Down in the Groove

Back in the old days, when I used to walk through snowdrifts up to my hips wearing nothing but bandaids on my toes, there was a ritual known as new release record day. Record companies released the major new releases on Tuesdays. The record store that employed me stayed open past midnight on Mondays just to be the first place in town that people could buy the album they were dying to hear. The last new release I remember buying ‘round midnight was Bob Dylan’s ‘Time Out of Mind’ back in 1997.

These memories came rolling back the past few weeks with the out of nowhere news that Dylan’s first album of new songs in eight years, ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways,’ was about to be released. True to his most Boblike behavior, Dylan had surprised his fans by releasing three songs during the pandemic at midnight on random days with no warning no hype. The timing, with the stay at home to stay safe from a deadly virus apocalypse upon us, couldn’t have been better for those of us who have learned to view the world through the lens of Dylan’s many many many great songs. The three new songs didn’t disappoint (particularly ‘I Contain Multitudes’). They were stream of conscious yet deliberate songs that I can’t think of another songwriter being capable of writing, full of jarring juxtapositions and references to artists and songs and history from all over the place. And all of it seemed intuitively relevant in this strange new world of 2020.

In 2020, it’s no longer necessary to depend on your neighborhood record store staying open past midnight in order to hear a new release when it’s released. The semi-Luddites like me can now download it from multiple music services, and the kids can listen from streaming music services. I bought the iTunes pre-order and actually stayed up past midnight on release day to see that it was now available on my iPhone. I decided I wouldn’t stay up and listen, having a lot of work to do in the morning.

I got up early to hear what Bob had to say. Like 1997’s ‘Time Out of Mind’ all the people who had heard the new work prior to its release had written over the top positive things. The general consensus seemed to be it was unlike anything Bob had done in the past, yet it was connected to everything he has done in his career and could sit proudly next to his greatest works.

I went down to the kitchen to put on my pot of coffee and feed the boyz. I paired my iPad with the Bluetooth speakers in my kitchen. I pressed play and the opening track, ‘I Contain Multitudes,’ began to play. And then it stopped. I did some pigeon I/T work and noticed the Bluetooth pairing was no longer in place. So I ineffectively tried everything I could think of to re-establish the connection. I unplugged the speakers and tried again. Nothing. I restarted my iPad and when I opened iTunes my library was gone and I had to reload it. Seemed like someone (probably Russian hackers) didn’t want me to hear whatever Bob had to say. I remembered the days when listening to music meant dropping a needle into the grooves of a slab of vinyl. Things were so much simpler then.

So does ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ live up to the hype, the buzz? Strangely the two LPs it most reminds me of are ‘Time Out of Mind’ and ‘Blonde on Blonde,’ which really are very different LPs. The sparse arrangements echo ‘Time Out of Mind’ and the bluesy songs with playful and complex lyrics hark back to ‘Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat,’ and ‘Stuck Inside a Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again,’ not to mention ‘Blonde on Blonde’ era outtakes like ‘She’s Your Lover Now,’ and ‘I’m Not There.’

The 10 songs on ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ contain connected themes referencing pop culture from the beginning of time yet applying name drops and inscrutable couplets to the contemporary world of a country coming apart at the seams. A friend called the lyric writing method “intertextual.” That’s perfect. Some have likened the lyrics as a continuation of Bob’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech where he referenced Moby Dick and Lou Reed and everything inbetween that had inspired him.

Early favorites are ‘I Contain Multitudes,’ (“I play Beethoven’s sonatas and Chopin’s preludes, I contain multitudes...”); ‘My Own Version of You,’ that sees the singer collecting body parts like Dr. Frankenstein to build his soulmate. It’s probably the darkest yet funniest song he’s ever written; and ‘Mother of Muses,’ which hit me personally as I’ve been thinking a lot, during the social distancing I invented throughout my life, about what the connection is between the handful of muses I’ve met in my life. “I'm falling in love with Calliope/She don't belong to anyone, why not give her to me?/She's speaking to me, speaking with her eyes/I've grown so tired of chasing lies/Mother of Muses, wherever you are/I've already outlived my life by far...”

Perhaps my favorite Dylan album (depending on my mood) is 1978’s ‘Street Legal’ that is Bob at his most confused. ‘Rough and Rowdy Ways’ is Bob at his most assured. There is a swagger, a deliberate obtuseness mixed with startling insight. He ain’t no false prophet (yet the timing of the release is another example of his observational finger on the world’s pulse similar to releasing ‘Love and Theft’ on September 11, 2001). The ten new songs prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he has always contained multitudes.

Oh Brother

Mankato was my 49th Bob Dylan show. If that seems like an impressive number, the woman who sat next to me, who had to be at least 20 years younger than me, and saw her first Dylan show in 1996 (mine was a decade earlier) was attending her 55th show. She overheard me talking to the guys next to me on the other side answering the question what is my favorite Dylan album? “Street Legal” which is the most effective documenting of a nervous breakdown ever. The young woman chimed in it also was her favorite Dylan LP. She fell in love with Bob’s music after hearing “Changing of the Guard” on his Greatest Hits Vol. 3 LP. I just about proposed to her on the spot.

After the show I got on my hotel’s elevator with a guy I’m guessing was a bit older than me. I asked if he had been at the concert. He said he had. I asked him how many times he had seen Bob. “Over 200...” He flew in from Germany for this leg of the current tour.

What is it about Dylan that creates/causes such devotion among so many? For me, the answer my friend, was my favorite moment in the concert, his performance of “Lenny Bruce.” Prior to this tour, the song hadn’t been performed in over a dozen years. After the first few songs, the woman next to me whispered to me that the setlist was different than the past few shows. I gave her a thumbs up and said, “I really hope he still does ‘Lenny Bruce.” She smiled. And so when he strummed the opening chords on his upright piano, she touched my arm in a shared understanding.

“Lenny Bruce” is not a great Dylan song. It appeared on what’s probably my second favorite Dylan LP, “Shot of Love” the last of his born again trilogy. He performed the song during his 1986 tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers acting as his backing band. He performed it at my first Bob show at the HHH Metrodome and I remember I smiled throughout. The impetus behind the song is seemingly obvious; both are Jewish performers who pushed the envelopes of their genres. The line that currently kills me is “he was the brother that you never had...” What does Bob’s brother David think of that line? What would my brother Bruce think if he heard me sing that line with heartfelt conviction? (I once sang Bob’s “Congratulations” to my soulmate Stephanie Jane, “Congratulations for breaking heart... Congratulations for tearing me all apart...” and Stephanie Jane told me not to sing with so much conviction.)

The Mankato show, this leg of the never ending tour (a label Bob once bristled at, the false naming of his impressive touring, all things end... over the past 30+ years) could be dubbed his “Time Out of Mind” tour. “Time Out of Mind” was released in 1997 and was considered a comeback at the time, a startlingly clear document of death, depression, blues, and insight after years of seemingly lost efforts. He performed four songs from that LP and all were stellar.

I automatically dismiss any best of Bob songlist that dosen’t contain any song from “Time Out of Mind” because there are so many brilliant to chose from. If I had to choose what to include on his greatest song list I would choose “Tryin to Get to Heaven (Before they Close the Door)” and “Not Dark Yet.” Both Mankato performances were really terrific. The arrangements were offbeat and strangely effective. Turning the recorded versions inside out and leaving me as a witness feeling outside in. Both songs absolutely moved me beyond my current struggles into a better place. And that’s exactly the reason attending a Dylan show has for me consistently has been a transformative experience.

Another definitive highlight was “When I Paint My Masterpiece.” I long considered this a minor song in the vast Dylan catalog but he’s been performing it on a regular basis the past few years. And it has so many great lines: “Train wheels are running through the back of my memory/When I ran on the hilltop following a pack of wild geese/Someday everything is gonna sound like a rhapsody...” and “Newspaper men eating candy/Had to be held down by big police/But someday every thing's gonna be different/When I paint that masterpiece...”

