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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 20, 2017 - 01:37am PT
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https://vtdigger.org/2017/06/19/night-lam-vermont-bob-dylan/
My Night On the Lam With Bob Dylan
(This story is by freelancer Susan Green, a longtime Vermont journalist.)
When Bob Dylan steps onto the stage Tuesday evening for his concert at the Shelburne Museum, it’ll be 41 years, seven months, 12 days and approximately 16 hours since the first time he set foot in the Chittenden County town.
I’ve kept track of those details because, more than a decade after our previous meeting, he and I touched base again just after midnight Nov. 8, 1975. Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue, which would be playing at the University of Vermont that evening, was booked at the now-defunct Shelburne Inn.
He called me, and I jumped into my tiny 1964 yellow Renault to drive the 10 or so miles from Burlington’s Old North End to meet him. We’d last seen each other in 1963 at a Greenwich Village club that our crowd frequented during the heyday of the folk revival.
My earliest contact with Dylan had taken place in April 1961, when I was in Manhattan for a break during my freshman year at Plainfield’s Goddard College. A high school friend attending New York University and I began chatting with a boy who was strumming his guitar in a back room of the Folklore Center, a MacDougal Street store that sold records and instruments. He was 20 but looked no more than 15, in a jaunty black cap.
A few days later on April 5, we were surprised to witness him playing at a session of the nascent NYU folk music society. This was his first paid performance in the city — for $20. He had a voice and a persona that seemed much edgier than most other acoustic artists of that era.
I soon returned to college in Vermont, but, in New York again by late spring, kind of followed him around the Village. On harmonica, Dylan backed up a more noted vocalist at Cafe Wha? afternoon hootenannies. He also made the scene at Gerde’s Folk City for open mic nights every Monday.
While I was working at a Connecticut summer camp in July, Dylan became romantically involved with my childhood friend Suze Rotolo (the girl on the cover of his subsequent “Freewheelin’” album). This courtship began at a daylong folk showcase in New York organized by Bob Yellin, a bluegrass banjo virtuoso who’s been an Underhill resident since the mid-1980s.
Thereafter, whenever home in New York, I would visit the cramped West Fourth Street apartment she shared with Dylan. They were still broke in 1962. He was willing to come north to do a Goddard gig for $75, a sum that included their round-trip bus fares.
I loaned Dylan’s first album and the enthusiastic New York Times review of his professional debut at Gerde’s to the campus entertainment committee. Its decision: “Sorry, we don’t think he has any talent.”
At our 1975 reunion in Shelburne, we laughed when I reminded him about that snub. We caught up on the intervening years. I had a daughter; Dylan had a boatload of kids. He mentioned that his throat was sore; I mentioned that I’d become an herbalist with several potential cures for his condition at my house.
“Let’s go,” Dylan said.
While tootling along in my Renault, we mused about what it takes to live a good life. Borrowing a Beatles lyric, I suggested that “all you need is love.” Dylan did not respond to that statement, perhaps thinking me naive.
I raved about a Chick Corea event I’d just been to, during which the jazz pianist created a profound sense of intimacy with his audience. Dylan sounded a bit defensive: “That was a concert. Ours is a show.”
As we traveled on Burlington’s South Prospect Street, he admired the stately 19th-century buildings. But I also noticed he kept turning around to look at the station wagon behind us. I asked him, “What’s the matter?”
“We’re being followed.”
Followed? By crazed fans? The CIA? “Bobby, what do you want me to do?” was all I managed to say.
“Lose them,” Dylan instructed me.
So I sped up. The other car did too. When we reached my section of Burlington, I tore through the neighborhood. They were still on our tail. After several sharp turns, we seemed to be alone on the dark streets. But suddenly there they were again, coming toward us.
As the station wagon swerved around, I careened onto my street and raced up the driveway behind my five-bedroom house. From that hidden vantage point, we saw our pursuers zip right by.
“Who are they?” I finally asked.
“My bodyguards,” Dylan replied matter-of-factly.
Inside, I put a kettle on the stove for herb tea while he picked up the latest issue of People magazine, with his photo on the cover and a seven-page spread inside, from the coffee table.
After Dylan swallowed the remedies, he washed his cup — what a mensch! — before sitting down at the upright piano in the living room and banging out some blues.
One of my roommates, Elizabeth Danaher, yelled from the second floor: “Who’s playing that piano? I’m trying to sleep!”
Dylan muttered, “Oops.”
I called up, “Elizabeth, why don’t you come downstairs?”
She did, stunned when it became clear whose music had been silenced.
