D IS FOR "DYLAN" & "DOGS"

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“We got a year-end clearance. We got a white sale
And a smoke-damaged furniture, you can drive it away today . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
D IS FOR “DYLAN” :

It may have been early last year or perhaps late in 2008. A friend and former coworker of mine, Pete, contacted me and asked for some advice on the art of writing. Well, I’m no artist when it comes to the written word; I’m just an untrained, mostly self-taught fraud who can fake it. But my friend is a young man in his very early twenties and he was working on a book manuscript for a novel about nanotechnology that he hoped to publish someday. He told me he was seeking suggestions from several people he knew who regularly wrote stuff. Well, I don’t write stuff, but I do write “Stuffs.”

I told my buddy that any advice coming from me should be taken with a grain of salt if not a whole shaker of it. Other than a creative writing class or two that I took in junior high school, and two one-day classes pertaining to screenwriting that I attended in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, everything I know about writing I learned from reading lots of books by the great authors such as Twain and Steinbeck, et al. In fact, I had once even given Pete a copy of Jack Kerouac’s book ‘On The Road’ which I had purchased for him while on a trip that took me through Kerouac’s hometown, Lowell, Massachusetts. I wasn’t proposing that Kerouac was a great writer necessarily, but that he was a unique stylist who people ought to be familiar with.

I suggested first and foremost that Pete read as much as he could of the classic literature. I also recommended a few books to him, such as ‘20 Master Plots And How To Build Them’ (which I’ve only skimmed) and ‘Screenplay’ by Syd Field and ‘Screenwriting’ by Richard Walter, because I feel that there are key elements of writing effective movie scripts that pertain to any kind of fiction writing.

But then I offered Pete the most unusual advice; advice that I told him he would receive from no one else. I told Pete that the best writing course I ever took cost me just $5. (it’s now going for $8.99). Back when I was a teenager and through my early twenties, I frequently listened to the 1965 Bob Dylan album ‘Bringing It All Back Home’. But gradually I sold my LPs and didn’t hear that Dylan recording again until I borrowed a copy of it from my friend The Great L.C. in March of 2008.

Hearing ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ again for the first time in 20 to 25 years, I was absolutely floored to discover how much I had learned to write and how much my style had been inspired by that record. I had been unconsciously absorbing the ability to play with words and manipulate ideas while listening to those song lyrics in my “yoot”. I had never realized until decades later how much Bob Dylan had inspired me. Yes, the dude was a womanizing weirdo – no debating that – but I have to give him credit for opening my mind to the creative potential of wordplay. My way of writing, while definitely my own and of questionable value, was in large part built upon a foundation supplied by music’s second greatest lyricist of all time, Robert Zimmerman a.k.a. Bob Dylan.

And so I told Pete that if he wanted to take a really fabulous writing course, one that would expand his imagination, that would swing wide open the mind’s gate, encouraging the ingression of ideas and inspire him to discover new ways to explore the possibilities of the written word, he should get a copy of ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ and play it rePETEdly.
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Without Dylan’s musical example, I probably never would have composed my most memorable love letter. I wrote it to Terrill (or “T”) in June of 1983. "T" was a young woman raised in Holland but living in Greece at that time. I know I’ve posted the letter on this Blog before, and I know it’s the least romantic, most Stream O’Consciousness love letter ever written, but I’m posting it again below just because I’m Da Dictator O’De ‘Stuffs’ and I can do any damn thing I wants here:

June, 1983 :

Wow, I am SO hungover.
Doug and MD are in Palm Springs. Last night, Twinkie and me and Lynth went out and got so drunk. I feel OK except I keep getting these fast bizarre thoughts. I have nothing to do so I thought I’d write, right? (Write, Right…that’s almost like Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman or New York, New York.) I’m at the corner of Ocean Ave. and Linnie Ave. in Venice. It’s about 4 or 5 blocks from the beach. I’m sitting in the bed of my truck with my 500 pound non-portable typewriter. I am so hungover. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I got drunk last night. It’s something I’m good at. I’ll bet I’m…I’ll bet I can get drunk better than you. Terrill, I’m worried about your drinking! I like Southern Calif. Out here, you can type in your truck by the beach ‘cause you feel like it and nobody cares. Now if I tried to take my typewriter down to the beach in say, a state like Texas, I’d probably get arrested for disturbing the peace.

I’m not drunk, just hungover. In fact, I haven’t had a drink since last night. Everytime I wake up with a hangover, it seems that I had been drinking the night before. Amazing! I’m beginning to think that it’s not just a coincidence!

Uh, when I woke up this morning (Hey, did you like the way I started this sentence with the word “Uh”? It makes it seem like I’m talking instead of writing. I think that’s neat. I’m going to have to try using that a little bit later in this letter and see if it works just as well a second time. “Uh”, that’s a good word; I wonder who made that one up.) When I woke up this morning I went into Mark’s room and slipped into bed with him. At first he started to complain about it but I said, “Hey, relax, it’s all we’ve got.” But we just talked about our hangovers for a while and then…and then, whatever. But I mean we’re not like people in San Francisco, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Uh, this morning Mark went fishing in Malibu. (Notice I used “Uh” again. It worked as well as it did before…don’t you think?) I don’t like fishing because I don’t like to hurt things, and you know I think fish are probably “things” and when they get that hook through their mouths it probably hurts. I don’t really care about fish all that much but I still wouldn’t want to hurt them! I’ve seen more fish than you, nyahhh, nyahhh, nyahhh!

