Saying that Ariana Grande is a Prostitute is an Insult to Prostitutes

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What would you think of a prostitute who recognized what she was doing was wrong, went to confession intermittently (assume that she was a baptized and semi-practicing Catholic), and tried (sort of) to get out of it, without a lot of initial success.

I would call her a human being and a Catholic, arguably not a "good" one, but no worse than some, and better than many.

Now, what would you call a prostitute who actively recruited children - say, eight-year-old girls - to imitate her and become involved in her lifestyle, including exposing them to pornography and explicitly teaching them about various sexual "permutations," all to make more money, and with no apologies or guilt whatsoever?

I would call her Ariana Grande.

One of the girls who died at Manchester was eight-years-old.

I was initially alerted to this by reading a post by the Catholic blogger Ann Barnhardt. I had never heard of Ariana Grande before the Manchester bombing. And even after, I simply assumed that she was a sort of vacuous "pop" singer, responsible at the most for wasting the time of girls and young women with silly music and dumb pop music idol stuff.

I was wrong. Ariana Grande is actually a sort of monster. I say that not because she's using sexuality to sell records (which wouldn't exactly be new) but because she's intentionally profiting from selling sex to young girls.

Here is an excerpt of lyrics from one of her hit songs, "Side to Side," performed at the Manchester concert. In the "official" recording and video, some of these words are actually sung by a collaborator, Nicki Minaj, but they're part of the song. Keep in mind that much of Grande's audience is pre-pubescent:

I've been here all night
I've been here all day
And boy, got me walkin' side to side
(Let them hoes know)

I'm talkin' to ya
See you standing over there with your body
Feeling like I wanna rock with your body
And we don't gotta think 'bout nothin' ('Bout nothin')
I'm comin' at ya
'Cause I know you got a bad reputation
Doesn't matter, 'cause you give me temptation
And we don't gotta think 'bout nothin' ('Bout nothin')...

'Cause tonight I'm making deals with the devil
And I know it's gonna get me in trouble
Just as long as you know you got me

This the new style with the fresh type of flow
Wrist icicle, ride d*ck bicycle
Come true yo, get you this type of blow
If you wanna menage I got a tricycle

All these bitches, flows is my mini-me
Body smoking, so they call me young Nicki chimney
Rappers in they feelings cause they feelin' me
Uh, I-I give zero f*cks and I got zero chill in me
Kissing me, copped the blue box that say Tiffany
Curry with the shot, just tell 'em to call me Stephanie
Gun pop and I make my gum pop
I'm the queen of rap, young Ariana run pop

Now, I'm sure that if anyone reading this doesn't understand what the lyrics mean, it's because you would never think that they would be sung by someone whose audience was composed largely of children. But here's a quick primer. All of it has been confirmed by Grande herself or is understood by every commenter:

Walking side to side (having so much sex that one cannot walk straight)
Wrist icicle (masturbatory sex)
Ride d*ck bicycle (self-explanatory)
Get you this type of blow (oral sex)
If you wanna menage I got a tricycle (self-explanatory)

In fairness, if you heard the song for the first time or in passing, you might miss half of the words. However, just in case you didn't get it, the central theme of the video for "Side to Side" features the dancers/models riding exercise bikes. 

Is this, in and of itself, the worst thing in the world? Of course not.

But when it's pushed on eight-year-old girls, it comes pretty close.

And, no, this is not an anomaly. Here are some lyrics from her "encore" song, "Dangerous Woman," at Manchester, sung only seconds before the bomb went off:

Oh yeah
Don't need permission
Made my decision to test my limits
'Cause it's my business
God as my witness
Start what I finished
Don't need no hold up
Taking control of this kind of moment
I'm locked and loaded
Completely focused my mind is open

All that you got, skin to skin, oh my God
Don't ya stop, boy...

All girls wanna be like that
Bad girls underneath like that
You know how I'm feeling inside
Somethin' 'bout, somethin' 'bout
All girls wanna be like that
Bad girls underneath like that...

God as my witness.

