beta luv bob and amandy

So, yes, the wedding was lurvely, but my memory card seems to be leaning towards the memory hole, hence no pics of the blushing bride and groom, Amanda and Brent. Ah well, it was right along the Hudson, offering a delightful view of that not-so filthy river (though I'm more of an East River man myself). Being back in nature (aka, a small lil town with American flags flapping on Main Street) was mind-clearing, unlike the Irish carbombs that went oh so well with the little handmade Nazi-Buddha chocolates for every guest. Breathing among trees and getting hypnotized by coruscating little ripples of water...guess I'm still a country boy after all.

And their vows even referenced Bob! They had to get married before the PBS thingy on Bob Dylan came on, although during would've been perfect (no vows would've been exchanged with both of their eyes glued to the tube). I mean, who else in their right mind would get married to the strains of Blood on the Tracks as done by string quartet? That's just sick!

I tried to call Amanda when No Direction Home was on, but the phone was unplugged. I was enrapt as well, even though by Tuesday night it ultimately came out as further mythologizing, scrubbed clean of such things like collector-scum thievery (in the name of "Musical Expeditionary" sez Bob as he helped himself to tons of old folk records, some of which can be heard here), punch-pulling by Dylan's manager on his own interviews, cold Joan Baez-diss (she is visibly still stung, singing "Love is a four-letter word"), and gigantic amounts of **** to keep the sunglasses affixed (though not sucked on) as camera clicks increasingly gnashed like teeth in the center gearhouses of the beast. My jaw began to clinch and grind on Tuesday's beginning, as Dylan sped through every permutation of pet and business signage in England in frantic goofy word spiel.

Monday's portion felt more vital, less linear, superimposing times past-past and past-present and eternal, featuring film of Hank, Gene Vincent, and Odetta (and the extreme wtf?ness of John Jacob Niles) that was so crisp that I almost wished it would just veer off that highway and show all that footage instead. The most surprising thing may be how great some of those folks looked (okay, I just feel young and snotty), especially Maria Muldaur, Suze Rotolo, and Dude Supreme, Bruce Langhorne. Of all the talking heads on parade, Allen Ginsburg's insights were most illumed. Who else even came close as Dylan's peer, except maybe Lennon? Who else would recognize that quality of breath and oneness, perceiving how Dylan became "a column of air" in front of everyone? I'm hoping to turn into a puddle upstate soonish.