The Sambodian moral panic rag Veja magazine displays its ignorance once again when it writes that the Nobelization of Dylan is a triumph of pop over fine literature.
Dylan has never been pop. Not like Lady Gaga or Rod Stewart. I know. I recently checked and re-checked
I used one of those infamous .torrent files the kids use today to vacuum down every freaking Dylan record between 1963 and 2012 in FLAC format.
Lossless.
And so the Brazilian Facebooks are all a-Twitter: the Nobel lit committee is calling Bob Dylan «arrogant» in his attitude to the announcement that he is to be en-Nobelized if he so chooses.
O Fuxico notes – a good old Portuguese word for «gossip, intrigue, plot» – that Dylan or his Webmaster has removed references to the Nobel from the official Web site.
I Just Want You To Know I Can See Through Your Masks
Is this really so hard to understand?
Alfred Nobel was a conscience-stricken Swedish high-explosives tycoon.
Bob Dylan is the singer-songwriter of “Masters of War” – a song later covered by Pearl Jam, I do believe. Not probably but most absolute certainly the greatest protest song ever composed.
The «you» in this song most certainly includes Mein Herr Nobel, of whom Dylan writes,
And I hope that you die And your death'll come soon I will follow your casket In the pale afternoon And I'll watch while you're lowered Down to your deathbed And I'll stand over your grave 'Til I'm sure that you're dead.
Bob Dylan, 1988, Greek Theatre, UC Berkeley. A version of “All Along the Watchtower” that could easily have been pouring out from the Sex Pistols. Peak memories.
And As For You, Bretônio?
And myself?
The Internet came back on, finally though at a reduced velocity, fuck. Very reduces, but it quebras meu galho por enquanto. And the lights in the Vila Madalena. We were this close to a lightning strike that evening, one that literally almost blew our socks off: Neuza was taking down washing from the clothesline in the back yard and was frightened senseless.
It was Nobelistic in its explosive force, as were the usual series of electrical transformer explosions in the neighborhood.
And of course the meninas – Domingas, Rita Lee and Elis Regina, our cadelinhas – were utterly freaked out. Such a fit of howling as you have never heard.
But for the moment, all quiet and 24 degrees C on the Sambodian front.
At the moment, stooped over the infernal machine, I am serving up a Jigsaw Hello World page on http://localhost:3000 and a Harp server page on http://localhost:6666.
Gruntis watching for changes and updating accordingly. I watch it nervously for the dreaded node-sass error.
This while running various other processes in the background. We all possess such powerful computing machines but do wo little with them. Like the human brain, they say.
I spent an earlier hour creating Adeus Mundo Imundo pages for various of the projects to be reviewed in the Admiráveis Engenhos project. I am starting to write it. Troubleshooting Middleman is my first note.
I am now doing a git push of my screenshots for the project. This is adeus mundo imundo from Phenomic – which reminds me of Phnom Penh and of the Khmer Rouge.
If I can just stop giving in to my attention deficit order for a moment, however, I have this tutorial queued up.
I am learning the Jade templating engine first for sake of the simple Vanilla, Bootstrap and Groundwork projects I am building in the garage like a Soapbox Derby car.
Jade looks like this.
I would like to be able to create something as excellent as this by the end of next year.
It Will Not Leave My Head
Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build all the bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks. You that never done nothin' But build to destroy You play with my world Like it's your little toy You put a gun in my hand And you hide from my eyes And you turn and run farther When the fast bullets fly. Like Judas of old You lie and deceive A world war can be won You want me to believe But I see through your eyes And I see through your brain Like I see through the water That runs down my drain. You fasten all the triggers For the others to fire Then you set back and watch When the death count gets higher You hide in your mansion' As young people's blood Flows out of their bodies And is buried in the mud. You've thrown the worst fear That can ever be hurled Fear to bring children Into the world For threatening my baby Unborn and unnamed You ain't worth the blood That runs in your veins. How much do I know To talk out of turn You might say that I'm young You might say I'm unlearned But there's one thing I know Though I'm younger than you That even Jesus would never Forgive what you do. Let me ask you one question Is your money that good Will it buy you forgiveness Do you think that it could I think you will find When your death takes its toll All the money you made Will never buy back your soul. And I hope that you die And your death'll come soon I will follow your casket In the pale afternoon And I'll watch while you're lowered Down to your deathbed And I'll stand over your grave 'Til I'm sure that you're dead.