This is a beautiful day; last night was fuzzy. If you, Terrill, were here right now you know what we’d do? We’d probably be walking along the beach, here in Venice, and you know how people sell their art here? Well, we’d be going by and I’d look at some painting and (it would be a good sized one) I would say to you, “Hey, Terrill…look at this, do you like this painting?” And you would say, “Not especially, do you?” And I’d say, “Oh, it’s OK…kind of interesting, I think.” But we wouldn’t buy it ‘cause we couldn’t afford it. So then we’d go to one of those cafes on the beach and get a beer and watch the waves and the dogs and the Frisbees.

I’m not going to drink today. I’m getting tired of drinking; I think I’ll find something else to start doing.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was Bob Dylan.

So what are you going to do tonight? I might see a movie. I saw one once before and I thought it was pretty good.

I’ll have to Xerox a copy of this letter ‘cause otherwise I won’t believe I wrote it ten years from now. Everytime I just get going, this stupid bell rings and I gotta (see, there it happened again) start a new line.

Some tourists just walked by and stared at me. They probably thought I was some weirdo from California. Oh, if they only knew.

Hey, I hope this letter isn’t scaring you. Is it? It’s not meant to. Sometimes I scare MYSELF. But this is just something fun to do. You know how it is. I’m really not crazy…just mentally disturbed. But seeing as how Father’s Day is coming up soon, I just thought I’d write.

You don’t have to reply to this letter (a boat just went by) ‘cause I’m going to write another one in about a week. A real one. Right now my mind is just in the ozone layer. I think it’s because of the hangover because I don’t usually write letters like this to you. At least I haven’t before.

Hey.

So, anyway, uh, do you think you’re wunderbar? Stupid word. So is groovy and glad and stupid, stupid words. I have to drive because I’m too hungover to walk.

You know what I was just thinking? That if you wrote me a letter all in Dutch I wouldn’t understand any of it. Not only can I not read Dutch but I can’t even speak it. It’s all Greek to me! Get it? Greek. Hey, do all Greek men really have hairy chests and do they all really wear gold chains? I’ll bet a Molson they do!

Some girl smiled at me. She was probably a weirdo tho. You know how these Venice types are!

I’m really something. You probably think this is all real romantic, don’t you? You probably think you’re real cute, sitting there on some street in your truck, typing a letter, don’t you? Think you’re real creative or unique or something, right? Well, you’re not. Anybody can do that. That doesn’t make you a real artist. It proves only your stupidity. Dumb girl.

My leg fell asleep.

I hope this letter doesn’t scare you. You like it, don’t you? I hope so…I’m writing it specially for you. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow. Normal…how boring!

Think of this letter as a post card, OK?

Oh wow.

Hey, I’m going to write you another letter later. Letter later. And I’m going to send a couple pictures, also. Neat, huh? Isn’t the postal service neat? Neat is another stupid word.

Well, listen…I’m gonna go now. I mean, sh#t, you think I got nothing better to do than write you a post card? Hell, I’m a busy guy. Sh#t and hell…two cuss words in one paragraph. Pretty good, huh? Think you can do that?

Don’t cuss. I don’t like it when you cuss. Well, OK, you can cuss but just a little bit. Nothing too vulgar, though. Just like, whatever…sh#t, hell, damn, potty, etc. You know, just ladylike cuss words.

Well, I gotta go. You’ll get a real letter from me in a little while and then…well, whatever…you can read it and stuff like that.

‘Bye. Be good. Nice, whatever. (Wow, I am SO hungover.)

-- Bob Dylan

BAD STUFFS
D IS FOR “DOGS” :

And by “dogs” I don’t mean the canine variety. If it were “Man’s Best Friend” I was referring to here, I most certainly would have placed “dogs” under the “Good Stuffs” category. No, what I mean when I say “dogs” is unattractive females of the human variety:
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Ugly women got no reason
Ugly women got no reason
Ugly women got no reason
To live

They got ugly hands
Ugly eyes
They walk around
Tellin' ugly lies
They got ugly noses
And ugly teeth
They wear ugly shoes
On their ugly feet

Well, I don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
‘Round here

[Ugly women are just the same
As you and I
A fool such as I
All women are my sisters
Until the day we die
It's a wonderful world]

Ugly women got nobody
Ugly women got nobody
Ugly women got nobody
To love

They got ugly legs
That they shouldn’t show
I’d rather run away
Than to say Hello
They got ugly cars
That go beep, beep, beep
They got ugly voices
Goin' peep, peep, peep
They got ugly little fingers
And ugly little minds
They're gonna get you every time

Well, I don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
‘Round here

And by the way, what I’ve said about ugly women,
that goes for short people, too!

Le McQuote Du Jour:
He not busy being born is busy dying.
~ Bob Dylan

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Dillydally, Djibouti

Letter Links:
A – B – C

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