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Bob Dylan’s Super Bowl

Bob Dylan sells out

Bob Dylan Super Bowl CommercialSeattle Seahogs 43    Denver Broncos 8


Yeh yeh yeh…I’m gonna drive around now in my brand new shiny Chrysler 200, sucking on a 12-pak of Pepsi…with”The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll” humming, whirring, clanking out of the jukebox (car radio tuned to 89.9 WORT) as the last dregs of twilight are sucked in to the darkness and little stars flicker on the ceiling of the world. My grocery bag is stuffed with Greek Yoghurt and that will sustain me, at least until morning reveals the truth.

I would let Germany brew my beer, and usually, they do…but you can’t forget that some of the best beer is brewed here in America. I’ll stack up the Trolls Gold and the North Star Dunkel from The Grumpy Troll right here in Mt. Horeb with any of their German equivalents. And since Bob Dylan was sprechgesangen about made in Detroit and all that in his Chrysler 200 Super Bowl Commercial…


Chrysler 200 Bob Dylan

…Well….maybe he ought to hop into that motherfucker and take a drive up Woodward Ave to Warren, Michigan and have a few pops at the Kuhnhenn Brewery. Or if he doesn’t want to flee the city, he could cruise over to Atwater Block in his shiny black Chrysler 200 for a shiny black Voodoo Vator.  Or swing into the Detroit Beer Company right downtown ((duck under the monorail and tuck into nice Local 1529 IPA)). Hell, there’s lots of fockin’ great beer made all over the Detroit area.



bob dylan chrysler 200 cadillac escalade commercialsNow…where did I park that Cadillac Escalade…??


“Sheeeet….I was reet moofockin’ wrong aboot beer in Amerika…..I’ll take a grooler of VodooVator to go…..”


So despite my vague and perhaps wrong-headed liking of Bob Dylan’s Chrysler 200 Super Bowl Commercial ((®©$£€¥™)) I’m finding plenty of malt, yeast, and hops there to cook up something here. Just add water, and VOILA!!

My old pal Stan Erickson from Appleton might never read this post, but he did inspire me to write it, from a safe distance of 127 miles give or take through the magic of text messages….magic, of course, because he maintains the confounding integrity of a determinedly Luddite stance. Yet, he DOES have a cell phone… though I can’t say for sure if it has Android capabilities. In short, he’s determined to be smarter than his phone. And despite the frustrations that presents to me in my abilities to communicate with him with the precision and clarity I would prefer, I have to admire his stance.

But as much as I do, it’s not quite the same as it was, back in the day. This is my fanzine of sorts now, I suppose ((also, online sadness diary and bloog)). So being online is essential to reading it….which I suppose falls into the order of saying that people die when they are killed from loss of blood. And there’s a wistful sadness in all this. It really isn’t the same gestalt anymore as it was when my old publishing partner Joe Alt and I banged out our SF fanzine Intergalactic Starbarn on a real Adler J5 and and xeroxed or mimeod copies to distribute, in person or by snail mail. Now, these little fanzines, if you will, are over the Wired and thus some some lonesome pilgrim in Croatia, Japan, Singapore, Brazil or Red Bud, Illinois USA and can simply plug in and give it a read.

Yes, Asia assembled this computer I’m using. I don’t wear a watch so fock Switzerland (more on that in a moment). And by golly, Bob Dylan was spot on….Germany did brew my beer…DAB for those of you keeping score in Santiago, Chile and Des Moines, Iowa where two of my latest readers are from.

But like that fucking Chrysler 200 this bloog is Made In America (although not in Detroit) so there ya focking go.

As for Switzerland, I have to tell you how most people find my little online sadness diary.

The Number 1 search term that people use to find me is: Tits at Talladega, or some variation on that theme. ((My wife is sooooo proud of my for that, btw….)). Makes sense since twice a year I abandon all shreds of dignity, style, and culture and do a little bit of an anime fan-service number in NASCAR’s most insane race. It’s Talladega, Baby, and you knew what THAT means! Yes indeed you do. So do a lot of intrepid pilgrims from all over the planet, from Africa, and even from the former Communist Countries.

The Number 2 search term is a little more disturbing if you stop for a moment, get out that Chrysler 200 in some deserted, lost soul area of Detroit, and think about it. And having thought about it, you would abandon that car in place, stash those growlers of VoodooVator into a rucksack, and hop the next CSX freight that was crawling out of town. The Number 2 search term is…..Boys Love (or some variation on that theme). Again, the destination they are led to on my site is either a smartass Talladega post from back when tandem drafting first reared it’s ugly head. Or, it’s post I wrote about a UEFA CHampions League qualifying  clash Tottenham Hotspur and BSC Young Boys from Bern, Switzerland. Now I don’t know what these sick fucks were looking for, nor do I want to know, but I’m quite certain they didn’t find it here.

OK. So here we are. Dylan has abandoned the Chrysler in a part of Detroit where nobody wants to go and is riding the rails out of town. I’m floating somewhere above where the ancient ruins of the old Tiger Stadium once stood and I’m running out of hot air. I never really meant to write about the Super Bowl anyway. I just happened to float this way. I never really bought a Chrysler and I don’t drink Pepsi.

I drive a Ford. That, too was built in Detroit, and it’s a better car than just about any Chrysler ever built. We’ve covered the beer, the watch, the electronics.

Maybe the world is Bob Dylan’s Super Bowl. And bully for him I suppose.

Meanwhile, Mr. Beckman is up to something. But that, Chelsea FC, and NASCAR can wait.


that's all for today


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