June 14, 2007

No big deal. Just 3 stories.





This is Steve Jobs Stanford Commencement Speech.
Take your time. It worth it.

Bob Dylan's Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie


Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb/ When you think you’re too old, too young, too smart or too dumb/ When yer laggin’ behind an’ losin’ yer pace/ In a slow-motion crawl of life’s busy race/ No matter what yer doing if you start givin’ up/ If the wine don’t come to the top of yer cup/ If the wind’s got you sideways with with one hand holdin’ on/ And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone/ And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it/ And the wood’s easy findin’ but yer lazy to fetch it/ And yer sidewalk starts curlin’ and the street gets too long/ And you start walkin’ backwards though you know it’s wrong/ And lonesome comes up as down goes the day/ And tomorrow’s mornin’ seems so far away/ And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin’/ And yer rope is a-slidin’ ’cause yer hands are a-drippin’/ And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys/ Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys/ And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe’s a-pourin’/ And the lightnin’s a-flashing and the thunder’s a-crashin’/ And the windows are rattlin’ and breakin’ and the roof tops a-shakin’/ And yer whole world’s a-slammin’ and bangin’/ And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm/ And to yourself you sometimes say/ I never knew it was gonna be this way/ Why didn’t they tell me the day I was born/ And you start gettin’ chills and yer jumping from sweat/ And you’re lookin’ for somethin’ you ain’t quite found yet/ And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air/ And the whole world’s a-watchin’ with a window peek stare/ And yer good gal leaves and she’s long gone a-flying/ And yer heart feels sick like fish when they’re fryin’/ And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet/ And you need it badly but it lays on the street/ And yer bell’s bangin’ loudly but you can’t hear it’s beat/ And you think yer ears might a been hurt/ Or yer eyes’ve turned filthy from the sight-blindin’ dirt/ And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush/ When you were faked out an’ fooled white facing a four flush/ And all the time you were holdin’ three queens/ And it’s makin you mad, it’s makin’ you mean/ Like in the middle of life magazine/ Bouncin’ around a pinball machine/ And there’s something on yer mind you wanna be saying/ That somebody someplace oughta be hearin’/ But it’s trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head/ And it bothers you badly when your layin’ in bed/ And no matter how you try you just can’t say it/ And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it/ And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head/ And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead/ And the lion’s mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth/ And his jaws start closin with you underneath/ And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind/ And you wish you’d never taken that last detour sign/ And you say to yourself just what am I doin’/ On this road I’m walkin’, on this trail I’m turnin’/ On this curve I’m hanging/ On this pathway I’m strolling, in the space I’m taking/ In this air I’m inhaling/ Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard/ Why am I walking, where am I running/ What am I saying, what am I knowing/ On this guitar I’m playing, on this banjo I’m frailin’/ On this mandolin I’m strummin’, in the song I’m singin’/ In the tune I’m hummin’, In the words that I’m thinkin’/ In the words I’m writin’/ In this ocean of hours I’m all the time drinkin’/ Who am I helping, what am I breaking/ What am I giving, what am I taking/ But you try with your whole soul best/ Never to think these thoughts and never to let/ Them kind of thoughts gain ground/ Or make yer heart pound/ But then again you know why they’re around/ Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down/ Cause sometimes you hear’em when the night times comes creeping/ And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping/ And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin’/ And you can’t remember for the best of yer thinking/ If that was you in the dream that was screaming/ And you know that it’s something special you’re needin’/ And you know that there’s no drug that’ll do for the healin’/ And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding/ And you need something special/ Yeah, you need something special all right/ You need a fast flyin’ train on a tornado track/ To shoot you someplace and shoot you back/ You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler/ That’s been banging and booming and blowing forever/ That knows yer troubles a hundred times over/ You need a greyhound bus that don’t bar no race/ That won’t laugh at yer looks/ Your voice or your face/ And by any number of bets in the book/ Will be rollin’ long after the bubblegum craze/ You need something to open up a new door/ To show you something you seen before/ But overlooked a hundred times or more/ You need something to open your eyes/ You need something to make it known/ That it’s you and no one else that owns/ That spot that yer standing, that space that you’re sitting/ That the world ain’t got you beat/ That it ain’t got you licked/ It can’t get you crazy no matter how many/ Times you might get kicked/ You need something special all right/ You need something special to give you hope/ But hope’s just a word/ That maybe you said or maybe you heard/ On some windy corner ’round a wide-angled curve/ But that’s what you need man, and you need it bad/ And yer trouble is you know it too good/ Cause you look an’ you start getting the chills/ Cause you can’t find it on a dollar bill/ And it ain’t on macy’s window sill/ And it ain’t on no rich kid’s road map/ And it ain’t in no fat kid’s fraternity house/ And it ain’t made in no hollywood wheat germ/ And it ain’t on that dimlit stage/ With that half-wit comedian on it/ Ranting and raving and taking yer money/ And you thinks it’s funny/ No you can’t find it in no night club or no yacht club/ And it ain’t in the seats of a supper club/ And sure as hell you’re bound to tell/ That no matter how hard you rub/ You just ain’t a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub/ No, and it ain’t in the rumors people’re tellin’ you/ And it ain’t in the pimple-lotion people are sellin’ you/ And it ain’t in no cardboard-box house/ Or down any movie star’s blouse/ And you can’t find it on the golf course/ And uncle remus can’t tell you and neither can santa claus/ And it ain’t in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes/ And it ain’t in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons/ And it ain’t in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices/ That come knockin’ and tappin’ in christmas wrappin’/ Sayin’ ain’t I pretty and ain’t I cute and look at my skin/ Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow/ Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry/ When you can’t even sense if they got any insides/ These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows/ No you’ll not now or no other day/ Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache? / and inside it the people made of molasses/ That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses/ And it ain’t in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies/ Who’d turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny/ Who breathe and burp and bend and crack/ And before you can count from one to ten/ Do it all over again but this time behind yer back/ My friendThe ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl/ And play games with each other in their sand-box world/ And you can’t find it either in the no-talent fools/ That run around gallant/ And make all rules for the ones that got talent/ And it ain’t in the ones that ain’t got any talent but think they do/ And think they’re foolin’ you/ The ones who jump on the wagon/ Just for a while ’cause they know it’s in style/ To get their kicks, get out of it quick/ And make all kinds of rnoney and chicks/ And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat/ Sayin’, christ do I gotta be like that/ Ain’t there no one here that knows where I’m at/ Ain’t there no one here that knows how I feel/ Good God almighty/ That stuff ain’t real/ No but that ain’t yer game, it ain’t even yer race/ You can’t hear yer name, you can’t see yer face/ You gotta look some other place/ And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin’/ Where do you look for this lamp that’s a-burnin’/ Where do you look for this oil well gushin’/ Where do you look for this candle that’s glowin’/ Where do you look for this hope that you know is there/ And out there somewhere/ And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads/ Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows/ Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways/ You can touch and twist/ And turn two kinds of doorknobs/ You can either go to the church of your choice/ Or you can go to brooklyn state hospital/ You’ll find God in the church of your choice/ You’ll find woody guthrie in brooklyn state hospital/ And though it’s only my opinion/ I may be right or wrong/ You’ll find them bothIn the grand canyon/ At sundown.

June 01, 2007

It's Lulu's birthday!


Believe it or not, we (Marilyn and me) were born the same day!
Anyway, happy birthday for me!
I'm so excited! Kisses for everyone!

Super meow