I'll have mentioned in the past, I should have imagined, my fondness for Melvyn Q. Watchpocket, a San Francisco band of the mid-to-late '60s, whose recorded output, as far as I can tell, is nil, and whose major claim to fame is a poster for a night on which they had shared billing with Country Joe and the Fish and with Big brother and the Holding Company. This wasn't an unusual occurence by any means, for an unsigned band to be part of the festivities, etc. Anyway, yes, so I have one of these posters and they're fetching $400 dollars-ish. Presumably mine isn't an original or anything. Don't really care to find out. Not sure about that sort of thing. Looks good on my wall. That's fine. I've forgotten what i've written. but it was about Melvyn Q. Watchpocket. I know that much.
If unfinished works were finished, Jack's bibliography would read something like this. Unfinshed works are marked by an (*):
Novels: The Jonathan* 2001 Mother Hen 2002 Baiting of the Marshfish* 2003/4 Aboard the Ship the Sunday Morning* 2005/6 Tell It To A Hound Dog, Pedro* In the Pipeline...
Jack at this point suffered an aneurysm of indeterminate nature. We'll keep you posted on his condition. Last news was "critical but stable". His collected posthumous works are currently in galley form.
- I'd hate to be Jack's first blog posting as a 21 year old. - Fair sentiment. - I mean, Christ, it really is getting to me; I'm on my guard constantly. What if it happens? The responsibility! The Weight of History! - Don't worry, son... - That's easy for you to say; you didn't instigate the fucking thing... - No, I mean he has a new blog. - He has what?!? - Don't worry, son... - I'm not worried . I'm bloody furious. After all we've... - Quiet! He's made one posting in it, and that was some non-commital shit about herons. It was meant to be some grand new venture, a communal thing, but all inspiration drained from him shortly after setting the fucker up. - So you mean...? - What I mean is that you don't have to worry about the Weight of History, and at the same time you needn't be concerned that he's going to neglect us any more than he already has done. - Well, that's something. Where is this blogspot, by the way? - Oh, I didn't memorise it or anything, but the url is something like pookadelaval.blogspot.com... yeah, something like that... - Whatever. Don't reckon I'll be spending much time there. - You 'n' me both, son. You 'n' me both.
In 1891, there were 6 Haddads in Cumberland (though none in Westmoreland), 1 in Durham, 1 in Northamptonshire (wherever that is) and 1 in London (which is nowhere).
Back by popular sleep deprivation, Jack Haddad will, in the course of shameless showboating of an as yet undetermined nature, shed a little light on what really Matters this week, and other weeks too probably as well also. From what I could garner on my speedy way to the sport section of Saturday's Guardian, this week is a week of "Pet" wallcharts. That's perhaps the headline.
Perhaps even more important is the following link. All details are there, so I shall say, in short, without preambulation, that is to say without... etc... it's a source for downloading Bob Dylan's interview with Studs Terkel from 1963. It also contains seven songs, and far more interesting chat than you'd find in run-of-the-mill music journalism. But it's Studs Terkel, so it wasn't going to be run-of-the-mill anyway. Bob actually talks! Ah, youth.
...And he returns some five cigarettes later, and after a fond farewell to Adam, who's off to Begin His Day. That's tomorrow to nocturns such as I, and to you too, wherever you may chance to be - Seaton Delaval? Drop me a line. Hook and sinker. I want you to.
Oh, dear me. I shall leave it at that after all. The Incredible String Band can soothe me into the day. Soon, perhaps, I'll be able to tell with something approaching certainty whether it is indeed Tomorrow (which does ever come, and ardently so), or in fact tonight. It's all a matter of whether I feel myself capable of rewaking in time for lunchtime Neighbours, the Social and Cultural Hub of any week day.
Ah, Heavens. I'll have another cigarette, I think. Then I'll know...
Is it something in the Species of Edinburgh that causes me to make these posts? It can't be toothache, as toothache I have not. Existence really could be insufferable. Toothache would certainly help with that. But I don't intend to traipse down that particular road. Existence? Yeah, okay. That's fine.
Okay, so perhaps Adders and I are the last to know about this monumental moment in the history of world song and dance, way back in 2000, but if not... well here's all you need to join in the unrelenting march of Bolivarian socialism.
"St. Cuthbert's Co-operative Society opened its first shop in Edinburgh in 1859, and expanded to become one of the largest Co-ops before amalgamating with the Dalziel Society of Motherwell in 1981 and being renamed Scotmid. Its dairy used horse drawn delivery floats until 1985, and between 1944 and 1959 employed as a milkman one Sean Connery, who later went on to fame as James Bond."
Bloody in the sense that I have a Weakness in My Blood that requires leeches (and I don't have any leeches). And illness in, as well as that sense, the sense of being Full of Snot, Unable to Drink, or indeed do anything but watch bad television. Oh, yes. And smoking. Can't do much of that, and any that I do will cause this particular Grievous Sickness to last a fair bit longer. But needs must. Damn. I'll smoke now. With trepidation. I can't move. Damn Blood. And coughing. But not coughing blood. I must stress that. Don't worry on my account. But do pray for me. Just a little bit.
