Interview With Rabby

B-Dog: Greetings, Monkey Maniacs. It is I, B-Dog. Today I have Rabby live in the spacious Jive Studio. Tigey couldn't make it because he's eating someone on Main Street. I'll try to have him on the show another time, after he's good and full.
So Rabby. You've been missing since April 1. What's been going on? I got a ransom note and everything. Was it some kind of April Fool's prank?

Rabby: Prank my a--
B-Dog cuts Rabby off in mid-sentence

B-Dog: Rabby, this is a family show! Lots of little, impressionable Monkey Maniacs out there.

Rabby (removes his cowboy hat): Sorry about that. I git a little worked up when I think about my sufferin'.

B-Dog: Do you feel you can talk about it?

Rabby: (takes deep breath): I was sittin' in front of the tube, mindin' my own bidness. Tigey was sleeping off his lunch -- a little redheaded girl. Spicey. Kinda' had his stomach all in knots so he'd curled up and taken a nap. I was watchin' my Purple Rain DVD --

B-Dog: You like Prince?

Rabby: YOU GOT SOMETHIN' TO SAY ABOUT PRINCE, BOY?

B-Dog: No, no ... just ... it's a little unusual. Proceed.

Rabby: All of a sudden, this man come up behind me and busted me on the back a' my head with a 2X4. Next thing I know, my paws are bound and I'm in some sort of dungeon. Tigey's all tied up too. And standin' over me, with the 2X4 in his hands, lookin' at me with his beady little eyes, is --

B-Dog: Yes?

Rabby: JOEL ANDERSON.

B-Dog: I knew it!

Rabby: Dirty yella' dog. He hadn't a got the jump on me, I'd a smashed him.

B-Dog: He does have a little size advantage.

Rabby: Does he have the quickness? Does he have the agility? Does he have the BIG GUNS? (Rabby flexes his biceps)

B-Dog: Well, so, you've been a prisoner of Joel Anderson all this time?

Rabby: Not by a country mile. Oh, he and his woman had us for a spell. Hardly ever fed us, wouldn't git us a TV, didn't clean up our poop.

B-Dog: I can't believe you just said that.

Rabby: A rabbit's gotta poop, don't he? Thousands a little pellets, all over the place. I dang near slipped and fell down in my own refuse a half-dozen times. And Tigey -- you ever seen a big ol' batch of tiger poop?

B-Dog: Um, so you said you weren't there the whole time.

Rabby: No, and it's a good thing. Now, that Amanda, she smells mighty nice. Mean as a wombat, but she smells like a first class broad.

B-Dog: See, there's always a silver lining.

Rabby: But Joel Anderson? (Rabby spits.) That's what I think a him.

B-Dog: So how did you get away?

Rabby: We didn't git away. We got kicked out by the woman. One day ol' Joel Anderson come into our cell to give us our gruel. I'd finally managed to gnaw through my shackles. I was gitt'n ready to gnaw on Tigey's --

B-Dog: Wouldn't a tiger be able to do his own gnawing?

Rabby: Tar-and-tarnation! If you interrupt me one more time I'm a gonna whip you like you stole somethin'!

B-Dog: Sorry.

Rabby: Tigey is protective of his teeth. Needs 'em for eatin' folks. Anyways, Joel come through that door and I beat the snot out a him. Got him down and grabbed me a hunk of each of those ears, and I jest started bangin' his head on that cement floor. He was hollerin' like a little girl.

B-Dog: I do seem to remember he was out of commission for a few days. Said he had the flu and didn't want visitors.

Rabby: Didn't want it to be known that he'd been whipped by a bunny!

B-Dog: So then what happened?

Rabby: The woman came in. She's tough.

B-Dog: Yeah. She's kind of scary.

Rabby: Twisted my arm like a pretzel! Made me yell Uncle. But see, there again, if she hadn't a got the jump on me ....

B-Dog: So she kicked you all out of the house after that?

Rabby: She learnt. Learnt you don't mess with fire. So they traded us off to another no-good, bunny stealin', two-bit, high-falutin' little Miss Priss.

B-Dog: Who?

Rabby: LORIE KING.

gasps of horror from audience

B-Dog: Man, that sucks.

Rabby: Well, t'weren't all bad. We had more freedom. We got to roam around the house ... even head over to Bardstown Road for some partying every now and again.

B-Dog: WHAT? Why didn't you call me to come rescue you then.

Rabby: Well, let's think about that for a minute. Lesse ... a couple a macho stuffed animals like ourselves. Living in your closet, OR staying with a whole house-load of young fillies. I'm gonna go with Plan B for $200.

B-Dog: Huh?

Rabby: You know Lorie's house is full of womenfolk.

B-Dog: Oh. I get it.

Rabby: Well you ain't as dumb as ya look then, son.

B-Dog: So, uh, you weren't being held prisoner.

Rabby: Now, I didn't say that. See, we had some freedom, but little Miss Know-It-All really gets under your skin after a while.

B-Dog: I'll say.

Rabby: And the constant singin'! Can't a man-rabbit have a minute's peace and quiet?

B-Dog: Not with King around.

Rabby: And I tell ya what. Her room-mate Christa? Always singin'. Always jabber, jabber, jabber. Tar-and-tarnation, it's enough to make a mime cuss. And then there's the fact that we never could get in the bathroom. And when we did -- dagnabit, some of those girls use this really hot stick to curl their hair.

B-Dog: It's called a --

Rabby: I knowed what it's called! Don't you sass me, boy. Now, another thing. They was panty-hose hangin' right over the shower curtain one time when I went to poop. Dignity! That's all I ask for; a little dignity.

B-Dog: So you got tired of that place pretty fast?

Rabby: And sure, we could watch us some TV. Ol' Joel Anderson never allowed that. But we had to watch sissy WOMEN'S shows. American Idol. Rabby Spits. Me nor Tigey, neither one, got to watch us one measly match of rasslin' the whole time we was there.

B-Dog: There's no accounting for taste.

Rabby: I can't abide it. Can't abide no womenfolk being in charge of the tube. It's just not natural. So's I said to Tigey, it's time we got to be travelin' on. And he says "Roar," and off we go. After we stole us some jewelry, but that nasty little Christa come after us with a broom.

B-Dog: Knocked you senseless?

Rabby: You know it. And took back that jewelry. And all the money we'd won from the womenfolk at poker. We was broke.

B-Dog: So how did you get home?

Rabby: We found out the ornery little King was goin' to the Anderson's house, so we stowed away aboard her car. Not an American-made car, I might add.

B-Dog: We won't hold that against her.

Rabby: Why not. You should hear the things she says agin' you. All of 'em in that house. They kept sayin', "When you gonna take these critters back to that funny lookin' Hoosier boy?"

B-Dog: You don't say.

Rabby: That's a fact with my hand up, if I had to die.

B-Dog: So you stowed away aboard her car.

Rabby: Little Jap car.

B-Dog: Hey! We do NOT use that kind of slang in my studio.