In my current visit into the abyss, “When I Paint My Masterpiece” has become my theme song. I’ve been thinking a lot about my legacy, both my professional career, and my lifelong need to write something life changing. For any of you out there who has ever has, or currently is, wondering how you’ll leave your mark in this world, I invite you to attend my next session with my latest therapist because I’d love to share thoughts.

At 78 years old, who knows how much longer Bob is willing to give to us, his fans? There’s a credible rumor he is going to cutback on his touring. Will I be able to see him for a 50th time? I truly hope so.

“They say he was sick 'cause he didn't play by the rules
He just showed the wise men of his day to be nothing more than fools
They stamped him and they labeled him like they do with pants and shirts
He fought a war on a battlefield where every victory hurts
Lenny Bruce was bad, he was the brother that you never had.”

A Dream Come True

We started all this on June 23, 1992 or 722 weeks ago (not that I'm counting). Gas was 25 cents a gallon; you could get a good cup of coffee for a nickel; and you could stand in a public line without hearing the annoying chatter of somebody on a cell phone. Al asked me if I was interested in starting up and editing a weekly newsletter for the company. He wanted a 10 page newsletter to include store information, technology and competition related news, and other tidbits that employees might find useful.

This seemed a daunting challenge but a great opportunity. Al knew that I had a journalism degree and was feeling a tad frustrated that I hadn't up to that point been able to get into the only field that I wanted to get into not counting Major League Baseball. One of the things I've long admired about Al is his ability to put people into situations to take advantage of their talents and thus giving them a better chance to succeed. That's not something that those in leadership positions often do.

My mindset at the time wasn't exactly brimming with confidence and sun. I think the best way I can convey where I was at during this time occurred during the Halloween blizzard of 1991. I was working weekends at the 80 N Snelling store and living in a small efficiency on Goodrich a few blocks off of Grand Ave. in St. Paul. The day after the storm I had a 12-8 shift and I somehow managed to plow my Honda Civic through the poorly plowed streets. The snow had continued to fall all day.

By the time my shift was over my car was buried beneath the snow. I knew snow emergencies had been called and knew that I'd never find a spot close to my efficiency. So I decided to walk home. Now this would have been quite the pleasant two or three mile walk on a spring day but since few of the sidewalks were plowed and traffic was at a standstill the easiest thing to do was to walk on the streets. I was wearing my boots but my boots were not meant to handle walking though thigh high snow drifts. By the time I got to Grand and Lexington my feet were blistering. And it was too late to turn around since it was just as far back to the store as it was to my efficiency. So I trudged on.

When I eventually made it back to my efficiency and the unhappy because it was well past his dinner time, Max the Cat, my feet were torn up and burning. I was out of breath, and my fingers and toes felt beyond cold but not quite frost bit. I also realized I faced the daunting challenge of back tracking the next morning to get my car out of the Cheapo lot. I realized I had done a stupid if not dangerous thing and I felt like if I hadn't hit rock bottom I must be pretty darn close. I also realized I couldn't keep keeping on like I was. I needed to change something, accomplish something to get myself on track. And so the following June when Al offered me the newsletter job, I was if nothing else, determined to give it my best.

Al sent me to a newsletter seminar somewhere in Minneapolis- my failing memory (722 weeks!) doesn't quite remember the exact location. I remember a small group of people (around a dozen) had signed up for the seminar and the instructor went around the room and asked why we were there. Most people said they were assigned a task of doing a newsletter for their organization and either were struggling with the startup of the publication or were struggling with keeping the publication going either because of lack of contributions or just the overwhelming task of putting out a worthwhile read.

The instructor also had us share how often we were publishing and how many pages our newsletters were supposed to be. Without exception everyone in the seminar said they were doing a monthly or a quarterly newsletter and the length of most were either one or two pages. That's when I chirped in, "I'm doing a weekly 10 page newsletter." I think I heard an audible gasp or two.

When I reported back to Al, I suggested we cut back to eight pages and he agreed. And that's what we've done ever since without missing a single week (that would be 722 for those of you scoring at home).

I was quite nervous when the first edition came out. All I could think about was what happened with the ABC TV newsmagazine 20/20 whose first show was so awful that the network immediately fired the co-hosts, Harold Hayes and Robert Hughes and replaced them with veteran broadcaster Hugh Downs. I hoped Al would give me a longer rope than that.

My goal was to create an effective publication that was fun to read, in hopes this would encourage people to contribute articles. I also set a goal of printing at least 50 percent original material and not having to rely mostly on non-Cheapo generated articles. I figured I would write every now and then, as needed, since one of the major issues I was grappling with at the time was trying to figure out the role of writing in my life and how what I wrote affected my friends and family.

It wasn't very long though when I saw that I was going to have to write a lot more than I originally had hoped. Soon I settled into taking the last page of the newsletter to write a weekly column. Through the first few years though, this notion of not wanting to write unless I had to was at the front of my mind. I never began compiling the newsletter thinking that I was going to write a column. Instead I started each Saturday evening compiling all the articles for the week and then after I was done editing stuff and laying out the pages I would realize that I was going to have to write a column to approach the 50 percent quota I had set.

Since I hadn't thought about writing until that point I never really thought about what I was going to write about. For that I relied on what I had learned in my writing classes- write about what you know. Over the years I have come to know less and less so this strategy has led to many rambling columns about essentially nothing (not that any of you must have noticed...). I really have tried to keep my whining to a minimum and there have been times over the years where something I have written has cracked me up (not that I needed further cracking).

Write what you know. It's always meant a lot to me when a reader has told me how much they liked a particular column. It means just as much when someone tells me they like when I wrote about specific things I truly love like Bob Dylan's music, Max the Cat, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Sandra Bullock. (OK no one has actually told me they like my Sandra pieces but didn't you all feel the love?)

Producing a newsletter for 14+ years has probably been the hardest thing I've done in my professional life. There hasn't been a Saturday all that time where I haven't had this gripping fear of "how the heck am I going to get the newsletter done?" Thus it's also my proudest professional accomplishment that we never missed a week. I realized early on that it wasn't going to be possible given the resources and time to produce a great publication. What I decided to do instead was to be consistent and reliable. Some would call that predictable and boring. I would only counter that as I move on in life I've learned it's nice to have some things in life that you can count on being there week after week. Nothing wrong with dependability.

It hasn't exactly been a secret that one of the major inspirations keeping this publication going over the years has been Dylan's "Never Ending Tour" where Bob has essentially played close to 200 shows every year since 1988. I've always loved how Bob seemed to have come to the conclusion all those years ago that the only way to get past his past was to hit the road and perform and just keep creating something in the moment every night. As Bob continues the tour he has expanded his canvass to a new venue- his delightful XM satellite radio show, "Theme Time Radio Hour." Wow. What I have learned is that to be a writer means nothing more than being willing to write something. It isn't about angst, glamour, fame or understanding. It's just as simple as putting words to paper. That's all it takes.

When Al told me of the end of my tenure as the editor I was of course a bit sad. But truthfully part of me felt some relief as well. I essentially haven't had a weekend off in fifteen or sixteen years. Writing a column week after week has probably changed not only the way I write, but the way I think since my natural way of processing feelings and thoughts used to be to ruminate over them. Now I just get them down and out and move on.

I have so many fond memories due to the newsletter and my Cheapo employment. The first couple years of publication were produced pre-PC on a typewriter with a memory. I'd retype the submitted stories on a Sunday morning in St. Paul as I'd munch on a McDonald's breakfast burrito. I'd copy it all off next to our shrink wrap machine. Then along came the Internet that eliminated the need to re-type interesting media articles and allow me the ability to search news services throughout the world for stories I thought might be interesting to all of us. I remember all those Saturday/laundry nights busy typing away as Mr. Max was in another room, in his favorite window and he'd come on by on occasion just to check up on me and let me know what he was up to. I'll go to my grave cherishing those memories.

