What're they doin' romancin', anyway? Who gave them premission? Where's their lightbulb, huh? Do they have a lightbulb? I don't see a lightbulb. I don't even see clocks, or watermelons.
Man, why are these people even making music? They should just go play golf, or some other square activity, man.
I wasn't going to come here no more. I was gonna take the high road, and press on tourin' and all that kind of groovy so-and-so. But I just heard that not-so-groovy covers band, My Chemical Romance, is doing a parod-- I mean man, a cover of my song Desolation Row.
That's not so free, man. I don't dig it. I don't dig that at all. You gotta go where you gotta go, man, but don't go trampin' up my backyard.
Who's these Chemical Romance cats anyway, man? What're they doin' romancin', anyway? Who gave them premission? Where's their lightbulb, huh? Do they have a lightbulb? I don't see a lightbulb. I don't even see clocks, or watermelons.
Man, why are these people even making music? They should just go play golf, or some other square activity, man.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Letter to those cats who copy my style
Hey man,
A groovy chick I know, told me about all these cats who are copying me on lookbook dot nu. I don't think that's too groovy, man. You gotta be groovy or leave, you dig?
I mean, it's about the truth, you know. I can't tell you the truth. You gotta look truth right in the eye and see it's hopeless desolation and lonliness, 'cause nobody's gonna give truth a pipe to light. It's just all there, sitting on the shelf on it's lonesome. It's about truth and evil and clocks and watermelons. All that kind of thing.
So look, man. And when I say man, I mean this man. There he lies, this poor beggar. This celluloid knight of black and white. It's just not groovy to copy me! It's just, not where it's at. You gotta lotta nerve to be copying me, you know that? You gotta lotta nerve!
Man. Who even cares. You're like Donovan, or someone. You're like a naked person covered by all your lies. You don't even know who you are! 'Cause you're all too busy being pretty being me; and you've lost whatever sort of cat you used to be. Man.
You're not too groovy lookbook. You need a shave.
A groovy chick I know, told me about all these cats who are copying me on lookbook dot nu. I don't think that's too groovy, man. You gotta be groovy or leave, you dig?
I mean, it's about the truth, you know. I can't tell you the truth. You gotta look truth right in the eye and see it's hopeless desolation and lonliness, 'cause nobody's gonna give truth a pipe to light. It's just all there, sitting on the shelf on it's lonesome. It's about truth and evil and clocks and watermelons. All that kind of thing.
So look, man. And when I say man, I mean this man. There he lies, this poor beggar. This celluloid knight of black and white. It's just not groovy to copy me! It's just, not where it's at. You gotta lotta nerve to be copying me, you know that? You gotta lotta nerve!
Man. Who even cares. You're like Donovan, or someone. You're like a naked person covered by all your lies. You don't even know who you are! 'Cause you're all too busy being pretty being me; and you've lost whatever sort of cat you used to be. Man.
You're not too groovy lookbook. You need a shave.
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