Rabby: Beggin' your pardon. But yes, we hid in the back seat. Quite an adventure. For one, that's the messiest car I ever laid my eyes on. For another, noisy ol' King nearly hit three parked cars on the way across the river.

B-Dog: So once you got to the Anderson's house ....

Rabby: Joel started cryin' like a little girl. Lorie and Amanda gave chase, but we was too fast for 'em. We skeedaddled it back to your place faster than they could say "hot diggedy dog." And that's the whole story.

B-Dog: How do I know you didn't just make this up?

Rabby: How dumb are you, boy? You got no evidence at all?

B-Dog: Actually, I know for a fact that these people were somehow involved.

Rabby: Then what's the suspicion fer?

B-Dog: I don't know. Just ... the whole thing seems kind of fanciful to me.

Rabby: You no good, double-dealing, forked tongue, limp-wristed, metrosexual sissy! This is the last time I ever come on your show.

B-Dog: Now don't be hasty ....

Rabby: I am ratings, boy. Ratings. You hear me? I come on this show, and people tune in. You will be canceled by the fall season if you lose me as a regular guest.

B-Dog: I am Love Caddy B-Dog, The Forlorn Moonpuppy!

Rabby: Forlorn my patootie. I'll show you forlorn if you call me a liar again.

B-Dog: That's not what I --

Rabby: Isn't it?!? Isn't it?!?

B-Dog: Sigh. Why can't I just have normal, adorable little childhood relics?

Rabby: I meant what I said boy. Every word I uttered is the God's honest truth. As I saw it. And I ain't a comin' back until you apola, apolo, apol, apol -- until you say you're sorry.

Rabby storms off, knocking over a camera man and stealing a Jive To The Monkey complimentary coffee mug.
The End

NOTICE!

I have revised the Lyric Analysis post of Sunday, May 15 to include new lyrics, and to explain my choices and go into the process. Please check it out, particularly those of you who showed interest and shared your ideas.
Everyone brought up good points. Even if I didn't follow your route, I carefully considered it. Feel free to follow up on the revised lyrics.

Tomorrow I will have a special interview with ... Rabby and Tigey! Yes, they have safely made it home now. They have had quite an ordeal, and they will be pulling no punches as regarding their experiences with several individuals. Look for it -- a Jive To The Monkey exclusive.

A Classic

TO THE UNATTAINABLE

translated into English by: Laurence Hope (1865-1904)

OH, that my blood were water, thou athirst,
And thou and I in some far Desert land,
How would I shed it gladly, if but first
It touched thy lips, before it reached the sand.


Once, -- Ah, the Gods were good to me, -- I threw
Myself upon a poison snake, that crept
Where my Beloved -- a lesser love we knew
Than this which now consumes me wholly -- slept.


But thou; Alas, what can I do for thee?
By Fate, and thine own beauty, set above
The need of all or any aid from me,
Too high for service, as too far for love.

Engaged!

Two Nightriders got enganged to each other Friday night. Yes, I know. Inbreeding. But when superheroes do it, you don't get two heads. Or if you do, you can just chalk it up to "special superhero powers".
Former winner of the Jive To The Monkey Friend Of The Day award, "Nature Boy" Jason proposed to my evil twin, Pinhead Stacey. Total surprise for her. I must say, Jason played his part to perfection.
Stacey's cousin owns a house on the riverfront in Jeffersonville. A house with a stuffed bat hanging from the stairs. They went out for the evening (which was part of the whole engagement dinner plan) so Jason and Stacey had the place to themselves. He took her to their back deck, where they dined alone on scrumptious fare cooked and served by Joel The Metro (who wore a bow tie) and Amanda "AA" Anderson. Then at 9:30, yours truly walked out onto the second story deck and seranaded them with "I Want To Grow Old With You," from "The Wedding Singer." It's the song Adam Sandler sings in the movie's climax, on the airplane.

Okay, some backstory. I was about 10 minutes late because I was coming from Guitar Chick Nikki's (www.nikkitatom.com) show at Lachlan Coffee's Java on Frankfort Avenue. Now, here is my problem: I am directionally challenged. Perhaps instead of B-Dog, my nickname should be Wrong Way Gilles. See, I often become disoriented, and I start out going the wrong way. As you could imagine, if you start out going in the wrong direction, nothing else will make sense.
I was driving east instead of west, jamming to my Ray Lamontagne CD, when all of a sudden I realized that I TOTALLY didn't recognize anything I was passing. No streets, landmarks, stores, etc. OH CRAP! I had been driving the wrong way for miles.
I spun around and headed back to civilization, just as Joel called on my cell, asking where I was. But I must say, I put my Dale Earnhardt-loving, NASCAR-watching skills to good use and I kicked some serious road-racing butt to reach my destination without much delay. Good thing I didn't run into any cops.
So I got in place on the second story balcony, guitar in hand, music stand in front of me, and began playing. One problem. The wind off the river kept blowing my lyric book shut! There were a couple random "rests" (that's some sheet music lingo that I'm using as code for "I had to stop strumming and flip the page back) before I figured out how to hold the page open with my guitar neck while I played.
Afterwards, Joel, Amanda, and I watched from a second-story window while Jason got down on his knee and proposed. It was the coolest, most special thing I've ever seen, next to the births of my sons.
Then they started kissing. And kissing. And kissing. Randy little couple. The Anderson's and I were still watching, though we gradually started to feel as if perhaps this peep show should be discontinued. See, we had intended to step out onto the deck when they were done and clap for them. That's why we kept watching. But that was one long kiss. I said, "I feel like a pervert, watching through the window." That's the Nightriders for ya -- "Voyeurs-R-Us."
Finally they came up for air, we clapped, and they invited us onto the ground-level deck to celebrate.
Jason had given her a ring that belonged to his grandma -- an authentic heirloom. How special -- I hope she doesn't accidentally drop it down a drain or anything, but this IS Pinhead I'm talking about, so you never know ....

Congratulations, Jason. Sorry you were so nervous that you spilled stuff on your shirt, but she said yes anyway so it's all good. Congratulations, Stacey. Truth is, you're barely human, but you and the rest of us have played our parts so well over the course of this courtship that Jason thinks you're a catch.

Seriously, congratulations to both of you. I'm proud to be in your lives, and to have witnessed the birth of your friendship and the maturation, which I am sure will continue, to quote Shakespeare, "to the last syllable of recorded time."

Objective Correlatives and Acacias

T.S. Eliot coined the term "Objective Correlative" and provided a framework definition:
The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.
Objective correlatives are excellent ways to "show, not tell." They keep writers from being excessively wordy and melodramatic. Here is a good example, where the object of Acacias stands for something deeper.

Acacias
Strolling many years ago
Down a street taken over by acacias in bloom
I found out from a friend who knows everything
That you had just gotten married.
I told him that I really
Had nothing to do with it.
I never loved you
--You know that better than I do --
Yet each time the acacias bloom
-- Can you believe it? --
I get the very same feeling I had
When they hit me point-blank
With the heartbreaking news
That you had married someone else.
-- Nicanor Parra (Translanted by David Unger)

What do you think of this poem?