Since my original fear was about Hayes and Hughes it also doesn't escape me that I'm leaving this job within a year of Tom Brokaw, Dan Rather, and Peter Jennings ending their long tenures as the most visible journalists in the country. Not that I'm exactly in their league or even in the same sport but like them I know I've been lucky to have a job for so long that I loved doing, that also made me a better person. I'm proud of my long association with Cheapo, and proud all our company has meant to this community. This job has literally taken me around the world (to Japan) and back and I know because of that I'm much better prepared for whatever it is that comes next.

Losing my Religion While Getting Right with God

It was thirty years ago this summer when my oldest sister got married. I don't remember much about the first wedding I'd ever been to. I remember wearing a lime green leisure suit that I wish I still owned and fit into. I also remember at the reception there was a low ceiling just out of my reach. I spent a lot of time trying to jump up and touch it. I couldn't have been more than an inch away. And I wouldn't give up, figuring that eventually I could cheat gravity just once.

It's quite certain that getting married changed my sister's life. (Her son graduated from Stillwater High School a couple of weeks ago). It also ended up changing mine. Because we hadn't gone to church my entire life up to that point, the wedding was the first time I remember being in a church. I think my Mom realized this and decided that our family should start going to church again if only to expose us kids to the concepts of religion.

The whole church service fascinated me. I loved being able to sing unfamiliar songs in a public setting trying to figure out the melodies and strange words merely by reading the hymnal. I tried to imagine the circumstances of the list of people that was read every week who we were praying for.

(A little girl goes to church one Sunday and looks at all these fancy plaques hung up all around. She has the chance to ask the minister a question. "Father, what are all those plaques hung up with flags on them?" The father responds, "Those are to honor those who died in service." The little girl looks at him wide-eyed and asks, "Which one, the 8 or 9:30?")

There were a couple parts of the church going experience I didn't particularly care for. When communion began we wouldn't go up to the altar because we hadn't been baptized or confirmed. As the ushers slowly let row by row go up, I felt embarrassed when they got to our row and we all just sat there, feeling unworthy.

The part of church that I hated most however was going off to Sunday school. Right before they let us out, Father Henry Hoover would read the announcements and my stomach would turn in knots, butterflies fluttering like dandelion seeds on a windy day.

I hated Sunday school because I didn't know anything about what was being taught. I had never read the Bible. And since I was the newcomer in class I felt like all the other kids in my class not only knew a whole lot more, but also knew each other. I not only felt dumb and alone, I felt God would punish me for my ignorance.

Mr. and Mrs. Miel, who were the teachers, seemed to sense my uneasiness and didn't try and call on me unless I had a look of certainty on my face. Who would have guessed I'd grow up and one day shake the Dalai Lama's hand? (Years later when the Miels came to my Mom's funeral, after it was mentioned during the service that I was a Bob Dylan fan, Mrs. Miel came over to me and said that she used to babysit Bob and his younger brother. "His brother was a really good kid, but Bob never said a thing.")

Through the years my own personal spiritual beliefs have been challenged and changed although the basis remains the same. I don't believe this world is the end. I think there's something else, some greater purpose that comes next. I have no proof (other than certain dreams and an undying faith that humans can't possibly be the highest being). I certainly wouldn't argue with anyone who believes differently. I think the greatest danger facing our existence is the growing blurring between politics and religion.

That said, I don't understand those who don't seem to be curious about religion. I don't understand how you can't be. Maybe it's being able to live entirely in the present (or for some in the past) getting lost in what's going on today without trying to figure out what comes next. But at some point don't you have to stop and wonder what it all means? Am I the only one losing sleep over this?

That's why I will faithfully be watching Bill Moyers' new PBS show, Faith and Reason. The show features interviews with famous writers (the first show featured Salman Rushdie). Ultimately Faith and Reason strives to answer Moyers' question, "In a world where religion is poison to some and salvation to others, how do we live together?" If after the seven episodes air I have a better understanding of that, it will be seven hours well spent. Thank God.

At the Hot Corner

It was over ninety degrees Memorial Day Eve. Hotter than an empty can of Dr. Pepper thrown and discarded on a newly paved road with its tar melting away into a pungent vapor. So hot that I finally put my wallet away and turned on the AC for the feline population I'm living with, the ones with fur coats and panting from the hot air.

It was the day when my family had a little get together at the cemetery where Mom is and isn't. My brother-in- law, Dan who is a minister by trade and faith, conducted a nice service where he asked us to share some things we remember about Mom. I would have said something but it really isn't in my nature and I know Mom would have been the last person to expect that I would say something. If I had I think I would have said something about one of the last coherent conversations Mom and I had before the morphine she was taking for the pain her cancer was causing caused her mind to space out. Mom told me that she really wished she had saved some of my not to be broadcast radio shows I taped as a kid.

This memory came to me listening to Bob Dylan's XM Satellite Radio Show, Theme Time Radio Hour, particularly the second show played during the week of Mother's Day, a show dedicated to music about mothers. What I thought about saying at the cemetery was what Bob said to open this installment of his show. How moms are the only people in the world that can divide their love equally among ten children and yet each child has all her love. I liked that.

It's hard to believe that it's been nearly six years since Mom died. Things have gone by fast, things that don't mean much, things that mean everything. During the sad moments I wish Mom were still around because I know she'd make everything just a little bit more bearable. During the happy moments, those few and far between, I wish Mom were around because there was no one better to share happiness with, no one who rooted harder for me to be just a little bit happier but didn't push it in any way.

The moments are there. There was a moment on the way home from a friend's graduation party when I was stopped at the stop light at the corner of Lexington and Grand Avenues in St. Paul when an attractive middle aged couple exited the Lexington a fancy restaurant my Mom ate at once, a place far too rich for me and my friends. I happened to overhear this couple's conversation that began as a red Mini-Cooper drove on by. The woman told the man that she wished she could drive one of those. The guy pointed to my scooter and told the woman that she would be happier with what I was riding on. I wanted to interrupt them and point out that I have both and that either choice would be a good one. But I didn't, I just smiled and waited for the light to turn green. (It usually does.)

Mom probably would have frowned at my scooter riding, having forbade all us kids from getting a motorcycle. One of her few steadfast rules. But the episode by the Lexington reminded me of the joke I learned from J.D. Salinger about what one wall said to the other. "Meet you at the corner!"

Mom would have laughed. She would have also would have chuckled at the latest installment of Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour that featured songs about baseball and included a wonderful opening where Bob sang a smile inducing acapella version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."

Speaking of happiness Mom loved the late Max the Cat almost as much as I did and not only because he was a great cat, but because she knew how much I loved him and that was good enough for her. Thus I think she'd also be quite fond of the three cats who keep me company, keep me entertained and keep me from slipping off into the darkness for too long a time. Mom would have loved how Thompson, the three-legged cat who has had issues of trust, undoubtedly since the accident where a trap cost him his leg and nearly cost him his life, will take a step forward in trusting life once again even if later he'll take a couple of steps backwards. The way he deals with each day is enough to forget at how unfair life can be. It's a struggle but one he manages.

Mom would have also loved how Theo, the youngster, loves to launch himself into my arms and how Diego-san is the best cuddler since Stephanie Jane (not that I remember or knew). I didn't say any of this at the cemetery but hopefully Mom heard anyway.

WQSR-AM

By far the best birthday gift I ever got was back in the fourth or fifth grade when Mom and Dad gave me a home radio station play set that I spotted in the Sears' catalog. It was a package set complete with a turntable, microphone, headphones, and marker board that allowed me to set the radio station's schedule and songlists.