Okay: people, sex, rock music. Nothing new. Even some traditionalist Catholics that I know might have something like this on their iPod while they work out. It's a bit mischievous or whatever, but many of us laugh and wink at secular culture while still occasionally getting into the beat...

Except that:

Eight-year-old girls.

I simply cannot imagine any mother or father allowing or encouraging their daughter to listen to or embrace this stuff.

I don't believe that the parents who sent their children to die (it turned out) at that Ariana Grande concert were responsible for their child's physical deaths.

A Muslim did that.

But those parents were responsible for promoting the deaths of their children's souls.

There's something horrifically ironic about that most pornographic of all religions - Islam - which embraces the corruption of children (marrying them off to some middle-aged imam or whatever), warring against Ariana Grande, a pornographer profiting off of the corruption of children.

Saying that Ariana Grande is a prostitute is an insult to prostitutes.

What does that make the parents?

"I married Isis on the 5th day of May": The Last Word on Bob Dylan

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One of my go-to Bob Dylan songs is "Isis," the second track on his 1975 Desire. It's not political. It's not a protest song. I guess it would be classified as a ballad.

I just played it again for the 97th time.

What is it about? It's a tall tale set in a sort of mythical West about a grave-robbing scheme gone bad. Or something like that. But the story is framed by a a woman. She is enigmatic and perhaps unattainable even though the song begins with the narrator's marriage to her:

I married Isis on the 5th day of May
But I couldn't hold onto to her very long
So I cut off my hair and rode straight away
For the wide unknown country where I could not go wrong

There follow his adventures, which are a mix of the magical and the mundane. He comes to a  town, divided down the middle between "darkness and light" and goes into a laundry to wash his clothes.

He's taken in by a con man - "I gave him my blanket; he gave me his word" - and they go into the desert in pursuit of treasure. The narrator dreams of "diamonds and the world's biggest necklace." But he also can't get the woman out of his head:

I was thinkin' about Isis, how she thought I was so reckless
How she told me that one day we would meet up again

And things would be different the next time we wed
If I only could hang on and just be her friend
I still can't remember all the best things she said

After arriving at "the pyramid all embedded in ice," the plan goes bad. It turns out to be about a grave, but the grave ends up being that of the con man. And there is no treasure. Instead of a tomb robbery, it's a burial:

I picked up his body and I dragged him inside
Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover
I said a quick prayer and I felt satisfied
Then I rode back to find Isis just to tell her I love her

Of course he does.

She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise

Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed
I came in from the East with the sun in my eyes
I cursed her one time then I rode on ahead

When she questions him, the narrator insouciantly snarls out his answers. Then he melts.

She said, where ya been? I said, no place special
She said, you look different, I said, well, I guess
She said, you been gone, I said, that's only natural
She said, you gonna stay? I said, if you want me to, Yes

Unless you've heard the original album version of this song, all of this may seem a bit silly. The lyrics were apparently written in collaboration with Jacques Levy, who was, yes, an actual Literature Professor. But I'm not sure they look anything special on the page.

As I type I smile at the words because I remember Dylan's take on them. On Desire, it was perfect, especially when coupled with four instruments including a haunting acoustic piano and fiddle.

There are a few different versions on YouTube of Dylan performing the song live. They're not very good. The intonations are all wrong. It sounds hurried. This tells me that the brilliance of the song lies not in the lyrics nor even in the lyrics coupled with the melody. It wouldn't have become a classic without the particular way the song was put together on Desire by Dylan and his producer, Don DeVito. Maybe DeVito should have won a Nobel Prize.

I hope "Isis" is listened to in a hundred years. I think it will be. It certainly deserves to be. And it's an example of what makes Bob Dylan one of the greatest American musicians of the second half of the 20th century.

No, it's not literature (for the reasons given above). But that's okay. I haven't read Proust 97 times. I haven't even read any particular passages of Proust 97 times.

Okay, I haven't read Proust.

As of this writing, the reclusive Dylan still hasn't responded to the Nobel Prize committee. Actually, I think it would be fitting it he snubbed the whole thing. He doesn't need the Award. it doesn't add one atom to any of his accomplishments. The Award was a silly suck-up to counter-cultural hipsterism (or an imagined version of it) by a bunch of muddle-headed academics who couldn't carry a beat and think sharia law is the height of diversity.