For Better Or For Worse

I have completed a revision of the song "I Built The Cage," discussed in my post of Sunday, May 15. I am going to hold off posting and analyzing it for a couple days, to give it more time to settle. In the meantime, if you'd like to join that discussion, add some thoughts you haven't already shared, or just check out some "rough draft" lyrics, please go to that post.
In the meantime, here is something to discuss. Stephanie Coontz, in a special for the Washington Post (that was reprinted in the Courier Journal this past Sunday) has a provocative piece on marriage. It touches on the "divorce revolution", and some efforts by evangelicals to create "covenant marriages," wherein the pledged parties could not legally file for "no-fault" divorce, as well as the sexual revolution, "love" as the driving force behind modern marriage, as opposed to earlier factors, and many other issues.
Check it out at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/04/30/AR2005043000108_2.html

Here is her conclusion:

Marriage is no longer the institution where people are initiated into sex. It no longer determines the work men and women do on the job or at home, regulates who has children and who doesn't, or coordinates care-giving for the ill or the aged. For better or worse, marriage has been displaced from its pivotal position in personal and social life, and will not regain it short of a Taliban-like counterrevolution.

Forget the fantasy of solving the challenges of modern personal life by re-institutionalizing marriage. In today's climate of choice, many people's choices do not involve marriage. We must recognize that there are healthy as well as unhealthy ways to be single or to be divorced, just as there are healthy and unhealthy ways to be married. We cannot afford to construct our social policies, our advice to our own children and even our own emotional expectations around the illusion that all commitments, sexual activities and care-giving will take place in a traditional marriage. That series has been canceled.

What do you think, Monkey Maniacs?

60-foot Fall From A Cliff!

Please continue to give feedback in the immediately previous post, "Lyric Analysis." I will be updating the column Tuesday evening, and will explain my process in writing the song, as well as what I think is needed in the revision, based on my own instincts and those of all my Monkey Maniacs. But until then, here is the strange but true story of my brush with sudden death:

I was one month shy of my sixteenth birthday on the day I should have died. 18 years ago this August. I should be eighteen years gone -- long enough to be a distant memory to those who knew me when; long enough to be as if I'd never existed to those of you who have met me since ... probably all of you who are reading this.

Hayswood Park. Corydon, Indiana. My best friend LeAnn was leaving for Norway in a week's time, where she would live with a Norwegian minister's family for a year on a foreign study program. Our church had thrown her a going-away party in the rustic park. Hundreds of woodland acres surrounded the main clearing, where we played volleyball and ate hotdogs.

While LeAnn basked in the attention of elders, her sister Jeanna, her cousins Tammy and Chuck, my brother Darrell, and I had sauntered onto a trail that led into the woods. Tammy was my first love, a spunky, sandy-haired track star with a mischevious smile. She was my world and I was a giddy moon, orbiting around her smile, reflecting her light.

The woods was a good place to show off my machismo for my girl, or so I thought. I was a natural hiker and "explorer of rugged terrain." So now I would get to play Davy Crocket. Too bad about Darrell, Jeanna, and Chuck hanging around, but no matter. This was my element.

CUE THE OMINIOUS MUSIC FOR SOME FORESHADOWING ....

Signs along the wooded path: Danger! Keep On Trail.
I knew the reason, because my cousin Michael and I had explored this section a couple hours previous. To the right of the trail, the ground dipped precariously into a long, steep hill, ending at the edge of a cliff that towered some sixty feet above the grassy forest below. Michael and I had thrown rocks over the side of the cliff, just to watch them fall. Ironic statement of the day -- Bobby to Michael: "Man, if anyone fell off this cliff, they'd be dead for sure."
Michael to Bobby: "Or they'd be crippled for life."

But Michael had left soon after, so here I was, back on the same dirt path with a younger crew, holding hands with my sweetie. I slipped free of her fingers and dashed to the other side of the danger sign, swinging out over the hill on a small tree. I did it two or three times on different trees, ignoring Tam's chastisement. She was worried about me! Guys dig that.

"I'm an expert woodsman. I can tell how much weight a tree can support." Those were my last words before the tree I had swung out on snapped and I careened down the hill. Just before I began my descent, right after the SNAP, I had one of those "frozen in time" moments. My eyes met Tammy's. Our expressions said "Uh oh." Then I was gone.

I whisked down the hill on my back -- no somersaults or anything like that. I know this because of the position of the cuts on my back and arms afterwards. When you're sliding as fast as I was, let me tell you -- grass cuts. You might think of grass as a benign decoration, but to me each blade was, well, a blade. Think about when you've gotten a paper cut. Imagine that happening hundreds of times, all over your back. Sucks.

Then I plummeted off the edge of the cliff. My brother Darrell says my hand clawed onto the side, and, for a second, held steady, as if I'd caught myself right on the edge, but then my fingers slipped off. I don't remember that at all. I remember sliding off the hill into nothingness.

They say that in the last second of your existence, your whole life passes before your eyes. Not mine. I didn't even think to pray. The one thought I remember -- and I remember it clear as a raindrop -- was "This is it. Wow. 15. This is my life. And it ends like this. Something that only happens in the movies. I can't believe I'm dying now." And it wasn't a screaming thought, not a pleading thought, not a desperate thought. It was as if I'd spent all my desperation skidding down the hill, and now had no emotion left but resignation. Then there was nothing. Blank. Maybe I fainted.

The bottom of the cliff. A grassy plain. Flat on my back. Pain? Didn't feel it. But I knew where I was. Didn't have to consider whether I was in heaven -- I had fallen the entire length of the cliff and lived. I heard Tammy's brother Chuck, the youngest of our group by a couple of years, sobbing from above (they told me that as soon as I fell, Chuck dropped to the ground, convinced that if he took one more move, he too would fall. They also told me that Tammy and Jeanna were speechless, light-headed, and that my brother had stoically said, "I'll go get him." As if meaning, "I'll retrieve the body.")

Now, I said I was feeling no pain. But how could this be? Surely, as soon as I tried to sit up, I would discover my back was broken. It would be the worst pain imaginable. But first things first -- I had to quiet Chuck down and restore peace to the others. I hollered "That was fun!" The second I did that, Chuck stopped crying and Darrell howled with laughter that could have shaken a tower. Tammy hollered something like "You idiot!"

Okay, that was taken care of. I was back to being my true love's idiot -- the jester for my Queen. So now -- about this broken back ....

I sat up. Still no pain. Huh. "Well, I bet when I try to stand, just as I get to my feet the pain will shoot through my body and I'll collapse in a gnarled heap on the earth."

I stood. Still no pain. A miracle! Just like all those Bible stories I'd always read, and that I'd heard from a hundred different gospel groups in a thousand different gospel songs in my dad's record collection. Jehovah had parted the Red Sea, toppled the walls of Jericho, shut the mouths of lions, raised His son Jesus, and kept Bobby Gilles safe in a battle with a cliff. The scars would take a couple months to heal, but that was no biggie. Heck, they were a badge of honor. Made me look like a tough guy! Every kid wants to have macho scars, and now I had a heap of them.

