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9/2/97, Jerusalem/Tel Aviv, present. Not much on my mind today. . . that's a first. Thought I'd spice up this journal with occasional links to sites definitely worth visiting. Here is a collection of poetry by Dylan Thomas. (I was named after him and Bob) From what I hear, the Sixties were a crazy time. .. time to do it again. But this time not sell out. . . and oh yeah. . ease up on the LSD. Here are another 2 pages that I found interesting: Bob Dylan: Tangled Up in Jews Israel's Wars and Dylan's Muse 6/14/95, NYC Past. Don Quixote with a bad hair day. My life often seems like a long chain of one bad haircut after anther. After my really bad winter haircut at Salon Ziba home of pooh-pooh-more-beautiful-than-you-Eurotrash, where cheap techno is blasted through cheap speakers and people pay money to stare into the softly lit mirrors and say to themselves, "Oh, don't I look sassy!" I had figured that paying the $25 bucks at this place might save me my usual two weeks of post-haircut blues. But boy was I wrong. I had told them I wasn't going to pay (why the fuck should I pay for misery) and finally had to settle for a pass to get free haircut the next time. I came back in the spring, and the woman tells me that I can't use the pass- its too long afterwards. What a crock of shit. So I bitched until I got to speak to the manager, who agreed to let me pay just half price. I ended up with this beautiful South American stylist with sexy long black hair. "I sense you are a Don Quixote," she said. "Wow, you must be spiritual perceptive to know that. I am Don Quixote. Now I like to say I'm a Dolphin," I said. "I'm a dolphin too," she said. I was so excited to meet someone who might be a fellow dolphin that I didn't notice her cutting my hair too short. (Sort of like when I tried to be one with the Sea, and shut my eyes while swimming. I swallowed a mouthful of water.) It was the worst haircut I had in years. "Great, now I'll have to wear my hat every day for another month," I said to her after she finished the fiasco.