A short while later I got a recordable 8-track player that allowed me to spend most of my weekends creating radio shows that featured my not so good radio mimicry voice and burgeoning 45 record collection.

My station featured the stone solid Stoney Duncan's new show in the morning and the wacky Figgy Figueroa noon time stint, a show that was a bit too close for comfort to WCCO-AM's Steve Cannon's. The day's highlight however was probably Shotgun Smalley's drive time show featuring all the latest hits from Barry Manilow to Paper Lace.

Somewhere in my Father's house are a bunch of 8-track tapes featuring the last broadcasts from WQSR's many talented DJs. I'm sure if listened to now they would fall neatly in line with the hall of fame tapes of Eddie Cantor, Fred Allen, and all those other classic radio shows.

It should be clearly stated that one of my many cocky misconceptions about my own abilities (and it ranks right up there with my belief my baseball abilities are of Major League caliber) is that my few talents rise above even the given geniuses of this world. I've never shaken the belief that the few things I do well, I do better than anyone I know.

Among these hidden talents lay the DJing skills that could light up the radio dial like no one from here to Topeka. Up until this past week, my favorite DJ was the Current's Mary Lucia, who is among the few people left in this world who has the ability to make me chortle aloud.

Having just received my XM Satellite radio, I have fallen under the spell of a new favorite DJ whose skills I have to admit go far beyond my own. The second installment of Bob Dylan's "Theme Time Radio Hour" proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's possible to hear something brand new that still sounds as if it has existed forever beyond time.

There are several things to recommend about Dylan's show. First and foremost is his obvious knowledge and love of music. This has been evident before in the covers of songs he has done over the years. The songs DJ Bob plays from Ruth Brown to LL Cool J, reinforce the man has a great ear. The other thing that has been a delightful reminder is Dylan's wicked sense of humor. In the first theme time hour that featured songs about weather, he introduced a Judy Garland tune saying something that Ms. Garland was from Minnesota, "just like Prince."

His second theme time hour featured songs about moms and included a wonderful opening poem about all the things moms do for their kids. "M is for all the things mom has done; O is for the other things mom has done; T is for all the things mom has done..." My favorite part of the mom show was Bob's introduction to Julia Lee's "Mama Don't Allow It." "This is Julia Lee, one of those singer/piano players. Lots of double entrendres, making her very popular in Kansas City." HUH?! It reminded me of the first week's observation that Chicago really isn't the Windy City but rather that distinction should obviously go to Dodge City, Kansas.

It's a long road that carries one from the days young dreamers used to hide a radio underneath their pillows late at night to try and catch the 50,000 watt stations located throughout the country to now where we have satellite's beaming down independent channels providing an alternative to the generic stations that one dials up on a regular radio. That new/old road crosses with another that has someone somewhere losing himself in dreams on a system advertised in the Sears catalog.

Mad Town

"Remember when I revealed myself to you in the car/Listening to 'Rock 'n Roll Animal' as the night got dark/Your mother called up and said/'Go ahead girl and get yourself free...'"
-Ike Reilly

I've learned to live my life via the George Costenza method. I like my life circles to remain separate. I don't like my circles colliding. I see life as a great big snowman where the three big body parts represent different life cycles and one is placed on top of the next. There of course is some leakage as things get too hot and one's form starts to melt and dissolve. But no matter how it ends up, spiritually the parts are meant to be separate and distinct because that's the way we are built.

The last time I stayed in Madison, Wisconsin was the summer between my junior and senior years of college. I remember walking around Lake Michigan late one evening, near the student union (the only student union in the country that sells beer to its patrons). I was slowly/rapidly inevitably falling in love having just gone to my first Bob Dylan show, the one where the songs were nearly indistinguishable as the echoes bounced around inside the Metrodome. I also was falling into a sea of trouble with the girl who according to a daily Google search may have been swept away lost in the Tsunami.

This time, the trip to Madison (Scootertown, USA) wasn't in any way meant to recapture or re-experience anything that's gone before. Who remembers all that? This time it was truly an excursion in getting out of here, getting away to somewhere/anywhere if only temporarily. Despite a four hour delay caused initially by a flat tire and ultimately by a full four tire replacement and brake repair to the tune of over $1000, believe me (if you can) by the time we reached Madison I was glad to be there again and quite looking forward to the weekend.

"Trample on your yesterdays/But never on your tomorrows..."
-Ike Reilly (again)

My soon to be graduated graduate school friend and I spent Friday night finding a place to stay (and eat). We planned on dining at an Ethiopian restaurant her friend had recommended but ended up next door through a confusing door alignment at an impressive Afghani restaurant instead.

The next day began with a continental breakfast served at the converted dorm/meeting center that fell into our price range. We overheard the conversation of a table of people who were in town to celebrate their 50th anniversary of some moment of life, either a high school graduation or a college reunion.

I don't really have a lot of time these days for the marking of time. I could never have even a ten year plan because after all that has gone down (and wrong) I never figured I'd live this long.

We spent all of Saturday doing a lot of walking- around the Farmer's Market and the lovely university campus. Originally when this trip was planned the reason we gave was I had heard from an up and comer/two timer that Iron Chef Morimoto had a restaurant in Madison. That was enough reason to drop and run. Our end goal then was to find his restaurant even though it was a rumor stirring the fumes we were driving on. We ended up spending our last meal at an impressive Japanese restaurant named "Restaurant Muramoto" that was so well designed (and the food so great, especially a duck based sushi roll) that it just had to be connected to an Iron Chef despite the spelling discrepancy.

We returned home, me thankfully with a new be-bop hat on head (dispelling my Dad's notion that I never wear hats anymore) and a hand made clay clock that features the many positions of a black cat (who resembles Diego-san's shadowy self) spaced out across the face to count down the time that passes away each and every day.

None of this would have made any sense whatsoever of course if not the thankful appearance of a newly released Ike Reilly EP, The Last Demonstration. The six song mix is a combination of demos of already released songs and songs that weren't included on Ike's last CD. What is learned upon this latest release of our most underrated (God why aren't people listening to him) artist? Only that it's wonderful to hear sketches of songs that Ike has since more fully developed.

Another what the hell does this mean question that comes to mind is how Ike's last two CDs (Sparkle in the Finish and Junkie Faithful) have been named from lyrics to songs that were ultimately left off the full length CDs in favor of subsequent EPs. Not all may agree but I love the rawness, and the weariness, and the unpolished vocals Ike gives us on The Last Demonstration. This is a naked soul creating something new from something that's soon to be rather than what ever was. And that's exactly what a scooter riding Mini Cooper owner blindly sees as the route to take, the way to go, even if he has no clue as to what a ten year plan may or can look like ever again.

Satchel Paige May Have Been Right

As a long time sufferer of a bout of Agoraphobia I now think I'm the premier text example of a brand new affliction, Rearendaphobia.

My fear of leaving my home was at its very worst during the late '80's/early 90's (my so called "Blue Period") when working myself up to drive myself to work was a chore unto itself. Somehow I survived all that and didn't find myself one who stayed safe at home at all times with his 20,000 cats (not yet) and have forced myself to do my share of traveling and getting out over the years.

So I allowed myself to feel some pride over time mostly overcoming one of my gazillion phobias. That was until this past week when I discovered I've come down with another crippling fear. Having been hit from behind twice in the past month, I find myself every time I'm at a stoplight looking in my rearview mirror clenching up whenever I see a vehicle coming up from behind at a speed I think maybe too fast to stop.

This new fear was at its worst on Thursday when I planned to stop after work at Circuit City (my personal boycott of Best Buy continues thank you very much Jennie Haire), to buy myself a satellite radio. In the preceding days I had the pleasure of hearing a sample of Bob Dylan's new XM Satellite radio show via the Internet. The show was quite entertaining, as Dylan featured folk and blues songs revolving around the theme of weather.