It doesn't matter.

Isis, oh, Isis, you mystical child
What drives me to you is what drives me insane
I still can remember the way that you smiled

On the fifth day of May in the drizzlin' rain

Isis will endure forever. Or at least her smile will.

A Funny Palindrome Parody in Honor of Bob Dylan

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A palindrome is a word, phrase, sentence or longer string of sentences that is spelled the same way right to left as left to right.

You either like love palindromes or you don't. And if you do, you probably have a number committed to memory.

I have a pretty awful memory, especially when it comes to words and letters, but I could reel off palindromes at you for as long as it took you to slowly drink a pint.

Or fall asleep.

Here are some famous ones:

Madam, I'm Adam. 

Able was I ere I saw Elba. 

A man, a plan, a canal - Panama!

And here are some slightly lesser known (but still quite fun) examples:

Sit on a potato pan, Otis. 

Semite Moses runs to Lot's nurse, sometimes. 

Go hang a salami - I'm a lasagna hog. 

The noon sex alert relaxes no one, H.T.

Here is my favorite whimsical short palindrome:

Elf farm raffle.

And so on.

Now consider Bob Dylan's famous "Subterranean homesick blues," especially his iconic short video of it from the film, Don't Look Back.

It's now almost fifty years old.

Weird Al Yankovic did a palindrome parody of it.

What could that possibly mean, you ask? You'll just have to see for yourself. Note, even if you have seen the Dylan short before, you should first re-watch the original two-minute video to appreciate the full effect of the parody. For full accuracy, Weird Al even temporarily resurrected Allen Ginsberg.

So, here's the original:

And here's the Palindrome version. It is of course called "Bob."

When a Young Robert Christgau Busted Bob Dylan's Literary Pretensions

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Bob Dylan was just awarded the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature.

This was, of course, a category error. Literature is defined as written works, composed of letters on pages, usually grouped together into books.

Bob Dylan only composed two literary works in his life:

Tarantula - a short book of prose poetry, published illegally by an underground press in 1966, bootlegged extensively and then released officially in 1971 - received almost uniformly condemnatory reviews, and is still cited as a classic example of how the "poetry" of the song lyric mode fails to transfer to the printed page.

Chronicles: Volume One - published in 2004 as the first part of a planned three-volume memoir - got a much better reception. But I think it's fair to say that Dylan didn't get the Nobel Prize for that.

So, Dylan won the Prize for his song lyrics, or more precisely, his songs. In fairness, the Nobel Committee along with many others no doubt consider them to be poetry - sung poetry, but poetry nevertheless.

But that doesn't make Blonde on Blonde literature.

And in truth, as music critic Robert Christgau wrote in a review of Tarantula published forty-five years ago in The New York Times, song-writing isn't poetry, and Dylan, for all his pretensions, is no poet.

Christgau called him a poetaster.

Ouch.

But he would also write: "To assert that Dylan doesn't belong to the history of literature is not to dismiss him from the history of artistic communication, of language." Exactly so. Whatever you think of Dylan's politics, or the people and movements associated with him, or his somewhat eccentric later creative life, he was a fine musician. I can only second the critic's final recommendation: Buy his records.   

The answer, my friends, is still blowin' in the wind 

By Robert Christgau June 27, 1971 

The official appearance of Bob Dylan's “Tarantula” is not a literary event because Dylan is not a literary figure. Literature comes in books, and Dylan does not intend his most important work to be read. If he ever did, his withdrawal of “Tarantula” from publication five years ago indicates that he changed his mind. Of course, it's possible that he's changed his mind again—with Dylan, you never know. Most likely, however, his well‐known quest for privacy, his personal elusiveness, lies behind the unexpected availability of this book. The pursuit of the artist by his audience has been a pervasive theme of his career, and the bootleg versions of “Tarantula” hawked on the street and under the counter over the past few years by self‐appointed Dylanologists and hip rip‐off artists were simply a variation on that theme. For Dylan to permit the release of the book now (at a non‐rip‐off price, it should be noted) is to acknowledge the loss of a battle in his never‐ending war for privacy. Quite simply, his hand has been forced by his fans. He is a book‐writer now, like it or not. 