My friends were shouting at me from on high. I don't know what they were saying, I was still trying to grasp the fact that I was alive and well. I told them that I would simply scale the cliff and rejoin them, if not for all the spiders on the wall. You see, this served the purpose of letting Tammy know that I was heroic enough to scale the cliff I had just fallen from. She knew about my arachnaphobia (which continues to this day) so naturally she couldn't expect me to climb up when there were spiders, but she would have to understand that if it wasn't for the spiders, I was certainly strong enough to climb.

I walked about a quarter mile to where the cliff tapered off, and I traipsed back up to my companions, laughing and shrugging off their concern. I made them promise not to tell my parents, and I assured them that I didn't need to go to the hospital. Indeed, I never went to the hospital.

I'd like to be able to say that from then on, I lived my life with purpose -- that I recognized the gift God had given me, and I determined to never take life for granted again. That I have made every second count since then. But alas ....

It has only been in the last couple years that this lesson has really sunk in with me. The person I was died that day. Who I am now is not who I would have been if not for that fall. I'm sure of it. It is a delayed sense of purpose, but it is here nonetheless. If I didn't have this incident to look back on, to draw from, I know I would have less sense of mission, less purpose, and less dedication to the things that are important. When people say that life is fragile, that it is a gift, that it could end at any time, I know. I know.

Lyric Analysis: B-Dog in the Hotseat

I have completed my revision of "I Built The Cage." Now, keep in mind that this still may not be the final version. Remember this phrase: "Good writing is rewriting." Feel free to comment and offer any suggestions or opinions. And there is no stupid question or piece of advice -- music is taken seriously here, so Jive To The Monkey, for once, is a safe place.
As far as the music: I have it in A minor now -- all minor chords, medium-up tempo, kind of a tough country-rock-blues song.


Here are the original lyrics:

I built the cage that I'm locked in.
If sin's to blame, it is my own.
I used to roam across the lake;
I cannot make myself lie anymore.

If my life's a sad play, I set the stage.
And I built the cage.


I locked the chain that has me bound.
If you're around then I might lie
And tell you why it's all your fault,
How you rubbed salt into my wounds.

It hurts less when I have someone to blame,
But I locked the chain.


I dug the hole; I've fallen down.
No one's around to lift me up.
Please let this cup pass from me.
Don't you agree that I could use a little grace?

Could you reduce my sentence since I know
I dug the hole?


I built the cage ...
I locked the chain ...
I dug the hole ...
I made the bed ...
I loaded high the funeral pyre.
You say I should trust you to light the fire --

Purify.

c. 2005 Bobby Gilles
(Obviously since I am posting this online, I've already mailed it in for copyright registration)

The song is built around four verses, each followed by a couplet turnaround. As an exercise, I decided to avoid end rhymes in the verses, but rather to have an internal rhyme in the middle of each line that rhymes with the final word of each preceding line. What this means is that if I decide to change a line (or the end of one) I must change the next one as well.

I use a great deal of iambic tetrameter (4 metric feet; 8 syllables) in the verses (particularly the first 3 lines of each verse). This is not something I planned on -- I noticed it afterwards. When you've been working with meter as long as I have, you develop an ear for it, and will sometimes write in a certain meter even without thinking or counting it out. This is akin to a guitarist who plays by ear rather than my sheet music, tabs, or chords.

The couplets following each verse are varied from the verses both by melody and by the fact that they each have an AA end rhyme scheme.

For those of you who thought the 3rd and 4th lines were ambiguous, you will notice that I changed them completely. What I meant by "I used to roam across the lake" was that "I used to be free. I used to be able to frolic about. But now I am imprisoned in this cage." I can see where that meaning could be unclear. You can see how I've changed that when you read the new lyrics below.

In the third verse, I changed "lift me up" to "lift me out," based on a suggestion, which necessitated changing the next line. But that's okay because it was the disputed "let this cup pass" line anyway.

I see what you mean about "could you reduce this sentence ..." (I work for lawyers). I changed it to a more folksome phrase.

Two things which were brought up that I did not revise:
1. I see what is meant about the last two lines -- the potential confusion and the change of focus. But I want to stay with it. If you think about it, it gives the song deeper meaning. It colors it with a new shade. And it offers the potential for change. The song is essentially static. Nothing changes for the character. He has discovered something important, but he hasn't grown out of his immaturity yet. That's why he says things like "Could you step in and fix it since I know I dug the hole?".
Isn't that how we are sometimes? Admitting you have a problem is a crucial first step, but it is just the first step. We think we can say "Okay, I've admitted it. There. See. Now everything's better."
No, everything is NOT better. Admitting you have a problem does not make the problem disappear; it provides a necessary context for dealing with the problem.
I have also decided to keep all the "I's." Again, I understand the point. But one weakness in a lot of "Christian" music is a refusal to talk about "I" (not worship music, which necessarily should be God-focused). The point of this song is to say "I am my own worst enemy." I feel that it is good to talk about it from the standpoint of "this is a problem I have," knowing that it is one that any honest person will admit he can identify with, than to stand above the audience as if I am God, and sing "you" or even "we", or just leaving out a pronoun altogether.

Now here is one that I caught right away, and would have corrected. I wanted to see what everyone would say though, so I left it in. The business about the bed.
Originally I intended to write five verses. One verse would have started "I made the bed ..." If I had done this, then the ending refrain would have made sense.
I opted to leave that verse out, yet to keep "I made the bed" in the refrain for symetrical reasons. You were right to call me on it.

I left out the bed verse because I thought five verses was too long to carry this particular melody (I realize the weak point of this whole thing is that I cannot load the song online so you can hear it). I also thought it didn't contribute enough new information.
Ideally, each verse in a song should further the plot or exposition -- it should provide a new color. But in this song, I am choosing to violate that rule (all artists know that rules are made to be broken, but they must be done so with care, and for a reason). I want the cumulative effect of one main point to build and build and build. This song, in a sense, could never be a major work. It isn't deep. But I want to achieve a depth through simplicity and razor-sharp focus. Image after image builds on one point: "I am to blame. I am responsible. I cannot keep passing the buck."
In the revision, I decided that instead of putting in a "bed" verse, I'd use a 4-line turnaround with its own rhyme scheme and melody. I think this helps the song from dragging. I use the bed analogy, and I speak of the mattress as being made of "stone and mistakes." I'm using "stone" as a symbol for stubborn pride.
So there you have it. It may not be perfect, and it may not be done yet, but I think it improves upon the original.

Now, here are the revised lyrics:

I built the cage that I'm locked in.
If sin's to blame, it is my own.
I guess I’ve known that all along;
I cannot say I’ve been wronged anymore.

If my life's a sad play, I set the stage.
And I built the cage.

I locked the chain that has me bound.
If you're around then I might lie
And tell you why it's all your fault,
How you rubbed salt into my wounds.

It hurts less when I have someone to blame,
But I locked the chain.

I dug the hole I've fallen down.
No one's around to lift me out.
Are you about to save the day?
Don't you agree that I could use a little grace?

