My books can be purchased as e-books for only $1.99. If interested, just click here: Books.
Match Play is a golf/suspense novel. Dust of Autumn is a bloody one set in upstate New York. Prairie View is set in South Dakota, with a final scene atop Rattlesnake Butte. Life in the Arbor is a children's book about Rollie Rabbit and his friends (on about a fourth grade level). The Black Widow involves an elaborate extortion scheme. Doggy-Dog World is my memoir. And ES3 is a description of my method for examining English sentence structure.
In case anyone is interested in any of my past posts, an archive list can be found at the bottom of this page.
My newest novel, Happy Valley, can be found here.

Thursday, October 20

Bob Dylan, Lovely Valley, & the Final Trump

Bob Dylan was awarded the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature. What!? Did the Nobel committee think an American was overdue for this award and the best they could come up with was Bob Dylan? And now they’re tossing him in with such great American writers as William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, and Eugene O’Neill? Those gentlemen must be just spinning in their graves. Winston Churchill must have nearly bitten his cigar in half. Robert Frost must be mumbling, “You picked him and you didn’t pick me?” Alfred Nobel must be shaking his head. Even Dylan Thomas, whose first name Bob Zimmerman chose as his name because he so admired the Welshman’s poetry, must be muttering about this ridiculous Nobel choice. I agree vociferously with Kurt Vonnegut, who in 1991 said in an interview that “Bob Dylan is the worst poet alive.” I might add that he’s one of the worst singers also. What about some poets who are actually poets, not just someone who’s “blowin’ in the wind.” Maya Angelou comes to mind. Annie Dillard comes to mind. Do the committee members actually think Bob Dylan belongs in the same league with T. S. Eliot and William Butler Yeats? It even took Dylan a week to acknowledge their choice. What, did he think it was beneath him? Maybe they’ll come to their senses in 2017 and find someone better qualified than Bob Dylan. Almost anyone. But if they choose Mick Jagger I’ll really throw up my hands. Or maybe I’ll just throw up.

We’re into the really good times in the Valley of the Sun—clear skies, low humidity, mid-eighties. And the male mockingbirds are singing up a storm because they’re so happy. Or maybe they’re just announcing how horny they are. What beautiful songs they sing, passages copied from other songbirds and put together in a series of warbles, whistles, cheeps, chups, and chirrs, and some even include sounds borrowed from dogs and cats. I wonder if any of our boys—Tiger, Tuffy, or Charlie—hear themselves in a mockingbird song as they sit out on the patio with us. We had another surprise just outside our patio. There was a weed, or at least we thought it was a weed, growing in the backyard. We didn’t get around to pulling it and it grew very nicely to about a foot and a half. Then we noticed that it had several blossom buds, which turned into the cutest, daintiest little flowers. We’re so happy we didn’t pull it up. Even a weed deserves to show its beauty. Here’s what it looks like. Pretty, isn’t it?

I must say something final about last night's debate. This was the last time both candidates would be able to show voters their class and composure, show some presidential decorum. Hillary did, Donald didn't.

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