Listening to Dylan in this new format I couldn't help but picture the image of a young Bob tuning in to his scratchy portable radio while growing up in Hibbing trying to listen to Hank Williams and Odetta. This image pretty much has been influenced by the same imagery presented in the early scenes of Walk the Line where the young Johnny Cash/Joquin Phoenix sits transfixed by his family's radio trying to tune in the Carter Family's radio show.

Just as I was about to leave my house for Circuit City I decided I didn't want to chance getting rear ended once again. So I got online and ordered the radio from the XM website complete with the additional $11 shipping charges.

Having this new fear as the kids say, bummed me out. I have enough trouble sleeping at night without worrying about the next time someone will crash into me and my vehicle. (If only I could keep moving maybe then no one will hit me). That's when the following day I climbed into my now scarred shiny red Mini-Cooper and plopped the new Susanna Hoffs/Matthew Sweet (Sid and Susie) CD, Under the Covers Vol. 1 into my car's CD player. The music that blasted out of my speakers made me crack a rather broad smile.

Back during my self inflicted and so called "Blue Period" I discovered this obscure LP called Rainy Day that was as sunny as could be despite the name, featuring many L.A. musicians including members of the Bangles, the Dream Syndicate, Three O'Clock, and the Rain Parade. Susanna's cover of Dylan's "I'll Keep It With Mine" and Lou Reed's "I'll Be Your Mirror" was the fuel that kept me going for a month or two.

Under the Covers is kind of a sequel to Rainy Day. Sweet and Hoffs cover a whole bunch of 60's tunes with such love and sun that the music glimmers. Among the many great songs covered are the Beatles' "And Your Bird Can Sing" that swings with a great deal of fun, and the Velvet Underground's "Sunday Morning" that almost matches the magic of the original version.

Hearing the bugged eyed Susanna's lead vocals on Dylan's sad "It's All Over Baby Blue" and backing vocals on Neil Young's "Cinnamon Girl" was almost inspiring enough to reinvigorate me to get over my Rearendaphobia and hit the road no matter the costs, no matter the consequences. As the CD closed with a cover of the Bee Gees' "Run to Me" sung with such sweetness and passion, I couldn't help but get over myself if only for a moment or two.

You Bee 40

Growing up, I spent many Sunday afternoons with my family walking the malls of Brookdale and Rosedale and on special occasions, Ridgedale. This past Sunday I spent the day walking a mall in downtown Cleveland. I mention this not as an example of how far (or how not so far) I've come over the years, but rather that malls are about as comfortable place for me to be on a Sunday afternoon as any other. This particular Cleveland mall was connected to the Ritz-Carlton motel I was staying at. As I wandered around on a lazy late morning trying to kill time before I headed out to the airport, I saw a long line of people waiting outside a shoe store. Turns out this long line of people was for those waiting to tryout to be extras in the next Spiderman movie.

For the second time in two years I was in Cleveland attending election administration classes. The irony isn't lost on me of taking election administration classes in Ohio, the state that ran into the most publicized troubles in the country in 2004. The class I was taking had to do with public policy making. The instructor introduced himself as a huge baseball fan (he liked the Braves) and went on to say that the reason he likes the lawmaking process is for the same reason he likes baseball- that's it's a terrific game. He kind of lost me there. One of the reasons I stopped working at the Legislature was that I was tired of watching people treating the passage of important public policies as some type of game to be won or lost.

But I was glad to be in Cleveland again.

My second trip to Cleveland thankfully included going to the Indians' home opener that happened to be against the Twins. It rained the morning of the game but by the time we got to the stadium it was just drizzling. A fog rolled in around the third inning but never got thick enough to be too bothersome. Jacobs Field is a terrific ballpark. For non-baseball fans it's a place to go just to be. For those of us who need to hang on to each and every pitch as if our life depended on it, the experience of being in an old fashioned immaculately designed atmosphere with all the modern conveniences (a huge scoreboard, fireworks, and sushi) just makes the greatest game of all, that much more enjoyable.

For years I've advocated for a new Twins ballpark simply because the Metrodome was never meant to be a place to watch baseball. God almighty how can we even consider it the same game with all the phony aesthetics not to mention the pop flies lost in a white(!) roof? And for freaking sake, the majority of seats in the Dome are facing the wrong way... The experience of watching a baseball game at Jacobs Field versus watching one in the Metrodome is akin to the difference between shopping at a mall and walking up and down the store fronts of your friendly small town main street. Having now seen a few games at Jacobs Field I'm more convinced than ever that this is exactly what either downtown St. Paul or Minneapolis needs. This isn't all about giving a billionaire owner and millionaire players the benefit of our tax dollars. It's about how baseball can mean so much for our state and we the fans and semi-fans deserve a great place to enjoy the game.

The Twins got hammered 11-6 with the biggest damage coming from Casey Blake, a former Twin, who hit a grand slam home run. But amongst the obnoxious Indians' fans we were surrounded by I couldn't help but feel a little optimistic that the player I consider to be the key to the Twins' season, Justin Morneau, smacked two home runs and nearly missed a third. And despite the dreary weather I quite enjoyed seeing the new Twins (Luis Castillo, Rondell White, and Willie Eyre) for my first time. (Was I the ONLY one in the stadium hoping that we'd get to see Francisco Liriano?)

It's great that a new baseball season is underway. It's even greater that I got to watch the beginning of this one in a fabulous venue. I'd never thought I'd be jealous of Cleveland.

On the plane ride home I was listening to Bob Dylan on my Nano when the flight attendant wheeled her cart up to my seat. I asked for some juice and she said, "Ham or Turkey!" Turns out she was handing out sandwiches not beverages. I meekly said, "Ham, please," and she handed me my sandwich with a gruff snort. I was glad to be getting home albeit a bit thirsty.

That Fiery Red Head

It's not exactly an original observation that listening to Neko Case's voice beseeches the ghost of Patsy Cline to hover nearby. The power and passion in both Neko and Patsy's voices cause shivers to go up and down your spine and is almost enough to make the most cynical open up their minds to the thought that perhaps God does indeed exist.

Neko gave a stellar show last Wednesday at First Ave. She said she was suffering from a cold but even during the acapella parts of her songs the sheer emotion of her singing seemed almost beyond what mere humans are capable of. She's a crooner in the hippest sense of the word.

Her band is versatile enough to skillfully adapt to the different style of Case's songs from country to jazz to other worldly. Backup singer Kelly Hogan wrapped her voice around Neko's as tight as the braids that Neko kept nervously spinning her long red hair into all night long. It got to the point I wasn't listening to the words much as I just found myself lost in the sound of it all. Even when Neko was singing the high "woos" I was transfixed. Ethereal, positively ethereal.

She did a good mix of old songs with songs from her recently released CD, Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. Several songs were introduced as being "sad" or "scary" as if those familiar with Case's songwriting needed the descriptive warning. My favorite songs were a trio of covers: Buffy St. Marie's "Soulful Shade of Blue" that had tremendous energy; "Wayfaring Stranger" which up until this evening my favorite version was Emmy Lou Harris' with a close second being Neko's version on last year's CD, The Tigers Have Spoken; and Bob Dylan's "Buckets of Rain" with a joyful arrangement that only enhanced the bittersweet lyrics. "Life is sad, life is a bust, all you can do is do what you must/You do what must do and you do it well/I do it for you, honey baby can't you tell?"

That's not to say that Neko's own songs didn't hold their own. There was the cutting "The Needle Has Landed" that had a driving groove; "John Saw that Number" that taught us all a bit more about the whole John the Baptist fable accompanied by a delirious banjo(!) solo; and a spooky "I Wish I was the Moon" where Neko's warble on the refrain, "I'm so tired I wish I was the moon tonight..." was so real and heartfelt that one wonders how she could convey such authenticity on the very first night of her tour.