Could you step in and fix it since I know
I dug the hole?

I made my own bed. It’s impossible to rest
on a mattress made of stone and mistakes.
My comforter is strong denial; all the while it’s let me claim
That someone else should take all of the blame.

I built the cage ... I locked the chain ...
I dug the hole ... I made the bed ...

I loaded high the funeral pyre.
You say I should trust you to light the fire --
Purify.

What Southern Women Know About Flirting

Author Ronda Rich will be signing copies of her new book, "What Southern Women Know About Flirting" today at Barnes & Noble (the Summit one) at 7 pm.
The Courier did a piece on her a couple days ago, and listed a sample list of her "Flirting Girl Don'ts." Is it silly? Harmful? Enlightening? Necessary?
Let's begin by defining flirting, because it does have several definitions and connotations. I would say, contextually from the article, Ms. Rich is talking about an activity done to win a man -- someone you are interested in. So we'll look at the tips with that in mind.
Here is my Jive To The Monkey analysis of each tip:.

1. Never relinquish your power. As Dr. Tom said in the comment section of this point, the usefullness of this tip depends on what Ms. Rich means by this statement. Keep in mind that my own opinions are that the best way to forge a lasting relationship is to slowly build something up from the cornerstone of friendship. Still waters run deep. (Now, I would agree that there comes a point in a friendship when you have been friends so long, and have done so much as friends, that it becomes a brother/ sister thing. I have some good old gal friends (not that they're old, just that we've been friends awhile) that ... well, let's just say even though they're perfectly attractive, it would be gross to date them. Like, if we got married our babies would have two heads or something.) But for the most part, I still say that you should be friends first. And if you are truly friends, you're not going to have a big power struggle anyway.
But as far as this advice goes -- certainly don't put yourself in a situation where you feel powerless.

2. Never wear a white bra with black panties (or white shoes after Labor Day).

Okay girls ... if your definition of flirting has anything to do with him seeing what color your undergarments are, then you may have a bigger problem than you think. Geez. As to the shoes -- men could care less. I mean, I am definitely Metro, but as I think back to the conversations I've had with women this week, whether at church, work, or outside, I can't picture anyone's shoes.
Besides, fashionistas generally say the Labor Day rule is not hard and fast anymore. Now, perhaps the guys sister(s) or gal pals will notice, but still. I have a couple "sisters" who definitely feel free (even when I don't ask!) to give me their opinion of single girls that they think would be good (or not good) for me. Now, if they said something like "We think she's snobby," then I would examine that. But (sorry AA and Dogcheese) if they said, "She wears white shoes after Labor Day," I would laugh them out of the building.

3. Don't forget to ask about his mama. Then ask for an introduction.
It never hurts to inquire about good ol' mom, ladies. But watch out for mama's boys!

4. Never aggresively pursue him; always do it subtly.Yes. Actually, the question should be "should I pursue him subtly or should I not pursue at all." Aggressive pursuit looks, to a guy, like Fatal Attraction. We don't want to be stalked.
Now, I know a lot of perfectly fine girls who say, "I wouldn't pursue a guy subtly either. I want to be wooed. He should come to me."
That sounds great and all, but think it through. You could pass up a great guy and end up with a jerk. In fact, I'd say there's pretty good odds of that happening. Men who live for the chase will always live for the chase, even after they've caught you. They'll just chase another rabbit. Now, that doesn't always mean he'll chase another woman. Maybe he'll chase riches, maybe he'll chase fame, maybe he'll chase rare collectibles -- but he will always chase, and he'll be bored with things or people whom he has caught.
So what does it mean to pursue "subtly." Follow the guys lead, just like dancing. Say there is a guy you're interested in. Should you treat him differently than other guys? Not if he doesn't treat you differently than other girls. Nothing subtle about that. But if he DOES treat you differently, through communication, time, proximity, whatever ... then match him. Don't think you're taking a moral highroad if you play hard to get and make him do everything. Men pursue and women leave clues. If you don't do that, then you're going to be back to discouraging all men except those who are more interested in the chase than the object of the chase. Which you will be sorry for 1000 times over someday.

5. Don't be caught low on thank-you notes, lip gloss or perfume.Let's take this out of the King James and put it into New International: Don't forget to be polite, and try not to smell funny.

6. Don't talk about old boyfriends.Yes and no to this one. Like I said, I think it's better to be friends first. Friends talk. Friends communicate. Friends are interested in each other's lives and the things that have happened to make them who they are today. Therefore, if you've been talking and hanging out as friends, and you're starting to feel like you could have something ... well, if you haven't talked about old boyfriends, then you're not really friends, are you?
Now, no decent guy is gonna want an exclusive relationship with you if you're still carrying a torch for someone else. If you haven't dealt with your emotional baggage, then keep things at the friendship level.
I think this rule can be expanded though. No guy wants to feel like he is second fiddle. Nor do decent guys want to feel like they're in a competition. If you kiss too many frogs, no prince will come near you. Other frogs won't mind though. So don't be fooled into thinking that a guy doesn't want you bad enough if he won't compete for you. The truth is, he doesn't want to get warts.
Now, how far you can take this depends on the guy. Every guy (like every girl) is different. So if any of you guys out there (Tom, Jason, Ponytail or whatever you call yourself ...) want to chime in, do so. We all bring with us values that we have come by in the past, based on what we've been through.
For myself, I have frankly decided that, based on things that have happened to me, I will never again be put in a position of competing with some old flame. That may necessitate me avoiding risks that I would have taken years ago, but then, perhaps I would still be as trusting as most of you other guys -- I don't know. Every guy is different, but the basic advice holds true for any decent guy that you may want to pursue a relationship with: don't compare him to other guys, don't keep him on an even plane with other guys, and don't ram other guys down his throat.

7. Don't take discourtesy, inconsideration, or abuse.
Duh. I'd go beyond that and say that you should only be with a guy who is going to make you feel like the queen of his world, every day. Why would you settle for less? Doesn't matter what else he has going for him.
About discourtesy: do you realize how few women will even give men the opportunity to do basic mannerly things? And yet often these same women decry the lack of chivalric manners in society. For instance: men should always open doors for women. I don't care if it's your girlfriend, your mom, your boss ... that's just something that should be done. But it is sometimes impossible (and I'm not talking about one or two girls in specific here. This is pretty general). Especially the dilemma of the double doors. Say I'm walking into some establishment with a woman. I walk ahead so I can hold the outer door open. She walks through, and almost NEVER pauses one single second so I can get the second door. I have to lunge over her just to support the door that she's already opening.
Now, perhaps you think this is no big deal, and that you don't even notice or care if a man holds the door open for you. But what you're signaling, to that man and to ALL men who see the incident, is that you, as a representative of Woman in general, do not care to be treated, or want to be treated, as a lady. It's a trickle effect. If men in general do not think that women in general want them to open doors, then they're gonna assume women don't want them to behave in all manner of other gentlemanly ways.

