(Via Tim Blair) One of the usual suspects, Peter FitzSimons, has his knickers in a twist because Bob Dylan is a golfer:
No, Bobby. Please, no. It's just not you, babe. And I, for one, simply refuse to believe that the deity who designed The Times They Are A'Changin', Idiot Wind, Isis and the Chimes of Freedom Flashing is doing what they say you're doing.
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How many fairways must a man head down, before you can call him a golfer? When it comes to you, Bobby, none of us cares. And speaking of us, for a nice change, how old and ludicrous do you think it makes us feel when the man who first awakened in our suburban souls a sense of the gypsy dancing down Desolation Row, of ghost-poets and rough-riders in the badlands of the North Country, of the blue-eyed boy in the middle of seven sad forests, out in front of a dozen dead oceans, is now vaguely looking for his golf ball in the rough?
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We can't wait to see you perform in Sydney next month, and hope you have it all sorted by then. But in the meantime we need you to crank it up. Give us an anthem to help stop this useless war on Iraq, and we'll call it all even on that same card.
Hold your cursor over the gopher for a message to Peter.