An added bonus to the evening was that Martha Wainwright was the opening act. For the past five years I have burned a compilation of my favorite songs from the particular year for my family and friends. Last year's comp included songs from both Martha and Neko.

Martha is a charismatic live performer with her bouncy and sincere performing style. When she closed her set with the seductive "G.P.T." I was somewhere near heaven.

Earlier that day I test drove a shiny red Mini-Cooper. The ride was smooth. The car was my dream. It didn't take much thinking (critical or otherwise) to decide what I had to do. I'm in love with all things red these days. I made an offer to the owner and we settled on terms. Today we closed the deal and I drove home in my less than practical but coolest vehicle I'll ever own.

Of course the Mini has a fine speaker system and I deliberately made sure that Neko Case was the first voice that accompanied me on my ride. Driving home on 35W with Neko belting out "Twist the Knife" it occurred to me that it's been a long time since I felt so happy and content. I felt the power, both in pressing down on the gas pedal and from the music blasting in my ears. I'm not quite sure who will share in the ride during the life of my Mini (MY Mini!) but for the first time in a long time I'm glad I'm having such thoughts. The songs aren't so sad if you take the time to appreciate the road you've traveled to sing them.

Cash Checked

Last year when I was sitting at the Minnesota Zoo waiting for Lucinda Williams' show to begin, the guy sitting next to me first tried to get me to take some chickens off his hands. Seems as if he and his wife had got the chickens thinking they'd like to have fresh eggs every morning only to discover that they had come home with all roosters- not only nixing the egg idea, but ensuring quite the racket come sunrise.

After I declined his offer of chickens we talked about recent shows that we had been to. His favorite was Rosanne Cash's show at the Zoo just a few weeks before. I knew she had played at the Zoo but I really didn't have any interest in seeing her even though a few years ago I would have paid top dollars to get a good seat.

I think my waning interest in Rosanne began shortly after the Iraq war began and I read the anti-war message she left on her web site. It wasn't that I disagreed with the sentiment. It was just the writing was so simplistic and hippie like that I lost some respect for one whose music to me was always full of so much depth. I didn't make a conscious decision to stop listening to Rosanne's music but still when I was busy filling my iPod with my CDs, only 1990's Interiors made the cut even though there were others that were surely better than so many I was uploading from other artists.

I had forgotten how much over the years I had loved Rosanne Cash's music. Songs like "Seven Year Ache" and "The Way We Make a Broken Heart" are sung with a combination of precision and passion that the first time I heard them they stopped me in my tracks. Her version of "Tennessee Flat Top Box" is head and shoulders above her father's version of the same song. Interiors is the best divorce CD I've heard this side of Dylan's Blood on the Tracks. Interiors would make my short list of desert island picks- the songs are full of such harrowing heartache and honesty that it almost makes me feel like I've gone through a divorce even though I've never been married.

Her absence on my iPod didn't even occur to me until I was sitting watching Walk the Line where the Rosanne character in the movie sole role is that of a crying child- crying when her daddy isn't at home, crying when her daddy and mommy are arguing, crying for God knows what reason at the dinner table. I quite enjoyed the film but I left wondering what in the world the real Rosanne Cash must have thought about this on screen portrayal.

Thankfully she both answers and ignores that obvious question with her new CD Black Cadillac. The CD is a full of sadness and intensity and insight over what it is like to suffer the loss of loved ones. Within a two year period Rosanne lost her father, mother, and step-mother. The poetry of the music from Black Cadillac is astounding in its ability to capture the resiliency of the human spirit. The singer isn't a survivor by choice, the title track's lyrics lamenting being left behind in hell on this earth leave no doubt about that, but when one suffers through a devastation like the loss of a parent, it the only choice that one must continue on in a world forever a little bit bleaker. In other words loss can make you stronger if only because you no longer have the nurturing spirit that was the important guide that nursed you through other losses since the crying days of your childhood.

My favorite song on the CD is "Burn Down this Town" a bluesy stomp that begs to rock out but never quite does. The tension created by being somewhat muted is the perfect example of how so much of Black Cadillac delivers the goods on such difficult material. "The sky is falling with the ash and blood/You've got to make a promise blood to blood/So shut the door and slowly turn around/And you know you can't make a sound/Burn down this town" the singer sings accompanied by a driving, soulful, swirling musical backdrop. The song then segues into "God is in the Roses" a bittersweet lament that reminds us that God may be responsible for all things beautiful (like rose petals) but God is also responsible for the thorns as well.

Johnny Cash has rightfully secured his place in the history of American music so that when a student is studying that history 100 years from now songs like "Ring of Fire" and "Folsom Prison Blues" will rightfully likely get a listen. Rosanne's contributions will probably warrant a footnote but hopefully that same student will dig a little bit deeper and listen to some of her songs as well. Her best work is timeless and constantly rewarding.

Nano Nano

It's been kind of a sad week for me. My attempts to buy William Shatner's kidney stone fell way short. Yup I got outbid by an online casino who paid $25,000 for it. I'm guessing it will end up with someone who is a bigger Trekkie than I. And I'm guessing that'll literally be the case, the lucky stone holder will probably eventually be some 300 pound guy who wears Vulcan ears out in public.

Now I'm no Dr. Janet Lester but I have in the past enjoyed a Star Trek episode a time or two. In the end I'm glad I saved my life savings for something equally as enjoyable: this past week I broke down (in so many ways!) and bought myself an iPod Nano.

If Star Trek taught me nothing, it taught me that technology will turn my life around. How many times when I was little did I wish I could have a communicator? Well heavens to Betsy the day finally arrived when I was given a cell phone so anyone can now reach me at any time! And I always longed for a tricorder and someday soon I hope to be a proud owner of a Blackberry device. Of course my biggest Star Trek related desire is for the transporter to become reality, allowing us to all some day get rid of our primitive forms of transportation. Until that day, I guess I'll just have to love my scooter (well, during the summer anyway).

A little over a year ago my Dad was kind enough to give me the year's hottest product, Apple's iPod, for my birthday. The compact little device with massive capabilities, soon became a rather large part of my life. Gone was the need to drag a handful of CDs with me to work for the day's music. Gone was the worse need for missing the blood of my existence, music, on my trips away from home whether far or a little further than near. I have found the times I've loved my iPod most is when I'm in some other city and I have the ability to dial up any of my favorite songs in a moment's notice.

But good things almost always turn bad (remember that Star Trek episode when the most beautiful rose turned out to burn upon touch, being made out of some acidic material?). What I discovered was that I had so many songs I needed to carry with me at all times that I quickly filled up my iPod to its capacity. Thus I was posed with a dilemma every time I bought some new music. I was forced to delete something from my iTunes library, and more and more that was getting to be tougher and tougher.

An easy solution beamed its way into my wee little brain sometime last year. Since the artist who was taking up the most digital space on my digital device was probably the least digital related artist around, Bob Dylan, I thought, geez if I only bought myself a second iPod and loaded only Bob songs on to that, I could free up a lot of space on my original iPod.

The thought wouldn't leave me alone. When the auburn-haired lass (how does one check out the authenticity of her hair color claim?) bought herself an iPod Nano last year, and I helped her do so, I became envious when she finally showed me her device. It was so cute, so sleek and modern.

For those of you who have spent the past year in an igloo the Nano is about the size and thickness of a piece of beef jerky cut into a threes. The one I bought is supposed to hold up to 1,000 songs but since I loaded it with many Dylan live performances (that tend to run six to eight minutes long) all I could fit on to mine was 755 Bob songs.