To assert that Dylan doesn't belong to the history of literature is not to dismiss him from the history of artistic communication, of language. Quite the contrary. A song writer does not use language as a poet or novelist does because he chooses his words to fit into some larger, more sensual effect; an artist who elects to work in a mass medium communicates in a different way from one who doesn't and must be judged according to his own means, purposes and referents. That much ought to be obvious. I would also argue, however, that Dylan's choices not only merit their own critical canons but must be recognized as incisive responses to modernism's cul‐de‐sac, in which all the arts, especially literature, suffer from self‐perpetuating intellectual élitism. 

What makes this all so confusing is that Dylan's fame and influence are based on his literary talents and pretensions. Just for fun, I might suggest that Dylan is no greater an artist than Chuck Berry or Hank Williams, but only Dylan could have become the culture hero of a decade of matriculating college classes. Even at first, when Dylan's best songs were mostly acute folk music genre pieces, he was thought to embody transcendent artistic virtues. The standard example was “Blowin' in the Wind,” which interspersed straightforward political questions with metaphorical ones, always concluding: “The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, the answer is Blowin' in the wind.” The song's “poetic” language, effective in its musical and emotive context even though it appears hackneyed on the page, captured listeners sympathetic to its apparent assumptions and inspired much unfortunate image‐mongering. But in retrospect we notice the ambivalence of the title—can the answer be plucked from the air? 

Dylan may not have been aware he was equivocating when he wrote the song, but that doesn't matter. Equivocation was inherent in his choice of method. Like most of his confreres in the folk movement, Dylan got his world‐view from the listless civil‐rights and ban‐the‐bomb radicalism of the late 50's but was forced to find his heroes elsewhere, among the avant‐garde artists who helped young post‐conformists define for themselves their separation from their fellow citizens. Once Dylan conceived the ambition to use those artists as his own exemplars, he had to come to terms with their characteristic perspective—namely, irony. Sure enough, in “My Back Pages” (1964) he was renouncing politics with a nice ironic flourish—“I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.” Moreover, the same song signalled his debut as a poetaster with a portentously clumsy opening line: “Crimson flames tied through my ears, growing high and mighty traps.” 

Between early 1964 and mid‐1966—a period that includes the four albums from “Another Side of Bob Dylan” to “Blonde on Blonde” and the switch from acoustic to electric music—Dylan became a superstar. Pioneers of youth bohemia seized upon his grotesque, sardonic descriptions of America as experienced by a native alien and elevated Dylan into their poet laureate. In response, professional defenders of poetry declared themselves appalled by his barbaric verbosity. Many of us, his admirers, even while we were astonished, enlightened and amused by Dylan's sporadic eloquence, knew why John Ciardi wasn't. But we didn't care, not just because Dylan's songs existed in an aural and cultural context that escaped the Ciardis, but because we sensed that the awkwardness and overstatement that marred his verse were appropriate to a populist medium. No one was explicit about this at the time, however, least of all Dylan, whose ambitions were literary as well as musical and whose relationship to his ever‐expanding audience was qualified by the fascination with an arcane élite to which his songs testified. 

“Tarantula” is a product of this period; in fact, Dylan fans who want a precise sense of what the book is about need only refer to the liner notes of “Highway 61 Revisited.” The basic technique is right there: the vague story, peopled with historical (Paul Sargent), fabulous or pseudonymous (the Cream Judge, Savage Rose) characters, punctuated with dots and dashes and seasoned with striking but enigmatic asides, all capped off with a fictitious letter having no obvious connection to what has preceded. That's all folks. 

“Tarantula” is a concatenation of such pieces. Most of them seem unconnected, although a few characters, notably someone named “aretha,” do recur. The only literary precedent that comes to mind is “Naked Lunch,” but in a more general way “Tarantula” is reminiscent of a lot of literature because it takes an effort to read it. Unless you happen to believe in Dylan, I question whether it's worth the effort, and don't call me a philistine—it was Bob Dylan who got me asking such questions in the first place. 

