Who Died? Leonard Cohen, that's who.

I thought things couldn't get worse. How foolish.

Leonard Cohen was my songwriting idol. A mentor, dark but right, funny but sad. He was the most respected, the best, the elder. Most songwriters reject the idea that they are poets. John Prine said recently, "If I wanted to be a poet, I'd write poems." But Leonard Cohen was a poet. Besides his poems, his songs are worth reading, not just hearing. In fact, he liked them naked, all that dressing up that other musicians use to hide their weaknesses, not necessary, distracting. I liked his songs naked too.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded

Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed

Everybody knows that the war is over

Everybody knows the good guys lost

Everybody knows the fight was fixed

The poor stay poor, the rich get rich

That's how it goes

Everybody knows

Cohen worked really hard on his songs. Not a slam-bam improvised look-at-me artist type. A careful craftsman and a Zen master. I read about one that he wouldn't record because one verse wasn't exactly right. He'd lived with this masterpiece for 18 years. I read the text, and the verse was fine, and the song was great. But, yes, something wasn't perfect about that one verse.

I said to Hank Williams: how lonely does it get?

Hank Williams hasn't answered yet

But I hear him coughing all night long

A hundred floors above me

In the Tower of Song

Leonard Cohen died at the wrong time. We're distracted right now. But a hundred years on people will still be singing his profound, intelligent, beautiful lyrics, while the Donald's name will be a mere synonym for the mortification of the soul.

I did my best, it wasn't much

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah ...

Thank you, Leonard.

Martin

Worst Night of My Life

Who died? First my father, then my uncle, then my country.

I spent the last 40 hours pacing the figurative hospital ward watching Al Jazeera and BBC (can't stomach Wolf Blitzer), shocked and outraged, hurt and sad. My homeland is dead.

There goes democracy. There goes the rule of law. There go checks and balances. There goes the Truth. There goes quality public education. There goes a livable minimum wage. Union organizing power. Racial equality. Gender equality. Religious equality. And there goes my health insurance. I can't afford premiums that exceed my salary. And there goes the Ukraine. There go our Nato alliances. There goes the A-bomb. (oops)

A strong, decent, qualified woman was defeated by the KKK-KGB-FBI-Wikileaks coalition. Love trumps hate? You wish, Hill, you wish. Hate won, fear won, unapologetic racism won, nasty middle finger nationalism. They're buying lynching ropes and firebombs for Southern churches right now. They're wearing their side-arms to the minimart to buy beer while they keep their military weapons in the back of the pickup. They're planning the mass deportations and round-ups of illegals (i.e., human beings filled with hope we gave them). The wall already exists in the Trumpists' minds against everyone the least bit different from Ozzie and Harriet, even among people who've never heard of Ozzie and Harriet. And the archetypal choice was dramatic: Public servant vs. Ruthless capitalist. Is that the sound of goose-steps? Trump voters, you can't say later, "We didn't know."

Trump's already forming his Anti-Washington, Anti-Establishment team composed of old hack politicians and insiders. What? Yeah, and I thought people voted according to the question: Are you better off now than eight years ago? Or can't y'all remember back then, the Second Great Depression, stock market crash, housing foreclosures, lay-offs, you really think America's worse now? Show me the figures. 'Hey, we don't need no stinkin' figures.'

Berlusconi ruined the lives of normal Italians for twenty years. I know, I am one. Rape culture towards women, rape culture towards the Earth, rape culture towards economic parity, rape culture towards culture, rape culture towards critical thinking. (I use the R-word both literally and figuratively. As you know, one third of all women are raped and/or beaten in their lifetimes.) Now the crass American version of Macho-Man can look down on the world from his ugly tower and think, "Wow, I can do whatever the fuck I want." This two-bit scammer, psycho, pervert, violent bully is now the most dangerous man on the planet. The King. With his hair on fire.

Italians ask me how Hillary won the popular vote and lost. Incomprehensible, dysfunctional system. Polls not worth shit. Commentators full of gas. Demographics, my ass. 'Latino surge' 'Women against sexual predators', 'Millennials', etc., where, what? All I see is red. And "working class" is now a synonym for brainwashed, for National Enquirer believers, slogan reciters, Sieg Heilers. So the big question: Why did Hillary lose? Answer: Because she's a woman. Period.

Oh man, they're toasting in Moscow tonight! They finally got their bitches into power. Trump's cabinet looks like: Mike Tyson, minister of sexual assault; Ted Nugent, minister of filth, David Duke, minister of Nazi Resurgence, Pete Rose, minister of cheating, Sarah Palin, minister of nonsense, Tia Tequila, minister of sicko porn, and Dennis Rodman, minister of mental illness. DT: "And BTW, kids, while I'm gone, save my crumbling empire from implosion. Let's make some money out of this. And if this deal doesn't work out, I'll just go back on TV. After bankruptcy."

Dude, what have you been smoking? Climate change is a Chinese hoax? More fossil fuel consumption is the answer to the environmental crisis? Close the EPA, abandon the Paris Accords? Animals exist to be shot? Asbestos got a bad rap? Coal is clean? Are we in some True-is-false/false-is-true Nightmare Sci-Fi Alternate Reality TV World? Well, at least his wife, the new First Lady, is not an android.