And it's all I've been listening to (and doing) since. I hit shuffle and have to smile when the 1994 version of "Shelter from the Storm" from a concert in Brixton, London England comes up next to the near punkish (and I can so relate to this) desperate version Bob wailed out on the official 1976 Hard Rain recording of the same song sung in a completely different way. I almost want to shout out to my friends and family to let them know what they are missing. But who knows who is still listening?

2005 Top Ten

Here are ten things that made it through the muck of 2005 (they are in particular order):

10) The Rock n Roll Hall of Fame/British Museum- Usually when I visit another city I don't care much if I see the obvious tourist attractions. I'm just as happy to find some out of the way place restaurant or CD store or something that is somehow uniquely that city. That said, I must say I loved visiting the RnR Hall of Fame in Cleveland. I was highly amused to see how tiny the Rolling Stones outfits were and it was a quite a kick reading Leadbelly's correspondence. Equally impressive was the British Museum in London that was almost too huge to comprehend. Pottery from ancient Persia? Cool. Kitty artifacts from various cultures? Neato.

9) Paul McCartney "Too Many People" "I'll Follow the Sun" at the Xcel Energy Center- I guess my Paul McCartney nostalgia differs from most people. I didn't care much for the umpteenth versions of "Get Back," "Back in the U.S.S.R.," or "Yesterday." What I was glad to hear, smile from ear to ear glad, was the snarling "Too Many People" from 1971's Ram where Paul chides John Lennon about preaching practices. Equally enjoyable was the version of 1965's "I'll Follow the Sun," one of those catchy McCartney tunes that seem to flow from him effortlessly. I was so inspired I went home and banged out my own piano version for my cats. Thompson scampered away either in fear or merely to get away from the annoying racket.

8) Arrested Development- This FOX show just keeps getting better and better. Who would have thought that Ron Howard, TV's Opie, director of so many insipid movies could produce something this biting? Scott Baio's attorney character, Bob Loblaw, and Charlize Theron's British siren, Rita, were inspired additions to the already stellar cast.

7) Lucinda Williams at the Minnesota Zoo- She treated us to six new and still unrecorded songs intermingled seamlessly with her older songs (meaning they were all insightful and heart stopping/starting ). I can't wait for the next CD.

6) Shelby Lynne at the Cleveland House of Blues- Lynne was brooding, tender, and by the end of the show she was somewhat drunk. But hearing live versions of songs like "Telephone" and "Where Am I Now?" truly was a treat. The show made me buy all her back catalog- the many CDs that she recorded before she was awarded her Grammy for "Best New Artist" in 2000.

5) Seeing my friend Alex in her hometown of San Diego- We hadn't seen each other in ten years. We had a nice sushi dinner and I marveled at how comfortable our friendship still feels and how much I still admire her drive, ambition, and inquisitive mind and soul.

4) CERA Graduation Beverly Hills- Over the past couple of years I've flown to various parts of the country to take election administration classes taught by the faculty of Auburn University. It's the only election administration certification program in the country and as I finished up my work this summer, I became one of the first 300 people to earn the accreditation. Graduating at the fancy Beverly Hills Hilton (where they hold the Golden Globe awards every year) in front of family and friends was an odd mixture of show biz and the electoral process.

3) Theo- The decision to add a third cat to the household mixture was greeted with skepticism by some of my friends and family. Still once I was introduced to young Thelonious, the decision was a forgone conclusion. He's sweet, spacey, and watching him try to find his place amongst his housemates has been pure joy.

2) Ike Reilly Junkie Faithful- When the blue-eyed editor introduced me to Ike's music a couple of years ago by giving me his first CD, Salesmen and Racists, I was immediately won over. When I got to the ultimate driving song "Angels and Whores" and Ike wails, "Hey motherf*%@er kiss the ground- I not only kept hitting the repeat button and turning the volume up louder and louder, I almost drove by my destination and just kept going. His new CD not only is full of clever and inspiring lyrics- it's got as much kick as it does spirit. My current favorite line? "The things I do in the daytime should only be done at night/Like when I watch my neighbor's wife bend down slow to pull out weeds…" Junkie Faithful is the best CD I've heard in quite a while.

1) Bob Dylan's five shows at London's Brixton Academy- On my way to the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport I was walking to my light rail stop when out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-workers running toward me waving a banner that read, "Dylan in London or Bust!" I was quite moved. I was also quite moved throughout the 50 different songs he did in five nights. We were treated to the live debut of "Million Dollar Bash." Along the way there were terrific performances of "Desolation Row," "Positively Fourth Street," "Sugar Baby," "Shelter from the Storm," and "Mississippi" just to name a few. To hear Bob do an abbreviated version of the Clash's "London Calling" during a couple of encores and have the natives go wild- made the expensive and somewhat crazy trip all worthwhile.

My Turkey Day Leftovers

It's been a difficult month for all of us in the Japanese American thespian community. First George Takei (Mr. Sulu), the manliest, but most human of space travelers, came out of the closet (not that there's anything wrong with that). Then Pat Morita (Arnold and Mr. Miyagi) died. To make matters worse one of the Christmas season's biggest movies, Memoirs of a Geisha stars two Chinese actresses playing Japanese characters.

Maybe it only feels like the world has gone wrong. And it probably didn't help my equilibrium any that I saw Paul McCartney in St. Paul and Bob Dylan in London. Somehow that seems a little backwards.

So I may suffer from a vision problem that even a new pair of glasses can't correct.

If life is about, and it seems to increasingly be, about waiting in line, waiting for your chance and praying to somebody or something that your chance will come, then perhaps we can all take a cue from the Swedish. While waiting in line to see Dylan in London I arrived one evening and headed to the end of a fairly long line walking from the front to the back. Not long after I took my place as the very last person a woman walked the path I had just walked but instead of standing behind me, she chose to stand next to the guy in front of me. It was clear she wasn't with him- they didn't make eye contact and didn't say a word to each other.

Later on a group of people showed up and began talking to this woman in a foreign dialect. Turns out they were all from Sweden. It was then I realized that a Swedish line isn't so much vertical as it is horizontal. I may have to try that at Caribou next time I go and get my morning coffee.

Or maybe I'm just plain invisible.

One of my favorite nightly moments in all five London Dylan shows was toward the end when he was introducing the band. As he was telling where each band member was from he doodled on his keyboard. It was like listening to the man compose right in front of you, a small glimpse into how his mind works. His mind is a mystery beyond what even Sherlock Holmes could figure out.

But buck up, they say. News this week gave us all some hope. A French doctor performed the world's first face transplant. I've always wanted a new face and now it's possible. I hear that George Takei's might be available.

Walking around the misty streets of London, somewhere near Scotland Yard, I couldn't believe my own eyes I was where I was at. In my head I could hear Frank Sinatra singing about a foggy day in London Town and then my own personal soundtrack jumped to McCartney singing about ordinary people it's impossible to meet, holding conversations that are always incomplete.

A mere week later I had one whiskey water before the auburn hair pre-grad student and I went to see Derailed where Jennifer Aniston really does a number on Clive Owen. Halfway through the movie I spilled our popcorn all over the floor and the auburn hair pre-grad student looked at me and asked why I did that. I didn't want to admit it but I had nearly passed out. My head started spinning and I broke out into a cold sweat and suddenly the pictures on the big screen got all fuzzy and negative looking at and I just wanted to lay my weary head down. But it all passed. Only there was no more popcorn left. It was all on the ground.

There were no Japanese American actors to be seen on that screen and this time I wasn't acting. I guess if you go all the way around to the other side of the world there are going to be some ill side effects. It only seems natural. But you wanna know the odd thing? I can't wait to go back. I want to hop on the Victoria line going the other direction just to see where it might take me. I want to walk down a street that's brand new even though it's very old. But I have loyalties and I have carved out a certain comfortable place to exist. I hope they will still see me there.

