DumpJack Wrote:
Sen.Huntington Garford II Wrote:
DumpJack Wrote:
Where's harry? I'd like to hear his thoughts on this one.
Old School Acid Head - I hope he says Dylan

Oh I'm certain he'd say Dylan, but he's also a massive Neil fan.
Right, Beatles or Stones. Air or food. The choice is mostly odious and unnecessary, but it’s a provisional conversation I have with my partner periodically… usually around, “how can anyone be better than Neil?” Especially as Neil gets older the choice and distinction becomes more reasonable. Neil’s unforeseen “growth” in old age has been aligned with the “hippie dream will never die”, while Bob’s “continued production” has been expanded ways of being “not there.” Native wisdom vs. the artifice of eternity.
Neil is god in our house, and all the many Neil’s through the years have had a profound impact on me. We do the Bridge School like church.
Either sailing mother’s nature’s silver seed, or out on the mainline, Neil has a raw integrity and genius naiveté that powers him like no other. By way of another stoopit comparison, think of a Trey guitar solo, all neat and smugly satisfied, and think of Neil shredding, guitar roaring hungry for an answer, or acoustic blue collar dignity. No one has a hunger as passionate as Neil. Rocking my world free.
But Dylan is important, is every sense of that word. Culturally, symbolically, poetically, politically, personally, historically, prophetically…. Important. Dylan is literally essential. And Dylan, although he’s uneven, is incapable of making the monumentally dumb choices that Neil will make.
Neil is Walt Whitman, and Dylan is T.S. Eliot. Neil is the troubadour, Dylan is the prophet.
My head chooses Dylan.
My heart chooses Neil.
In this poll I clicked Dylan, because that is the right answer, of course. There's really no choice in any critical sense. But as I write here I’ll break the tie I’ve made for myself and go with DumpJack and choose Neil. It’s Neil. In my own old age, I’d rather fall in love than explore the nature of reality.
And speaking of questioning reality, while it’s true that for decades I sought through prayer and medication a way to the Godhead, and there’s very little in the psychotropic menu I haven’t ingested, I’ll turn down the role of the Tripper from the Sixties, thank you. My drug addictions were eventually a bit more urban than bucolic. Macarthur Park at 5:00a.m. with Crips and crack, not peace and love and purple granny glasses. Guns and suicide attempts, blood in my hair, not flowers. Tonight’s the Night, indeed.