Greetings and welcome to this 38th edition of the Carnival of Fools! More of an interlude, really; as I mentioned in the prelude to last week’s performance, the big beasts are exhausted and spavined after months of hoofing it nonstop to the flow of political nonsense. Now we’ve just crested Memorial Day weekend, and to pull back the curtain for a moment, I shall reveal to you that this column is typically written and filed on Mondays. I wouldn’t want to disappoint readers with a full-scale break from the Carnival, however, so we’re trotting out some shabby pantomime horses to entertain you this week instead of your typical wild outrage. For once, it seems even national politics decided to take a temporary vacation — and yet the show goes on.
The President Observes a Holiday
From the desk of President Donald J. Trump, a Memorial Day observation:
HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY TO ALL, INCLUDING THE SCUM THAT SPENT THE LAST FOUR YEARS TRYING TO DESTROY OUR COUNTRY THROUGH WARPED RADICAL LEFT MINDS, WHO ALLOWED 21,000,000 MILLION PEOPLE TO ILLEGALLY ENTER OUR COUNTRY, MANY OF THEM BEING CRIMINALS AND THE MENTALLY INSANE,THROUGH AN OPEN BORDER THAT ONLY AN INCOMPETENT PRESIDENT WOULD APPROVE, AND THROUGH JUDGES WHO ARE ON A MISSION TO KEEP MURDERERS, DRUG DEALERS, RAPISTS, GANG MEMBERS, AND RELEASED PRISONERS FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD, IN OUR COUNTRY SO THEY CAN ROB, MURDER, AND RAPE AGAIN — ALL PROTECTED BY THESE USA HATING JUDGES WHO SUFFER FROM AN IDEOLOGY THAT IS SICK, AND VERY DANGEROUS FOR OUR COUNTRY. HOPEFULLY THE UNITED STATES SUPREME COURT, AND OTHER GOOD AND COMPASSIONATE JUDGES THROUGHOUT THE LAND, WILL SAVE US FROM THE DECISIONS OF THE MONSTERS WHO WANT OUR COUNTRY TO GO TO HELL. BUT FEAR NOT, WE HAVE MADE GREAT PROGRESS OVER THE LAST 4 MONTHS, AND AMERICA WILL SOON BE SAFE AND GREAT AGAIN! AGAIN, HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY, AND GOD BLESS AMERICA!
More traditionally, the president also laid a ceremonial wreath and gave brief remarks at Arlington National Cemetery yesterday.
Bob Dylan, Absolute Legend
Bob Dylan turned 84 on Saturday, and what a wonderful thing it is to be able to say that Dylan is still out there touring, sounding better in recent months vocally than he has in decades. (He still sings with a smoked-out husk of a voice, but ever since he recorded his “standards” album, he has sported a nuance and inflectional control remarkable for a man his age.) Inspired by the working methodology of the Grateful Dead, Dylan embarked upon his so-called “Never Ending Tour” all the way back in 1989 and has never left the road since, except for the occasional album recording session or health emergency.
In fact, ol’ Bob is feeling so full of energy these days that he’s now breaking some of his own most sacred private taboos. For a latter-day road-hound, one thing Dylan has always been notoriously unwilling to do is play on his birthday, May 24. And yet there he was a few days ago in Ridgefield, Wash., of all places, cranking out yet another show with a smile — okay, an inscrutably gruff look — on his face.
And yet nothing can ever really hope to top the one time he played a birthday show during his young heyday. On May 24, 1966, Bob Dylan was in Europe on his hectic and legendary Blonde on Blonde tour with the Hawks (soon to be known as the Band), and he was in a terrible mood. He had already been booed by crowds up and down England for his divisive new “electric” material, regularly accosted by journalists and radical students alike with cries of having “sold out” to the materialist gods of rock music. Only the week before, Dylan had been heckled as “Judas” near the end of a show — mustering a response that instantly entered music history.
Now he had to make a quick jump across the English Channel to Paris for one show, his first ever in France — and on his birthday, no less. Upon his arrival, the French media immediately displayed their disdain for this up-jumped arriviste to the world of high art, mocked his expensive hotel lodgings, and inquired as to why he was not resisting the Vietnam War like any good young Marxist should. It was at this point he turned to his manager Albert Grossman and made a simple request: “I want you to get me the largest f***ing American flag you can find.”
Grossman did. And Dylan had it hung behind him and the Hawks as he played that night, his first set a bizarre mockery of his typical acoustic performances, and his second set a massively amplified middle finger to the bemused crowd. For once, the French did not know how to react: They had expected Dylan to come begging for their favor. Instead they got Old Glory and rock and roll. (“I wanna get out of here as fast as you wanna get out of here,” he snarls to a theater full of hostile Frenchmen midway through his first set.) Happy 84th, Bob, and it’s great to see you still on the road, heading for another joint.
Until next week.