8. Never mind the negatives; focus on the positives.I don't know what she means by this. I suppose it's true if what she means is "Don't nitpick a great guy to death if you are really gelling with him, just because you're, I don't know ... scared of being attached."? I can see how that could happen.
But I can't give wholehearted support to this rule, being as it could be taken many ways. Some negatives are important. Don't overlook manners, spirituality, goals, morals, or even things like "where are we gonna worship together if we become a couple" or, as you head into marriage, "does one of us insist on living in a suburb, downtown, etc."
This also goes into being real (which is the biggest lesson to remember). Let's say, for instance, that you like a Star Wars geek (sorry SW geeks -- I mean "guys." I'm just kidding. May the force be with you, and your little R2 units). So you pretend to be way into Star Wars to impress him. Or because you think "maybe he'll fall for a girl who loves Star Wars as much as he does, so I'd better pretend to be that girl." Dumb, dumb, dumb. How long do you think you can keep that up? You're gonna be sitting through movies, thumbing through Star Wars books, going to those conventions dressed up as Princess Lei or a Wookie (depending on whether you're wee or Amazonian ....) Sooner or later you're gonna have to say, "Dude, I really can't take all this Star Wars all the time."
And then he's gonna be mad. He's not gonna understand. Because, to him, you've CHANGED. You're not the girl he fell for.
And the same goes for any hobby, past-time, methodology, political view .... Even, say, if you initially only spend time alone. Sooner or later, if things go well and you marry, you're gonna be one of those girls who says, "we never do anything with anyone. We never hang out with friends." Well, you didn't do it at the start of the relationship. Getting off on the right foot is so important. How things are at the start is the determining point, to a large extent, of how they will be.
If, in a related example, you only hang around HIS friends, do not expect that later on he'll be agreeable to hanging around yours. You established the pattern early on.

Now, I do think there is a place for saying, to go back to Star Wars, "I'm not really a big sci-fi fan, but sure, I'll go with you to the movie." Let him know right off that you want to get together, maybe get a bite to eat first, and that you're willing to do something with him that he thinks is important, just because you're not a diva who needs to be in control or only wants to do her own things all the time.
Nothing wrong with being agreeable! Just tell the truth and make him understand what you're doing, and that this doesn't mean you're gonna watch Star Wars movies all the time or camp outside Skywalker Ranch on your vacation or name your firstborn son "Anakin."

9. Don't be catty -- personally, professionally or socially. Instead, be kitten sweet.Well, yes, you want to stay away from cheap cattiness. But kitten sweet? Hmmm. I guess it depends on the guy. We all have different tastes. Personally, I like someone a little more fiesty. A girl who is a perpetual kitten gets boring after awhile.

So there you have it. And again, the number one thing is to be real. But being real doesn't mean being totally clueless about how to be attractive, nor does it mean you can't be somewhat purposeful. Don't just be blown about by the wind, or you could end up alone, or worse, with whatever litter the wind kicks up.

Lyric Analysis, "Lay Down Your Weary Tune"

"I had broken myself of the habit of thinking in short song cycles and began reading longer and longer poems ... I read all of Lord Byron's 'Don Juan' ... also, Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan.' I began cramming my brain with all kinds of deep poems. It seemed like I'd been pulling an empty wagon for a long time and now I was beginning to fill it up and would have to pull harder. I felt like I was coming out of the back pasture."
--Bob Dylan: Chronicles, volume one.

Bob Dylan pulled popular music out of the back pasture. He replaced cheap sentiment and claptrap melodrama with poetry. Without Bob Dylan, Bono wouldn't be singing about streets with no names, and Alison Krauss wouldn't implore "don't try to open my door with your skeleton key." All popular music would be "Tooty Fruity, O Rooty." Not that there isn't room for that fun sort of thing every now and then, but Dylan brought the beauty of words and the strength of meaning into music.

This week we examine one of his simplest (but not simplistic) examples of sheer poetry, a little-known song from 1964 called "Lay Down Your Weary Tune," an ode to nature, and to rest. Here it is:

Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweed wove its strands.
The crashin' waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin' rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new love's breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.

I gazed down in the river's mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself 'neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
c. Bob Dylan

The melody runs through a 14-bar structure which repeats nine times, with slight variations throughout. This simple, light yet haunting melody covers chorus and verses, bringing a tranquility and unity of effect to the piece. Like creation.
He has borrowed from an old hymn to come up with his title, "I Heard The Voice Of Jesus Say." Here is the relevant portion of that song:

"Lay down thy weary one, lay down / Your head upon His breast"

This British hymn was familiar to Dylan, a voracious student of folk music, through its inclusion on a Folkways Records anthology.

As to the melody, Dylan is on record as saying he based it on an old Scottish song:

"I wrote that ... at Joan Baez's house. I had heard a Scottish ballad on an old 78 record that I was trying to really capture the feeling of, that was haunting me. I couldn't get it out of my head. There were no lyrics or anything, it was just a melody ... I wanted lyrics that would feel the same way."

This marriage of lyrics to melody is an important ingredient that many writers never master.

As to other influences, the song bares the stamp of Wordsworth in its mixture of poetry with philosophical musing, and its theme is similar to the work of Coleridge.

Note the use of onomatopeia throughout the song: strum, hum, drums, bugle, crashin', crashed, moaned, smooth.

What does the chorus mean? It's not hard, when we contextualize it with the verses. Dylan wants us to lay down the drama, the baggage, the frustration of the day. He wants us to rest beneath an oak, to sit beside a stream, to somersault in a field. He wants us to experience the peace of creation, a peace that no human devise (TV, for instance) can duplicate.

Such great word pictures, straight from his mind (he doesn't borrow everything from older sources, of course). Who else would think to compare the wild ocean's rolling waves to the physical act of pounding an organ in some tense opera scene. And of course the words have a similar sound, so it shouldn't have been so hard to come up with.

There are plenty of end rhymes and a ton of alliteration, as well. You people know you love it when I tell you to print out the lyrics and circle examples of poetic devises, so do it. Circle the alliterative words. You know you love it.

Look for more about Mr. Bob Dylan on Jive To The Monkey in the weeks to come, as we head into his concert (along with Willie Nelson) in Louisville on June 29. Tickets are on sale this weekend, Monkey Maniacs, so don't be left out!

RELATIONSHIPS, PT. 1: R-E-S-P-E-C-T

So the Nightriders conducted a meeting of the minds in a secret Southern Indiana compound Saturday night -- a secret compound with ice cream, where each little extra you buy costs about $75.00. Or so it seemed.

Anyway, we Manly Men began to hold forth, and to explain what it is we want out of a relationship, and to explain how it is different from the way it is usually described by women.

It's all about respect. TESTIFY! We want to know that we are IT (whatever it is. Of course, in the context of a marital or serious romantic relationship, "it" is everything -- but the formula and dynamic holds true, on a limited scale, for other relationships -- even business ones). You gals are so used to accepting the compliments, you are often a tad stingy, or, dare I say it, boring and uninventive, about handing them out. A woman who knows how to make a man feel secure and wanted will do better than one who always likes to keep us guessing, keep us off-balance, etc.

