Bob Dylan has a pair of poems, titled “17” and “21,” in the new issue of The New Yorker. All well and good, but I fear that some contrarians won’t be convinced of his genius until he pens a caption for a cartoon. [The New Yorker]
I love Bob Dylan, but these poems are really subpar. “17” is a restatement of the themes in Ballad of a Thin Man, but without music accompanying, it sounds flakey and all over the place. That said, I love his Marlon Brando conclusion. “21” is just plain bad, and tho it evokes some nice 1930s+40s noir (it reminds me of Sunset Blvd), it’s also a total cliche in 2008.
So, yeah, Bobby D. Stick to the music.
Forget the caption. He should do a cover. The guy can paint.
Umm, like this Contrarian?
The cat is saying “I’ve enjoyed reading your E-mail”.
I’m disappointed that “17” didn’t have at least a veiled reference to Kip Winger.
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