Speaking of women, listen, let me ask you Trumpmen something; it's okay, isn't it, if another guy grabs your wife/daughter/girlfriend/mother by the pussy, right? Doesn't bother you, does it? You'd do the same. That's what you voted for. Pussy-grabbing legitimization. Women are all Barbie dolls anyway, worthy of a photo shoot, clothed or naked, but not truly equals. On their knees, God made women to service men, right? Disgusted yet? It's okay, you don't believe in evolution anyway. Women's rights, civil rights, the rights of the disabled, religious freedom, free speech, women's body freedom, LGBT rights, minority rights and protections: fuck all that, everybody get back to the stone age! And they're already shooting in LA and Seattle.

Do-overs? Let the Trumpster-Trickster crash and burn first? Like a vaccine, you drink poison to keep healthy? Maybe. Will another Movement spring up to bring down the Man? Calling young militants. Come in. Come in.

I didn't actually vote, you know. That is, as a teaching trick I asked my students to advise me, especially on the state propositions. We filled out my absentee ballot in class. Good thing I agreed with their choices. But this was an historic moment for me. I finally came out. No more pseudo-neutrality. I am a proud progressive, son of proud progressives. I previously hesitated to publically express my liberal-radical opinions, because I didn't want my students to be shy about expressing theirs, whatever they are. And I didn't identify as Democrat. But now? Fair and balanced? Fuck that, I need to be myself. I'm old enough, I've earned it. Plus, there's no going back. Now it's Obama, Hillary, Sanders, Warren, you and me against the Dark Side of the Force. That scary clown is not my president.

So I say to myself:

Stay Strong.

Stay Focused.

Don't Give Up the Fight.

Martin

Groaners Rebooted: the pre-quel

Mutt: Howdy Doody, Your Royal Jeff-ness.
Jeff: Does Howdy doody?, I ask. In the woods? Next to the Pope and his bear? There's a question worth asking.
Mutt: You know I was wondering why sharks live in salt water.
Jeff: That's easy. Pepper water makes them sneeze.
Mutt: So why do cows have hooves instead of feet? Do you know that?
Jeff: Because they lactose.
Mutt: Oowah!
Jeff: And do you know how Moses makes tea?
Mutt: How?
Jeff: Hebrews it.
Mutt: Oh, Israeli how he does it?
Jeff: Really. And what about the guy who got crushed to death by a pile of books?
Mutt: He's only got his shelf to blame.
Jeff: I found out yesterday that one of my ancestors invented the glove. Well, he didn't actually invent it, but he had a hand in it.
Mutt: Know how to make an elevator sad? By depressing all the buttons.
Jeff: And when you have a bladder infection, urine trouble.
Mutt: Easy come, easy go. Just saying.
Jeff: Did you bet on the World Series?
Mutt: The 1908? 'Course, I bet on everything. Lost, though.
Jeff: Do you know why the stadium heated up after the baseball game?
Mutt: I guess because all the fans left.
Jeff: And the best thing about Switzerland?
Mutt: That I don't know, but their flag's a huge plus.
Jeff: I'm reading a book about anti-gravity. It's impossible to put down.
Mutt: Okay, but did you hear what the pirate said on his 80th birthday?
Jeff: Aye Matey.
Mutt: For the love of Mike.
Jeff: And Bud Fisher (1907, San Francisco Chronicle)

Groaners 2: Back With a Vengeance

Mutt: It's not your fault.
Jeff: Why do you keep saying that?
Mutt: That's what they say on TV. You know, Special Agent Gibbs sits next to a kid who just killed his family and says ...
Jeff: Did you hear about the guy who burned his Hawaiian pizza?
Mutt: What? Oh man, he should have put it on aloha setting.
Jeff: 6:30 is the best time on a clock... hands down.
Mutt: Ugh. So what do you call a fish with two knees?
Jeff: Um... a tunee fish?
Mutt: What do you call an alligator that wears a vest?
Jeff: Dunno.
Mutt: An investigator, of course.
Jeff: Of course. And why do milking stools have three legs?
Mutt: Milking stools?
Jeff: You didn't milk cows when you were growing up in the Bronx?
Mutt: No, but I know the answer. Why do milking stools have three legs? Because the cow has the udder.
Jeff: Congrats. And what do you call a dinosaur with no eyes?
Mutt: I know this one. It's ... doyouthinkhesaurus.
Jeff: Congrats. And what do you call a blind dinosaur's dog?
Mutt: Doyouthinkhesaurus Rex.
Jeff: So a limbo champion walks into a bar ... and loses his title.
Mutt: A Roman walks into a bar. He holds up two fingers and says, "Five beers, please."
Jeff: The bartender says, "We don't serve time travellers here." Two time travellers walk into a bar.
Mutt: I walked into an electronics store the other day, and I saw a TV in the window for sale. The sticker said, "TV for sale, volume stuck on full. 1$." So I thought to myself, "Wow, I can't turn that down!"
Jeff: What was on?
Mutt: Agent Gibbs telling a kid, "It's not your fault."
Jeff: Special Agent.
Mutt: Then I left his office, and I farted in the elevator.
Jeff: I know, I know, it was wrong on so many levels.

