Honestly, fuck Bob Dylan.

Ha ha ha ha, bloody hell. Twenty one days of sobriety, day one. Despite the mild hangover I had this morning, I’m finding it hard to stop thinking of a beer. There’s nothing like fucking denying yourself something to make you want it all the more. Speaking of which, Bob Dylan should probably deny himself the right to go out in the world and get on stage. Then he might actually want to do it, which might even lead to a minor reduction in the contempt he has for all those poor suckers who keep spending their fucking money to support the useless bastard. Really, if you want to pay good money to be treated like shit, go and get yourselves a fucking dominatrix. At least then you might actually blow a happy load in the process.

Anyway, back to the booze (or not). Hank Moody is back again, and is once again trying to fuck up my desire not to be a fuck up. What’s worse is there is still a LOT of leftover booze staring at me every time I open the bloody fridge. I have been sleeping a lot again lately. Don’t worry kids, that’s all going to come to a grinding halt in a week or so, when I am going back to being gainfully employed… what I am going to gain (apart from a paltry paycheque) is yet to be determined. I certainly know what I am going to lose: a lot of wastable time; at least a few hours a week of sleep; probably a little bit of my sense of self, which is all caught up in my creative output and shit anyway, so who’d have any fucking idea whether I lost any of it anyway?

Jesus, I think something, I really out to just divide my time between drinking and writing, or maybe just do both at once. I’m not sure that I’ve ever seriously given that a go actually, drunken writing. I’ve tried stoned, and that really doesn’t work. See the amount of nonsense I put out when I am trying to be all healthy and sober and whatnot? My brain is not used to functioning at this rate, and can’t quite keep up with itself.

Twenty more sunsets of this? I am going to be a bloody mess by the end of it. I might need to check myself into a mental health clinic by that time… oh, no, wait. I’ll have a job before then won’t I. Ah, well, that’ll cure all thoughts of bettering myself, and dreams of greatness. Sorted.


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on May 1st, 2011.

2 Responses to “Honestly, fuck Bob Dylan.”

  1. Apparently others share your view of Dylan:


    Also, spoke to Pete D who was ropeable about blowing his cash on BD at the Entertainment Centre… he didn’t recognise a single song, despite being an avid fan from the ’60s on!

    • But not everyone thinks that way. Apparently some of them think we are blessed by the mere presence of the guy:

      Dear X-press,

      I can’t believe all the negative comments that people published about Bob Dylan’s performance on your Facebook page. What is wrong with people in this city? He is the most important artist to make it to Perth this year, and what does everyone do? Complain about it.
      Anyone who has listened to any of Bob Dylan’s records might have picked up on the fact that his voice is crap. He can’t sing; he never has been able to sing; he’s not the type of character to get singing lessons and gargle milk just because he’s going to Fremantle to play in front of a bunch of ingrates.
      Which brings me to my next point, yes he hung out in the back of the stage and didn’t have the camera zoomed in on his face, but that’s because he has utter contempt for his audience. That’s nothing new, in fact the first song he play (Gonna Change My Way Of Thinking) is all about him getting sick and tired of people calling him the messiah.
      Everyone who attended the Bob Dylan show should feel privileged that the performer actually feels something about you because I imagine for the rest of the acts on the bill the fact that you were watching them is neither here nor there to them.

      Michelle Tideschi
      Via Email

      To which I reply:


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