For the strangest aspect of Dylan's middle period is that although it was unquestionably his literary pretensions that fanaticized his admirers and transformed the craft (or art) of songwriting, Dylan's relationship to literature as a discipline was always ambivalent. In fact, to call it ambivalent is to compound the confusion—it was actually downright hostile. From “Tarantula”: “wally replies that he is on his way down a pole & asks the man if he sees any relationship between doris day & tarzan? the man says ‘no, but i have some james baldwin and hemingway books’ ‘not good enough’ says wally.” From the notes to “Bringing It All Back Home”: “my poems are written in a rhythm of unpoetic distortion.” 

Dylan borrowed techniques from literature—most prominently allusion, ambiguity, symbolism and fantasy—and he obviously loved language, but he despised the gentility with which it was supposed to be tailored. His songs do seem derivative, but (like “Tarantula”) they aren't derived from anyone in particular. Obvious parallels, or “influences”—Blake, Whitman, Rimbaud, Céline—share only his approach and identity: the Great Vulgarian, the Magnificent Phonus Balonus. Dylan wrote like a word‐drunk undergraduate who had berserked himself into genius, his only tradition the jumbled culture of the war baby—from Da Vinci to comic strips, from T. S. Eliot to Charlie Rich. His famous surrealism owes as much to Chuck Berry as to Breton or even Corso, and even though his imagery broadened the horizons of songwrit ing, it was only a background for the endless stream of epigrams—which songwriters call good lines—flowing into our language, some already clichés (“The times they are a‐changin,” “You know something's happening, but you don't know what it is”), others still the property of an extensive, self informed subculture (“Stuck in side of Mobile with the Memphis blues again,” “Don't follow leaders, watch the parking meters”). Dylan may be a poor poet, but he is a first‐class wit. 

But such talk accedes to the temptation of placing Dylan's work in a page context, always a mistake. Literature may have engendered the Dylan mystique, but rock and roll nurtured it. We remember those lines because we've heard them over and over again, often not really listening, but absorbing the rhythm of unpoetic distortion just the same. “Tarantula” may contain similar gems, but we'll never know they're there, because Tarantula will never be an album. The wonderful letters, the funny bits, as well as the dreary, vaguely interesting stuff and the failed doomsday rhetoric—all will go. Aretha Franklin's continuing presence through the book is a portent, for shortly after “Tarantula” and “Blonde on Blonde” Dylan made another switch by abandoning the verbal play (and excess) of his long songs for brief, specifically pop works. For a while, it appeared that this meant a total abandonment of the complexity of his vision, but his latest album, “New Morning,” makes clear that it is only a condensation. More and more, Dylan affirms the value of the popular and the sensual over the verbal. This book will find its way into A. J. Weberman's Dylan concordance and doubtless become a cult item, but it is a throwback. Buy his records.

Sinead O'Connor: "I'm on a bridge in Chicago and I'm going to jump!"

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This is not a parody. Apparently she has been living in Chicago for the last few months.

From TMZ:

SINEAD O'CONNOR SUICIDE WATCH ON CHICAGO BRIDGES 

Cops are on the hunt for Sinead O'Connor after someone in her family told cops she's threatening to kill herself. 

Chicago PD got a call from Irish authorities saying Sinead contacted her family an hour ago and said she was suicidal and planned to jump off a bridge in the Chicago area. 

We're told cops actually spotted someone who looked like she fit the profile but it wasn't Sinead. 

TMZ obtained scanner audio from the PD giving officers the heads up. We're told there's not an active search ... but cops were told to be on the lookout. 

Sinead's been struggling with depression lately -- just last month she was reported missing and her friends and family feared suicide -- she was later found at a Chicago hotel.

From ABC7 (WLS):

CHICAGO POLICE ADVISED TO BE ON LOOKOUT FOR SINEAD O'CONNOR 

CHICAGO (WLS) -- An all-call was issued for Chicago police Thursday, urging officers in the city to be on the lookout for Irish singer-songwriter Sinead O'Connor after police in Ireland received a report that she may be suicidal and threatening to jump from a bridge. 