On our way back to the Shelburne Inn, Dylan was delighted by the less-than-tasty concoctions I’d served him: a cup of yarrow, comfrey, boneset and peppermint tea, as well as little frozen pills fashioned from powdered goldenseal and myrrh.
“Herbs are great, man,” he proclaimed. “They make you well and they get you high — with no side effects.”
“Bobby, nothing I prepared has any known mind-altering properties,” I told him. But Dylan was feeling quite happy just the same.
A week later, in bed with a rotten cold (irony!), I got a call from him somewhere near Boston. Dylan asked for a list of my herbs so he could buy his own stash at a health food store. I don’t know if the objective was physical healing or mood elevation.
Years beyond that, I opened a book about the tour written by playwright Sam Shepard, who had traveled with Rolling Thunder as a sort of unofficial chronicler. I was surprised by his entry from Maine: “Morning. I knock on Dylan’s door. Inside he’s on the phone, shirtless, ordering frankincense and myrrh, royal jelly, long distance.”
Shepard apparently associated myrrh only with the gifts bestowed on baby Jesus rather than as an ingredient of the little pills with antibiotic properties I’d given Dylan in Burlington. No frankincense was involved in my potion.
After the 1975 Dylan encounter, I fantasized about a new career path: herb doctor to the music-makers. Mary Carse, my Hinesburg stalking-the-wild-medicines instructor, suspected that the weeds she considered sacred would be wasted on hedonists. She issued a biblical warning: “Don’t cast your pearls before swine.”
Nevertheless, in April of 1976, carrying a small kit of bottled restoratives, I cast my herbs before rock stars during a two-week adventure through four Southern states with Rolling Thunder Revue. But that’s a whole different story.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jun 20, 2017 - 02:22am PT
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**so I wrote this and broke it up a few different ways, I think it was best with 7? Breaks , Stasi? it looked different,. More to read some how.
it is as Grinds go**
The grind grinds on
Not so those eggs laid
they sit to be sat upon
The grind grinds on
Ostensibly they say you must sign up
The artists and the arts they spew
Are all signed
Why not you?
Then in force they say
You must sign up - to see more
I won't
What is in it ?
Why the whole world connected so?
As grinds go
4am to talk to China
But O if you'll just
Stroke a key more than three
the numbers
And your name
Added to the rolls
Well I'm not
I will not be
You cannot find me
No Face plant
Maybe if
I'd feathers grow?
Well, if not then
no
I did rather dislocated thumbs
Why does it bother
Always chasing after me?
And teasing
letting me to see to
And too
To copy paste
What a waste
I've no one to face to face
Cantankerous ,
I'll take my fuss
Else where
if I must
For like this heat that can't be beat
I'll not sign up for faceplant
The Grind is at the edge of ready
It is the last day already
Tomorrow will be sweet
Sleep in till 10 am
Then not get much of anything done
Look at that no more diapers
Oh but still tears and squeals of new found joys
Of boys for girls
And girls for boys
Yes the other way would'a
Scared the poop outa dad
Not that it is bad
Just eventually
So lonely ~ sad
I've rephrased it twice
Acceptance Not to perceive
Beyond I hope that all can see
I've grown
wow
Another inch will make me measure up
I'm now as tall as Pratt
håha
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jun 20, 2017 - 03:19am PT
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From the depths
What do they call all those who dwell in hell?
The humane race
Brace for in-coming
It's not all from one place
That planted place, but more IS than is mine
I find non-disclosure will bring disgrace,
Not that there is any thing with it
Wrong or right
Or right or wrong
It is mine (not min,)
I hope yer all fine with that
But let's begin:
stolen, from the plant to Palm
A group of ants is called a colony.**
A group of aunts is called a book club.
A group of sparrows is called a host.
A group of men named James is called late-night hosts.
A group of millennials who look different is called a marketing campaign.
A group of millennials who look the same is called a brunch.
A group of millennials who have laptops is called a co-working space.
A group of gorillas is called a troop.
A group of white men is called an improv troupe.
A group of buzzards is called a wake.
A group of liberals calls itself woke.
A group of geese is called a gaggle.
A group of crows is called a murder.
An informal gathering of members of the media
by the White House press secretary
used to be called a press gaggle.
It is now called a press murder.
Briefer, reefer would cure this mess
Junket
A hot mess?
A group of murders is called a “Game of Thrones” finale.
A group of donkeys is called a drove.
A group of scenes featuring Ryan Gosling behind the wheel of a car is called “Drive.”
A group of whales is called a pod.
A group of fish is called so gross
why are all these fish here?
An angry group of pedestrians is called New York.
An angry group of traffic is called Los Angeles.
