I Don't Knowed

I am a grammarholic.

Pheeeeeew. Acknowledged, accepted, released into the ether, and stated in print.

I am blessed with an excellent editor/sponsor Reba, who does talk me down from grammatical edge when I lose my centre over their/there/they’re and other homophones; comma splices; subject-verb agreement errors; and those dangling or misplaced modifiers, to name but a few.

This chronic syntactic disorder does manifest in bizarre ways: I am overly displeased and overjoyed by the quality of all written communication I receive—missives, emails, texts, a message in a bottle, even Post-it notes. And if you’re going to write a note in the sand—make it grammatically correct. Lo! I will notice any error before the swash removes the folly etched upon the shore.

It’s no coincidence that my closest friends all display competent grammatical skills. Roger is quite the martinet, demanding and displaying the highest standard. Someone needs to hold the line. And a tip of the Jacaru to Fotis, a master of the semicolon; especially in his texts.

A recent example: “No plans; but I can help prepare.”

Ahhh. Warms the cockles of my heart.

And lastly my mate Mark, who writes so eloquently a train of thought, clickity-clack, clickity-clack—line after line, paragraph after paragraph, page after page within the correct confines of the rules of grammar.

As part of my 12-step program, I am currently working on Step 8: “Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.”

Atop that list is the Pied Piper of Folk Rock: Mr. Bob Dylan. “Harmed?” Certainly not physically. If anything benefitted, at least economically, by my purchasing his music (one of the earliest vinyl albums I bought as a teenager was John Wesley Harding). But mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa harmed—that is, mentally criticized.

Those aware of his work, especially those with a grammatical bent, know I am referring to the song “Lay, Lady, Lay.” It first appeared on Dylan’s ninth studio album, Nashville Skyline, released by Columbia Records on April 9, 1969.

Grammar nerds—grab your Weedwackers. We’re going to get deep into the brambles. The error is the confusion between verbs lay (transitive) and lie (intransitive). The line is “Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed.” Lay is a transitive verb that requires a direct object. For example: you lay something down. There must be a direct object receiving the action. Lay the book down.

On the other hand, lie is an intransitive verb that requires no direct object. I lie down. Go lie down. She lies across the bed.

The correct lyric should be: “Lie, lady, lie, lie across my big brass bed.”

Of course, at this point, all my lady readers have bolted from the blog, screeching like banshees at my dull discourse.

Je suis d’accord, ma chère, je suis d’accord.

And now to purge the remaining readership; another Dylan poetic aberration.

Let’s visit Bob Dylan’s second studio album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, released by Columbia Records on May 27, 1963. The song is “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright.” With his iconic fingerpicking style, Mr. Dylan sings:

It ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe,

That light I never knowed.

An’ it ain’t no use in turnin’ on your light, babe,

I’m on the dark side of the road.

Grammatically, it should be: “That light I never knew.” Know is an irregular verb. The simple past tense is knew. But knew does not rhyme with road. “Knowed” gives Dylan the sound, meter, dialect, and folk-song character he wants. More importantly, this word choice is deliberate nonstandard usage rather than Dylan not knowing the past tense of know.

Yawn.

Okay, okay; don’t protest twice, it’s alright.

My beloved, straight-shooting sister Kim would put it another way: “Rules are made to be broken.” And we’ve all done that!

But for the artists—whatever their genre—those blessed with a muse, I would substitute “broken” for “transcended.” They have worked at and mastered the rules of their craft and then transcended them. They are the Parnassians with poetic license, and I consider Bob Dylan a lifelong dues-paid member.

And you, mate, where are you on that spectrum?

I don’t knowed.

© 2026 Stephen J. Groak. All rights reserved.

Rockets' Red Glare

Long live the Queen!

Wait…what? Mate, it’s America’s semiquincentennial. Hardly the time to be cheering for the British monarchy.

Yeah, nah.

I’m talking about the RMS Queen Mary.

She sailed into Long Beach, California, on December 9, 1967, and is now a stationary hotel and museum (On December 11, 1967, she was conveyed to the City of Long Beach and removed from the British Registry).

I have had three encounters with this great ship: as a vendor employee, patron, and celebrant.

But first some history of the Grand Old Lady.

She was built by the Scottish shipbuilding firm John Brown & Company at their shipyard in Clydebank, Scotland, known as “Job No. 534.”

Her Majesty Queen Mary, after whom the ship was named, launched her at 3:10 p.m., on September 26, 1934. With scissors, Her Majesty cut a satin cord which released a bottle of Australian wine (Gobsmacked—not a Kiwi Babich vino?) which shattered on the port bow.

A rainy day could not keep away about a quarter of a million onlookers to the event as the band played “Rule Britannia.”

C’mon, sing it with me:

“Rule, Britannia! rule the waves;

Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.”

Let’s keep the creative vibe going—recite with me the closing stanza of UK’s Poet Laureate John Masefield’s poem “Number 534,” composed to celebrate and honour the launch of RMS Queen Mary.

“May shipwreck and collision, fog and fire,

Rock, shoal and other evils of the sea,

Be kept from you; and may the heart’s desire

Of those who speed your launching come to be.”

Captained by Sir Edgar Britten, with 1,957 passengers and 1,174 crew, the RMS Queen Mary’s maiden voyage began on May 27, 1936, departing Southampton, England, and stopping briefly in Cherbourg, France, before crossing the Atlantic to New York.

Hardly the passenger ship for every Tom, Dick, and Harry, the RMS Queen Mary was a floating, transatlantic five-star hotel and Royal Mail Ship, contracted by the British government to carry overseas mail (what the RMS stands for). Notable guests include Ella Fitzgerald, James Stewart, Robert Mitchum, Alfred Hitchcock, Bob Hope, and Winston Churchill.

Everything changed during World War II. The luxurious ocean liner was converted into a troopship, painted battleship grey, and became known as the “Grey Ghost.” This also included carrying Australian and New Zealand troops from Sydney in 1940.

During the Second World War, John Masefield’s poetic line “and other evils of the sea” proved to be a benediction: Despite a bounty offered by Adolf Hitler of $250,000 and the Iron Cross, the Queen Mary was never successfully attacked or damaged by German naval forces.

My own history with the Queen Mary spans three very different visits. My first “Welcome Aboard” moment was in the 1990s as an employee for On Command Video. They provided pay-per-view movies to guest rooms. During this time, I was never a vacationer of the five-star floating hotel; just provided five-star service!

My second visit was on Saturday, May 30, 2026, as a patron for The Edgar Allan Poe Speakeasy. My wife and daughters surprised me with an early Father’s Day gift with tickets to a ninety-minute theatrical production inside the Queen’s Salon that combined stage actors performing eerie monologues from Poe’s literature. Dim lighting and period décor made it feel as though Poe himself might step through the door.

Each of the four tales was followed by a waiter serving custom-crafted cocktails to embody the vibe of each story. Montresor’s Revenge was my favourite monster-mix.

And tonight, July 4, 2026, I stand aboard the Queen Mary with my wife Teresa celebrating America’s 250th birthday.

As I muse on the Queen Mary’s remarkable history, I realize that she has become a symbol of the evolving relationship between the United Kingdom and the United States. Once bitter enemies, our nations are now among the closest of allies. Churchill famously described this partnership as the “Special Relationship,” and the Queen Mary’s permanent home in Long Beach stands as a fitting reminder of that enduring bond.

Francis Scott Key, like you 212 years ago, I gaze to the night sky. 

“The rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air” are no longer signs of war, but brilliant fireworks celebrating the birth of a nation.

God bless America!

© 2026 Stephen J. Groak. All rights reserved.