"Van fully intended to become Dylan's best friend, but the whole time we were there they never met." She winced at the memory. "Every time we'd drive past Dylan's house--Van didn't drive, I did--Van would just stare wistfully out the window at the gravel road leading to Dylan's place. He thought Dylan was the only contemporary worthy of his attention. But back then, Bob just wasn't interested in him." Janet Rigsbee, Morrison's then spouse
June 1: Didn't see Bobbo.
June 2: Spent day standing about on the road outside Bob's house. No sign of Bobbo.
June 13: Spent day on Bobbo's shed roof. A bleeding pigeon tried to bugger me. I would like to think my attempt to meet Bob will help me write new material. What new material? Nobody wants to listen to a song about being sodomized by a bleeding pigeon.
June 24: Ran after Bobbo's car. Ran like mad, I did. I clearly saw him looking out the back window at me as his car receded into the distance. He was smiling!
July 5: Spent the day drawing up the blueprints for a large Bob Dylan trap.
July 9: Successfully trapped Bob Dylan's dog. I know it's his dog, because the name on the little golden dog collar was "Bob Dylan, Jr."
July 23: Your Dylan is a slippery creature. I spent the entire night in a tree in his backyard, with a view of his bedroom window. Unfortunately he spotted me, and proceeded to take potshots at me with a small bore rifle. He said, "You're either a bear, or Van Morrison. And bears don't climb trees. Or plead in an Irish accent!"
August 11: Still recovering from bullet wounds. Why hasn't Bob come to wish me a speedy recovery?
August 20: I may as well face it, Bobbo doesn't want anything to do with me. Is it my rolypolyness? My dank Irish soul? My de do bop, de do bop a doo dooness? Oh, domino!
August 91: I know, there is no August 91, not in a sane person's world. But I'm drinking a quart of Irish whiskey a day. Yesterday I hid in a convenient trench outside Bob's house. At noon a cement mixer arrived and filled it with cement. It would appear that I'm now part of Bob Dylan's carport. Perhaps I can write a song about that.*
*Morrison's song "Brown Eyed Carport" inexplicably failed to chart in November 1970. Nor did its flipside, "Astral Pigeon Sodomy."
Takes me back to the night I hung out in the shadows across the street from Isabel St. Clairs place waiting for her to come out. I'm not sure what i was going to do when she did.
I finally gave up on her coming out and started hoofing it back to my car 2 blocks away. On the way, a set of headlights appeared and began to slow down, then stopped right next to me. Isabel sticks her head out the passenger window..."Steve, what are you doing here?"
It was a real Van der Sloot moment.
I can only hope that was the last time I did anything really creepy. TI'm fairly sure it wasn't.
Posted by: Steve | June 25, 2010 at 03:57 PM
"a real Van der Sloot moment."
Thanks for the laugh, Steve. As usual, you've cheered me up. Have a great weekend, pal.
Posted by: UF Mike | June 25, 2010 at 04:23 PM