"Dublin, Ireland is saying that at 1530 hours, Sinead O'Connor called and said I'm on a bridge in Chicago and I'm going to jump," police said in their all-call. 

Police spokesman Officer Thomas Sweeney said Thursday there isn't an active police search for O'Connor. 

Around the same time the call went out, officers spotted someone threatening to jump from a bridge over a Chicago expressway, but it turned out to be a 54-year-old man. He was taken to a hospital. 

Last month, O'Connor disappeared from a home in Wilmette, her friends saying she rode away on a bicycle and never returned. She was found safe at a suburban hotel. 

O'Connor has used social media to call out family members overseas and it's possible she reached out to them again Thursday, leading to the call to Dublin police. Her representatives have not responded to requests for comment.

10 Rock and Roll Selections For the Synod On the Family

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Looking forward to it, man!

This is a repost. We ran it back on March 14 in honor of the First Synod. A few words have been changed.

The Synod on the Family. It's back. And after that, the Jubilee Year of Mercy. We know what that means. Or do we?

I thought I would pick ten songs that are appropriate for what is to come. With two exceptions they're not technically Christian songs, and a Christian viewer advisory is recommended for the video of at least one of them. But I'm fond of them, and for better or worse, in their different ways they fit.

1. The Rolling Stones: Mercy, Mercy. This is an obvious pick. Though, of course for those of us who look on the Synod with fear and trepidation, it has a another meaning from what Pope Francis intended. The clip is vintage early Stones. For those who like their Stones more 70's-ish, see here.

2. REM: It's the End of the World as We Know It. Also for those Catholics who look at what's coming as potentially a kind of turning point (in a bad way).

3. Sister Sledge: We are Family. Another obvious one. This song is filled with joy.

4. The Clash: I Fought the Law. We know they weren't talking about the law of You Know Who, but if you interpret it that way, it nicely describes what Cardinal Kasper (and his boss?) are doing. Note who wins, however.

5. Nirvana: They Hung Him on a Cross. A good reminder.

6. Squeeze: The Cigarette of a Single Man. Life without marriage, or that's how I interpret it. You can afford to buy a lot of compact discs, though. Takeaway lyric: "What you got to go home to?"

7. Madness: Our House. This could be the theme song of any large Catholic family. "Our house it has a crowd. There's always something happening and it's usually quite loud."

8. Brittany Spears: Toxic. You might not like her and you might not like the song (though I think the melody and beat are catchy). But who can argue that the title doesn't perfectly describe the coming gathering? "I took a sip from the devil's cup..." And who can deny that her sort of "family values" appear to be winning? Warning: gyrations.

9. The Minutemen: Jesus and Tequila. For what's to come, we'll need Him. But the second item of the title may come in handy as well. We also featured this to honor our fallen Catholic comrade, Mel Gibson. Jesus and Tequila is his favorite song. Warning: graphic graininess.

10. Elvis Presley: Amazing Grace. We'll need generous amounts of this as well.

Art Garfunkel: Islamophobe

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He wasn't always a hater

Here's a funny little story from yesterday's Daily Mail. But you do have to wonder how the topic came up: "So, will you be playing Sound of Silence tonight? . . . What was it like working with Jack Nicholson on a film? . . . And by the way, have you read any good books on the Islamic threat recently?" 

Muslims are transforming Europe, says Art Garfunkel in warning over dangers of mass migration (by Sebastian Shakespeare) 

While luvvies such as Sherlock star Benedict Cumberbatch queue up to condemn David Cameron for not allowing more migrants into Britain, one major entertainment figure has bravely voiced an alternative view. 

Art Garfunkel, who was one of the distinctive voices of the Sixties as part of the pop duo Simon & Garfunkel, has highlighted how an influx of Muslims from war-torn countries including Syria could change the nature of Europe for ever. 

‘We are at a very interesting stage right now, where people are escaping from horrendous situations all over the world,’ the 73-year-old singer tells me. 