Ironically, this is often the complete opposite of what many women do in the real world. I've had female friends who have even expressed such sentiments -- they don't want the guy to "get too cocky", or they want to keep him on edge so he won't neglect her.

Dumb, dumb, dumb. It may work for awhile but it will eventually breed hostility, passive aggressiveness, or even boredom. And statistically speaking, there are many more decent available women than is true in reverse. If you play stupid games with him, he'll find a girl who won't.

Now, you may be saying, "But it's true about guys having big egos. My man always wants me to make him feel like a million bucks, but he doesn't do anything for me. He doesn't respect me in return. He doesn't go out of his way for me. He doesn't even use his manners half the time, and he won't communicate with me."

To such a sentiment I would humbly say, "Why are you with him in the first place, then?" What's wrong with you that you are in a relationship with such a man, or that you are attracted to such a man? The first rule of thumb when you're trying to figure out why you're alone (and I know it works both ways) is simple: look at yourself. Especially if you've dated a lot. You are the common denominator in all those failed relationships. As the saying goes "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result each time."

I've known several girls who say, "But I only date guys who go to church," or any number of other criteria: don't drink, have a clean past, lead a youth group, shine old ladies' shoes, etc. That's just stats on a page, gals. It doesn't tell you anything about whether he is right for you now. Where a person has been is what makes them who they are -- and that can work for the better or the worse, depending on how a person let's God instruct and lead them. So find a good guy (of course, how to do that could be a whole series of columns in its own right) and then RESPECT him. Make him feel like he's the king of the world, not "good enough for now."

This should be academic, but it's surprising how few girls do it.

I don't often talk about my past marriage in this column -- largely because it's not appropriate to the forum, and because I was taught "if you can't say anything nice about someone, then don't say anything at all." But I can tell you that lack of respect, lack of being made to feel secure, and that I was "the one", was crippling.

My ex (we'll call her "Dee", because I don't know any other Dee's) had this male friend (actually two. and it was a nearly identical situation. But we'll just talk about the one she cheated on me with -- the one she's now having identical twin girls with, who are due on my birthday. Oh, the irony!) anyway, Dee had this male friend that she "hung out with" when we were dating. Now, B-Dog was a Metro before Metro's were cool. I've always had gal pals, so I was pretty trusting about the whole thing. In truth, I had no idea anything was amiss until well after we were married. I did find out after we were married that her "friend" (we'll call him "Ivan") was actually an ex-boyfriend. Now, to me, that is a crucial fact to omit. Ex-lovers hanging out -- that just gives me pause. But particularly when that fact is not disclosed up front, and it is passed off as a brother-sister type friendship.
As the marriage wore on, I was often made to feel that, if things didn't "work out," she could always take up with this guy (or that other one). Now, I realize all you moral Monkey Maniac gals would never go that far, but you are still going to undermine whatever relationship you're in if you talk up other guys, or make him feel like he has to compete. You won't get what you're trying to get, trust me.
And again, if it's a serious issue of "I can't respect him though," or "but he has no respect for me," then shame on you for being with him in the first place, no matter what his "stat sheet" says. You should have taken the time to get to know him strictly as a friend first, and then you could have become (as sure as any finite human being can become) confident that he was the kind of guy who would be worthy of your respect in a dating/ courting relationship.

But that's just my opinion. Next ....

Disfigured By A Frisbee

So here's the backstory. A week ago Sunday, "Pinhead" Stacey was playing softball with Nature Boy Jason, Joel the Metro, and AA (Amanda Anderson, Metro's wife). AA hit the ball hard and it smacked Pinhead right on the kisser. Man, did she ever look like crap all last week.

So this past Saturday we had a big picnic. There was to be no softball, nor any other kind of sport where someone could get maimed. So I brought a frisbee, and with great relish told everyone that surely not even my little pinhead sister could get injured playing frisbee.

Imagine the scene. Metro, Nature Boy, and myself, B-Dog, are spread out in triangle formation, zinging the frisbee to each other. I was standing in the street, in front of my car.

Jason flicked that frisbee like a bullet at my head. Now, normally, I have the reflexes of a cat. Really. I am a former bad guy pro wrestling superstar, you know. Also, I am QUITE the experienced frisbee catcher. But ... for some reason I missed completely. My arms did anyway. The bridge of my nose caught the frisbee quite well, WHACK! then it bounced off, along with my sunglasses. I fell back into my car, then staggered around in the empty street for a few second, before I realized what had happened. I had been frisbeed! Viciously. Good thing it didn't break my nose. Man, that hurt! So the lesson is, if you want a safe thing to toss around, don't stop looking when you come to the frisbee. Drop that sucker and keep searchin'. We Nightriders are going to have to revert back to childhood and try Nerf next, I guess.

Hey people ... what kind of columns would you like for the next week or so? I've thought about doing another dating/ relationship advice column. Perhaps Jason Ramage and I can give you ladies completely conflicting advice again. Or something. Actually we Nightriders were talking about "What guys want" Saturday at Zesto's (after the Frisbee attack). Maybe that would make a good column. Or something else. More poetry? More music critiques? More superstar interview? Any other ideas?

Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner

And I mean nobody.

Lyric Analysis: "Mr. Jones" The Counting Crows

LET'S DO THIS:

I was down at the New Amsterdam
Staring at this yellow-haired girl
Mr. Jones strikes up a conversation with this black-haired flamenco dancer
You know she dances while his father plays guitar
She's suddenly beautiful
We all want something beautiful
Man, I wish I was beautiful
So come dance this silence down through the morning
Sha la la la la la la la la yea
Uh huh
Yea
Cut up, Maria!
Show me some of them Spanish dances
Pass me a bottle, Mr. Jones
Believe in me
Help me believe in anything
I want to be someone who believes
Yea
Mr. Jones and me tell each other fairy tales
And we stare at the beautiful women
She's looking at you
Ah, no, no, she's looking at me
Smiling in the bright lights
Coming through in stereo
When everybody loves you
You can never be lonely

Well, I wanna paint my picture
Paint myself in blue and red and black and gray
All of the beautiful colors are very, very meaningful
Yea you know, gray is my favorite color
I felt so symbolic yesterday
If I knew Picasso
I would buy myself a gray guitar and play
Mr. Jones and me look into the future
Yea and we stare at the beautiful women
She's looking at you
Uh, I don't think so. She's looking at me
Standing the spotlight
I bought myself a gray guitar
When everybody loves me, I will never be lonely

I want to be a lion
Yea, everybody wants to pass as cats
We all want to be big, big stars
Yea, but we got different reasons for that
Believe in me, because I don't believe in anything
And I want to be someone to believe
To believe, to believe to believe, yea
Mr. Jones and me stumbling through the barrio
Yeah and we stare at the beautiful women
She's perfect for you
Man, there's got to be somebody for me
I wanna be Bob Dylan
Mr. Jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky
When everybody loves you,
Ah, son, that's just about as funky as you can be
Mr. Jones and me staring at the video
When I look at the television, I want to see me staring right back at me
We all want to be big stars, but we don't know why and we don't know how
But when everybody loves me, I'm going to be just about as happy as can be
Mr. Jones and me, we're gonna be big stars
c. Adam Duritz

Now, before you bust a blood vessel trying to find the meaning, read this cautionary word from Adam Duritz, the writer:

This is a song that has been misinterpreted greatly, to say the least. I think people too often look for symbolism in songs when they're simpler than they seem. This, in particular, is much simpler than it must seem to a lot of people. I have heard everything from it being about some ancient blues man who taught me to play music, which is completely ridiculous (but like somebody's movie fantasy). And I've also heard it's about my d***, which is even more ridiculous. Why do people go there, you know?

