The Explanation
(for those who require one)
And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather
17 comments:
But she's the one with her hand in his crotch.
But I don't want to think anyone would put the moves on Barry Manilow. Don't destroy my world Maureen.
More like he's holding her hand under the table ... more like he *seized* her hand. She's turned slightly away from him and has a fake smile. I don't think she really likes Barry.
Shouldn't this one be filed under Sex Education?
Shouldn't this one be filed under Sex Education?
With him in the picture?
Not bloody likely!
Thank you! I even questioned putting this under any series with the word "artist" in its title but decided in the end that "action" was what he was trying to get so...
Watch the snarky remarks about Barry. Dylan's a fan!
I've found that it works to have an exceptionally loose definition of the word 'artist' 'round these parts. So anyone who routinely engages in a creative endeavor (the type newspapers send critics to review) is, for better or worse, an artist . . . at least here at Casa Gunslinger.
Dylan's a fan of everybody who puts out a record.
In this respect, he's become the Quentin Tarantino of American music.
Fred, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart himself could be a fan of Barry, his brand of tin pan alley still wouldn't impress me. But he's a hell of an entertainer, as are all those who studied under the tutelage of Bette Midler in the seventies.
Tom, I've found making definitions loose helps infinitely but I still possess an amazing ability to overthink everything and continue to give myself ulcers thinking, "Oh god, I'm going to put this picture in the wrong place and everyone will hate me."
Not to start anything, but having meet the man, I also feel the need to say she's not his type.
Greg:
I twist myself in the sam knots . . . so I'll give you the advice I myself rarely heed:
Don' worry abouuut it!
Maureen:
Are you, by any chance, suggesting that Barry Manilow is . . . as Winchell used to put it . . . not the marrying kind??
Shocking!
Miss Fox isn't exactly "the marrying kind" either. But she is on the right team, loosely, if one overlooks Wilbur often being the name of a pig.
As much as I dislike Barry's sappy songs he does appear to be a genuinely kind man. And I have to admit that "Mandy" is a well written song.
If Maureen was wrong, don't you think his gaze would be pointed in a different direction?
One of the more straightforward non de guerre's ever. This Argentine lass understood the value of advertising. Barry's about to learn how far his money and celebrity will take him.
His "gaze" is more of a "When will this be over, so I can get back to my butler?" look.
I remember all my life...
rainin' down as cold as ice...
Shadows of a man
a face through a window...
Cryin' in the night
the night goes into morning...
Barry Manilow is the dopiest looking man on earth, but that song is stellar!
Man, Fanny's lookin' real good, here!
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