'There was a book I read recently, called Reflections Of The Revolution In Europe, where the author wants you to say: “Look at the shopkeepers, look at the dry cleaners, and it’s all turning Islamic. 

‘He is saying: “Look, I’m not going to make any judgments about this, but I want you Europeans to see that the changing face of Britain, of Germany and all over Europe is happening. It’s becoming much more Muslim. These are the facts.” ’ 

The 2009 book, by Christopher Caldwell, argues that mass immigration by Muslims is altering the culture of Europe because of their reluctance to join the culture of their new homelands. He claims Muslims do not so much enhance European culture as supplant it, and are ‘patiently conquering Europe’s cities, street by street’. 

Caldwell says it’s ‘chilling’ that Europeans can’t have an open debate about the issue because any criticism of Islam is branded Islamophobic. He predicts that Britain is most susceptible to violence and political extremism. 

The Bridge Over Troubled Water singer recently completed an epic walk around Europe, so feels he understands the migrants who make dangerous journeys in search of a better life. 

‘The amount of movement and change is extraordinary,’ says Art, who performs at the Albert Hall tonight. ‘Taking those long walks around Europe, I get down into it — I’m engaged.’

Aficionados of the strange might be interested to know that the man who inducted "his friend" Yusuf Islam (formerly Cat Stevens) into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2014 was, you guessed it, Art Garfunkel. Islam made headlines in 1989 by claiming that Salman Rushdie "must be killed" for committing blasphemy against Allah and the prophet Muhammad. While regretting making that particular public statement (for the negative impact it had on his career), Islam has since reaffirmed the standard Islamic position on death for blasphemers numerous times, including directly after the Charlie Hebdo attacks.

People are interesting and diverse.

Pope: If You Can't Pray For Me, Send Me Good Vibrations

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From Newsmax:

VATICAN CITY — Pope Francis has asked reporters who don't pray to at least send him "good vibrations". 

The pope always asks people to pray for him but he put a new twist on the request as he was leaving a meeting with Argentine President Cristina Fernandez on Sunday. 

He turned to reporters and joked in Spanish: "Pray for me, and if some of you can't pray because you are not believers, send me good vibrations."

A Priest, a Rabbi and an Imam Cute Violinist: Only in Israel

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"Well I've heard there was a secret chord/That David played and it pleased the Lord."

This neat video (see below) was posted on Aussie Dave's always useful Israelycool, a few hours ago.

I believe it's a priest, but I suppose it could be a monk.

The video expresses Judeo-Christian liberal civilization at it's finest.

And yes, some of the most acute expressions of Judeo-Christian civilization currently take place in Israel.

The Imam was invited but he had a stoning to go to.

As most of you know, Hallelujah was originally composed by Leonard Cohen. Most famously, the late Jeff Buckley started to cover it after hearing John Cale's version. It's a beautiful non-religious song that uses biblical imagery to great effect.

Holiday in the Caliphate

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Allah Über Alles

After Jello Biafra from an original idea by Brian Renninger

So, you been to school
For a year or two
And you know you've seen it all
On Mommy's tab
Thinkin' you're real fab
Downtown your kind don't crawl

Play ethnicky rap
To parade your snap
On your three grand iMac Pro
Bragging that you feel
How the homeless are so real
And the barrios have soul

It's time to taste what you most fear
Axe Spray will not help you here
Brace yourself, my dear:

It's a holiday in the Caliphate
It's tough, dude, but it's life
It's a holiday in the Caliphate
Don't forget to pack a wife

You're a Cat in the Hat
You scurry like a rat
You want everyone to be like you
Write irony
On your Twitter feed
And post a photo of your new tattoo

Well, you'll be wearing
An orange suit
I hear they're all the rage
Make videos
To say your last hellos
Then you're burned alive in a cage

Now you can go where people submit
Now you can go where they blow up sh*t
What you need, a bit

Is a holiday in the Caliphate
Where women dress in black
A holiday in the Caliphate
Where you'll convert or crack

Islam, Islam, Islam Islam (etc.)

And it's a holiday in the Caliphate
Where to Allah you will kneel
A holiday in the Caliphate
Where the homeless are so real