Now that we've got THAT cleared up, let's get to some nuts and bolts. Later, we'll let Mr. Duritz tell us what it meant to him when he wrote it.

First, there are very few end-rhymes, and what few there are, most often, are perfect rhymes (words that rhyme with themselves, like "beautiful," the last word of lines 5,6, and 7). Those of you familiar with the song (it was a radio hit) know how a catchy melody can make up for lack of rhyme -- it makes you unaware that there is a lack of rhyme.
Of course, there are other poetic devises such as alliteration, assonance, and consonance. But notice the story-telling precision. We don't just get a generic girl and "dancer;" we get a "yellow-haired girl" and "black-haired flamenco dancer." Lesser writers often think that by using generic terms they are enabling the listener or reader to envision whatever they want -- for instance, as a listener, maybe I would envision the girl to be brunette, rather than "yellow-haired." But such a philosophy is lazy, and gives the listener too much credit. He is listening to your song and he expects you to paint the picture for him.
Duritz makes us see the scene. He doesn't go into laborious detail - he knows what to leave in and what to leave out. Paint your word-pictures quickly; give us one or two salient facts, then let us imagine the rest. But you have to give us something. So, we are left to imagine how tall or thin the flamenco dancer might be, for instance, but she is real enough that we can fill in the gaps because Mr. Duritz has given her a couple characteristics -- her hair color and her specific dance.
I used to load my short stories with too much description. If I saw a character in my mind, I wanted the reader to see her the same way, so I would describe everything about her. If you do that, writers, people will stop reading. Those who don't will skim over the description, and envision the type of girl they want anyway. I'll say it again, pick out a couple features, features that you want to highlight, then let the reader do the rest. Mr. Duritz knows.

We must also note that the narrator wants to be Bob Dylan, and Bob Dylan will be coming to Louisville on Wednesday, June 29 at 6:30. Get your tickets May 14th. Don't be left out! Dylan and Willie Nelson at Slugger Field! Wahoo!

Okay, sorry about that. But the Dylan reference is something else that makes the picture concrete, but in a timeless way. You don't want your songs to become dated by too many "pop culturish" lyrics. Dylan was the right inclusion because he's generally regarded as a legendary figure of American music -- you wouldn't want to replace his name with the latest "cool" singer-songwriter because there's no telling if the cool one will be remembered ten years from now.

About the meaning, here's an excerpt from an interview with Duritz, regarding this song:

"I love this song because there's so many levels to it. On one level, it's a simple guy song -- but it also has to do with all the things you dream about as a young musician, and how silly and sad and helpless it is to think that everyone's going to love you if you're famous. What do you think is going to be satisfying to get these dreams fulfilled? I can't tell you why I want some of the things I want, but I want...I want...I want... The song is about how strange it is to feel like the thing that makes your dream come true and the thing that makes you appear to the world is also what makes you feel like you're sort of disappearing to yourself. I think I felt very much like I was slipping away. It didn't feel like, `wow, I'm everywhere.' It just felt kind of crappy. "I think Mr. Jones, in a lot of ways, is about dreams, but there's a cautionary element to it. The guy keeps saying, `when everybody loves me, I'll never be lonely,' and you're supposed to realize that that is probably a mistake. It's a ridiculous statement."

And from another interview:

It's really a song about my friend Marty and I. We went out one night to watch his dad play, his dad was a flamenco guitar player who lived in Spain, and he was in San Francisco in the mission playing with his old flamenco troupe. And after the gig we all went to this bar called the New Amsterdam in San Francisco on Columbus and we got completely drunk. And Marty and I sat at the bar staring at these two girls, wishing there was *some* way we could go talk to them, but we were, we were too shy. And we thought, we kept joking with each other, that if we were big rock stars instead of such loser, low-budget musicians, we'd be able to, this would be easy. And I went home that night and I wrote a song about it.
And I joke about what's it about, that story. But it's really a song about all the dreams and all the things that make you want to go in to , you know, doing whatever it is that like seizes your heart, whether it's being a rock star or being a doctor or whatever it is, you know. And I mean, those things run from like 'all this stuff I have pent up inside of me' to , 'I want to meet girls' you know, because I'm tired of not being able to. And it is a lot of those things, it's about all those dreams. But it's also kind of cautionary because it's about how misguided you may be about some of those things and how hollow they may be too. Like the character in the song keeps saying, 'When everybody loves me I will never be lonely.' And you're supposed to know that that's not the way it's gonna be, probably. I knew that even then. And this is a song about my dreams.

Excerpt of Greatness

Lou introduced me to Jack Dempsey, the great boxer. Jack shook his fist at me.
"You look too light for a heavyweight kid, you'll have to put on a few pounds. You're gonna have to dress a little finer, look a little sharper -- not that you'll need much in the way of clothes when you're in the ring -- don't be afraid of hitting somebody too hard."
"He's not a boxer, Jack, he's a songwriter, and we'll be publishing his songs."
"Oh, yeah, well I hope to hear 'em some of these days. Good luck to you, kid."
Outside the wind was blowing, straggling cloud wisps, snow whirling in the red lanterned streets, city types scuffling around, bundled up -- salesmen in rabbit fur earmuffs hawking gimicks, chestnut vendors, steam rising out of manholes.
None of it seemed important. I had just signed a contract with Leeds Music giving it the right to publish my songs, not that there was any great deal to hammer out. I hadn't written much yet.
Bob Dylan, "Chronicles, volume one," c.2004, Simon & Schuster

Finally started on the first of what will hopefully be several volumes of autobiographichal tales by Mr. Bob Dylan, who will be coming to Louisville with Willie Nelson on Wednesday, June 29 at Slugger Field.
Music afficianados can probably see Dylan's style in the above paragraphs. That's an excerpt from the first and second pages -- I have 290 more to read! Bliss!
I just finished a Victorian novel, loaned to me by someone (a little someone) who evidentally wanted to see me broken, crying like a baby. This novel took me through scenario after scenario of peril for the heroine. Then, in the end, she died. Drowned. Like a sad Celtic shanty. I read the page of her demise twice because I couldn't believe it.
In my mind, I have rewritten the ending. She lives, the bad guy dies, and the Catholic priest who loves her resigns his office so they can marry. And they live happily ever after. So there.

What have you Monkey Maniacs been reading lately, besides my ground-breaking blog? What is on your reading list for the next couple months?