Groaners and Super-Groaners

Mutt: We're back!
Jeff: See you in C.U.B.A.
Mutt: It wasn't your fault.
Jeff: Well, I'm certainly not blaming my nephew, Nicolas, for sending me horrible jokes.
Mutt: I'm not blaming Nicolas either, whoever said they were his fault. You know, it's hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs because they always take things literally.
Jeff: Just saying.
Mutt: Yeah Nicolas told me that he heard a backwards symphony coming from Beethoven's grave.
Jeff: Turns out he was decomposing.
Mutt: Yesterday I was cleaning out the spice rack and discovered everything was expired.
Jeff: Oh no, what a waste of thyme!
Mutt: While we're in the kitchen, tell me Jeffery, how do you make holy water?
Jeff: That's easy. You boil the hell out of it.
Mutt: I was going to tell you a joke about pizza, but it was too cheesy.
Jeff: Did you hear about the cheese factory in France that blew up?
Mutt: No, I didn't.
Jeff: There was nothing left but de Brie.
Mutt: That's so wrong.
Jeff: I had a dream last night that I was drowning in an ocean of orange soda. Then I woke up this morning and realized it was just a Fanta Sea.
Mutt: They say that eating a clock is very time consuming.
Jeff: Yeah. Hey, why did the prune go out with the raisin?
Mutt: I don't know. Maybe they couldn't find dates.
Jeff: Speaking of reptiles, do you know a reptile's favorite pasta?
Mutt: If I'm not mistaken that would be Turtle-ini.
Jeff: Very good. And have you heard about the new movie, "Constipation"?
Mutt: No.
Jeff: That's probably because it hasn't come out yet.
Mutt: What's the matter?
Jeff: It's stuck in production.
Mutt: Oh mercy.
Jeff: Okay, say goodbye Mutt.
Mutt: Which reminds me: Do you know what the buffalo said to his son when he left for college?
Jeff: What?
Mutt: Bison.
(groaning sounds)

I CALLED IT IN NOVEMBER 2011

Nobel Prize for Bob Dylan

I’ve thought about this. Only one living American deserves the Nobel Prize for Literature: Bob Dylan. If you think of the protest singer cliché proposed by superficial media (the 20-year-old Times are a-Changin’ guy) you miss the point: Bob Dylan is an exceptional writer. His production is mammoth in quantity and consistent quality. Don’t get sucked into dividing his work in periods (Folk, Electric, Gospel, etc.), and don’t, of course, react either way to his other skills: guitar, harmonica and keyboard playing, singing, music writer, producer, his rock star personality and general mystique—forget all that. Lastly, don’t be influenced by the songs that are famous hits because they got more radio play. Read the lyrics.

Read the songs as songs. Songs are songs with their own rules. Dylan has respected and violated them all. Songs are cousins to poems but are not poems. Bob Dylan is not a poet. Sharon Olds is a poet. Dylan is a writer, a song writer. [Actually the texts can't be divorced from the music and performance, but I'm making a point here.] He creates literature more enduring and significant than most. He’s affected the lives of millions. I dare say no American writer ever has had the raw impact of Bob Dylan. Who? Twain, Whitman, Dickinson, James, Hemingway, Who? Dr. Suess? Matt Groening? Who? Hundreds of thousands of boys, for example, are named Dylan in honor of this literary/musical giant. Lives changed. The whole world changed. And his imitative effect on other song-writers …

In high school, Dylan dreamed of being Elvis. They both made musical history (and beautiful music, if you like it), but Dylan also made literary history. From Freewheelin’ to Together Through Life, Bob Dylan has consistently written fine literary lyrics. “Like a Rolling Stone,” “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall,” “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” “Just Like a Woman,” “Love Sick,” “All Along the Watchtower,” “Shelter from the Storm,” “Not Dark Yet,” “Forever Young,” “Hurricane,” “Blind Willie McTell,” “Gotta Serve Somebody,” “Working Man Blues,” etcetera. Hundreds of ‘em.

Get all the forty-some records of original material and listen to them all (you masochists). Instead of the highs and lows that everyone talks about, I hear a master at work throughout (which doesn't make every work a masterpiece). I hear writing so hard it seems easy. I hear a child making nonsense rhymes in the playpen combined with Grandpa giving precious advice on living. Contemporary rock 'n roll (teenage fans filling stadiums for a 70-year-old?) combined with ageless tradition, rich oral-musical-literary tradition. Bob Dylan knows his stuff (music and lit.): listen to his fantastic radio show (Theme Time Radio Hour on XM Satellite Radio), you’ll see.

So to celebrate Dylan’s seventieth birthday, May 24, 2011, I officially propose he be given the 2012 Nobel Prize for Literature. Sweden, are you listening?

Plus, a student of mine told me today that her favorite song is “Bowling in the Wind.”

My three favorite Dylan records (you tell me yours):

1. Oh Mercy

2. Modern Times

3. Time Out of Mind

Happy trials, Martin

Uncle Nik