An angry group of states you can’t name is called the Midwest.
A gathering of cows is called a herd.
Or so I've heard
A gathering of random strangers is called Hell.
A cancelled gathering is called
sweet, sweet
relief.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 20, 2017 - 05:07am PT
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A maniple was a tactical Roman military group of approximately 200 men: a two-century maniple.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
It is the day of the Summer Solstice.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 20, 2017 - 06:09am PT
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jun 20, 2017 - 06:17am PT
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Herumph! Hey ? I was listening to thatz!
Yo! To try to explain in yer overheated state, I don't want you to blow a gasket, you video share disappeared then came back?,I guess it is a time travel thing
A lost doctor Who spot a Tardis moment :
Bigger on the inside' carry on
I'm gonna get some photo-postin' time I'm told but. . . . .
A Flounder dies
I never really got why he made the cut
There was also a report that Richard Belzer?
"Detective Munch" from Law & Order, SVU,
was too, ( had died)
but Not so much !
it seems to be -true dat-
that the to much$$ to just to batter -dip 'n fry
has in fact left the stage!
I sat spellbound at the feet of Andy ( to me ) McCarthy, he sang "Love Poition #9" in full Elvis impression at the age of 15 and by 30 his Hollywood weird was so pronounced he acted as if it that those nights in Highschool never happened, so I called him out, and called him
He had very little to say
Then in the commissary I so tan and buff in shorts and other cut off stuff attracted , with my climbing tag-along, all sorts of anyway it feels good stuff to my sisters big angry fake smile
She told'imz that IWas being a F*Hag, but I sat at the table making eyes at you know who?
Johnny Travolta
I was such good eye candy long ago
Flame on. ( Paily POS paulSchaffer, returns ? Ironic)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 20, 2017 - 04:03pm PT
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"And his folks, as far as he knows 'em, were like everybody else:
cheese-makers and mouse-trap salesmen -- nice stupid people."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 20, 2017 - 04:05pm PT
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jun 20, 2017 - 04:19pm PT
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Quote post-. :-/m told today, so x'd or86d, IWas never here.
Stay cooling in the pools in the liqued corners of your mind.
As your doing, ))((( V e ert* cooling . . .
*Very,extreme extrasensory remote travel
I'm no log sittin' lizard, can't bear the. Heat no mo
Trying the wrestling the window unit, the stiffed knee led to compensation and dig that!?
A new pain in the back !
Looking for a double nickel massage. A dliberate sports massage, a phisio vist would be who know how much more?
Still more ie be misunderstood its daddy-o's Arts & Crafts.
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 20, 2017 - 06:18pm PT
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News'O'San Diego. It's ok for SD boyz to call their band The Slants. Supreme Court say so.
Why it was never an issue for The Slits? I do not know, they are not from SD.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 20, 2017 - 06:27pm PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 20, 2017 - 10:55pm PT
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Six categories tonight on Double Jeopardy! were named using references to Dylan songs, "Tangled Up In Blue," for example, and not for the first time, either.
This heat nearly did me in as I was walking from the elevator on five to see was Decker around tonight. Got very dizzy and made it to his door (not home), sat on the fire escape to cool off in the breeze coming out of the hallway (warm, but moving air). Took a hit on my inhaler and thought how it is with old people who have heart problems (like moi) who perish in heat waves, unable to summon help, cursing Alex, cursing the weatherman, and sweating to death, all the while feeling like they are freezing, too.
I was able to get up, get home, and catch the Double J round following a cool shower and lie-down.
See, I found out the other day that by having Comcast providing my internet, I have their "xfinity" selection at my fingertips, as well, and now I don't feel so bad about paying high fees to the Comcastrians.
And fug those chinks, where can I get me a fold-up rockin' chair?
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Jun 20, 2017 - 11:18pm PT
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hey there say, ... nice chaps stuff, zbrown... :)
say, neat river share, mouse!
also, dear feralfae... will try to call on thurs...
or friday...
had to help someone, today and tomorrow... :O
:) miss you!!!!
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 21, 2017 - 02:22am PT
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:) miss you!!!!
Say there, hey, yourself, and such.
You don't have to be here much.
You're like a mouse a-hidin' in a hutch.
We can sense your mystic, biding touch.
[Click to View YouTube Video]"Some of the drops do sparkle."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 21, 2017 - 05:19am PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 21, 2017 - 07:55am PT
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WyoRockMan
climber
Grizzlyville, WY
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Jun 21, 2017 - 10:14am PT
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Little dog cowsh1t
Spa day on the farm, tis hot
Cold bath make for shake
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