Very Twee, Very Me

I went to London with one desired mission in mind. I wanted to be walking the streets and spot Madonna. If not that I wanted to fido Judas. Biblical canine humour can't get enough!

On my eight and a half hour flight overseas I sat next to a kid (probably around three years old) and his Dad. The kid seemed quite perceptive with his comments about the airplane and runway we were on. As we were taking off the kid went "whee" as if we were on some kind of safe but scary amusement ride. His Dad chuckled. Mid-flight his Dad gave the kid a plastic sketching pad and markers and the kid drew the best Sponge Bob I've ever seen only he labeled it, "Sketch Bob."

I wanted to lean over and say, "I'm flying to see "Song Bob" but I didn't figuring I should mind my own business.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER ONE
At the very beginning of Gulf (and the gap is getting BIG) War One the Grammy Awards were scheduled to air. Some thought the ceremony would be canceled given the gravity of what was unleashed, but somebody somewhere decided the show must go on. So it did.

A night after I watched what looked like a fancy video game with the sky of Baghdad being lit up by missiles and bombs, I tuned in to CBS specifically to watch Bob Dylan get a lifetime achievement award. When the moment finally arrived, Jack Nicholson read a gushing introduction and then Bob appeared with his bandit band. Bob, never once opening his eyes, sang "Masters of War" in one very long sentence hardly ever coming up for a breath of air. His band accompanied him with a sound reminiscent of a mosquito, and as they broke away for reactions from the audience there were what seemed to be nervous smiles intermixed with looks of stunned confusion.

As Bob was handed his award, he turned from the podium and looked as if he was going to leave without speaking a word. Jack and the statue babes grabbed him and turned him around. As the orchestral backing music died down, Bob stood fidgety, looking at the award. He finally tipped his hat and said, ""Well, my daddy, he didn't leave me much, you know he was a very simple man... What he did tell me was this, he did say, son, he said… He said, you know it's possible to become so defiled in this world that your own father and mother will abandon you and if that happens, God will always believe in your ability to mend your ways. Thank you." It was the greatest acceptance speech ever.

********

I was supposed to meet my friend Jennifer at Gatwick Airport in London. She flew on another flight. Her last words to me on a phone call before we left the United States were, "I won't leave the airport without you." So when I got to the spot we agreed to meet and didn't see her anywhere in sight, my heart sunk right into my stomach. Having never been to London and knowing I was more than a half an hour away by train from our hostel, my anxiety in finding where we were staying without her was about as wide as the ocean I had just flown over.
The trip was Jennifer's idea when she heard that Bob was going to play a series of shows in Brixton. She emailed me the day before the terrorist attack on the London transit system so when I read the message I thought about the odd and dangerous timing of her offer. But I knew if I turned her down I'd always regret it so I quickly emailed back and said I thought she had a splendid idea.

Months passed and I barely heard another word from her even though I knew she had gotten the tickets. I kinda put the whole trip in the back of my mind figuring if I thought about it much I would wring all possible and potential enjoyment right out of it.

I didn't do much planning, didn't think about packing or any of the details I would normally think about in preparing for a trip. It almost felt like I was in a state of denial. About the only thing in my life that indicated the trip was on my mind was when I began letting my hair grow back after my annual shaved head summer look. I didn't want my hair to be too long when I was overseas since it is much easier to care for when it's short. I figured if I stopped shaving my head in September, two months growth wouldn't be too long. The night before I was to leave I finally grabbed my suitcase (freaking out the kitties) and threw some clothes into the bag.

The only thing scarier than going to a foreign land where I knew nobody, knew little about what I was to face, was the notion of landing at a busy airport and not being able to find Jennifer.

I waited for three hours, called the hostel to see if she was there (she wasn't) before I grabbed a train schedule, hopped on to what I thought was the right one and headed off into the unknown.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER TWO
Dylan's second appearance at the Grammys came the year Time Out of Mind was nominated for a "Best Album" award. As the time came for him to perform a track from the CD, the camera panned to him behind a big old microphone that looked like it was dug up from an old radio show. The band began the harsh chord guitar intro to "Love Sick" and Bob gave a pretty straightforward (for Bob) vocal performance. Behind the band were a bunch of young people bobbing up and down as if transported from an episode of Shindig. Out of nowhere a guy with no shirt bounced on to the stage and took his place next to Bob. Painted on the wiggily dancer's chest was the word "Soybomb." Given the venue I thought this was all part of the bizarre presentation but quickly a couple of burly security guards grabbed the dancer and whisked him away. Bob looked at his bassist, Tony Garnier, smiled and then ripped into a wonderful guitar solo.

********

Navigating the London tube system is daunting because of the many lines, but it is logically organized. Like subway systems I have ridden in other cities, the tube's different lines are color coded. After leaving Jennifer a message back at the hostel telling her I wasn't going to wait at the airport any longer, I was on my way. After a half hour ride from Gatwick Airport to the Victoria station through the London countryside, I arrived at the station with map in hand looking for the District Line, or the green line. While waiting in line to buy a ticket I heard a message over the P.A. system saying that the green line was closed and riders had to take alternate routes.

So I asked the nice chap at the ticket window what my options were and he listed a litany of routes, train changes, and stations I should look for. I nodded hopped on what I remembered was the first train he mentioned, dug out my map and hoped I didn't end up in downtown Dublin. I dug out my street directions to the hostel printed off from their website. The directions told me I had three tube stop options. After a train change or two, I hopped on the line that I thought would get me to one of the three stops. It was a longer than the other rides, and it eventually took me above ground. I got off at my stop, was approached by another nice chap with a flyer boldly displaying the word "Erotica" and found a bench to sit on. I looked at the street directions that said, "10 minute walk. Hammersmith." Those directions didn't exactly point me in the direction I needed to go. I was happy to find one of the stops and was sorta sick of riding the trains, but I thought if I strolled around the area I could become hopelessly lost. So I mapped out an alternative.

When I finally found another stop, I read the directions and felt somewhat confident that I was finally headed in the right direction. It was supposed to be a five minute walk and there were only two turns I needed to make (a left from the station and a right down Gunterstone Road). I walked a suspiciously long distance and my suitcase was starting to feel extremely heavy. Once I hit a major street I decided I'd better ask someone for better directions. I stopped in a coffee shop and the owner had never heard of the street but when I showed him my printed off directions he sent me back in the direction I had just come from.

Feeling lost was bad enough- feeling scared of the traffic whizzing by added to the permanent knots in my stomach. I felt like I imagine my cats must feel like when I take them for walks and we have to cross a road. No matter how many times I looked to make sure no cars were nearby, the only thought in my mind was I was going to end up a splotch on somebody's hood. It was hard getting used to looking right first. I thought that if I just looked right, then left, then right again I would be fine. But somehow during my entire stay in London I felt like I was in imminent danger of being hit by a car. I also never figured out if slow walkers are supposed to stay on the right like we do in the United States, or if the faster walkers were supposed to pass you on the right. There seemed to be some inconsistency from the people walking. I guess there is in the United States as well.

Out on the street I asked a young couple if they knew where "Gunterstone Road" was and the young chap said it was the next block down. Al had told me before I left that the streets of London were highly confusing. The street signs are on the sides of buildings and it's not always clear what street the sign is meant for. I walked down Gunterstone Road looking for the address of 16-22. When I got to "24" I noticed that the name of the street changed. Hmmm. So I wandered back down the other way thinking maybe it started over at the other end of the street. No such luck. I finally found another nice chap and asked him if he knew where the Ace Hotel was. He said he did because he was staying there. He said that the numbering system could be confusing because when a building comes down and others go in its place they simply keep the same number. I was just happy to finally find my room.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER THREE
I wasn't making a whole lot of money in 1992. But when it was announced that Bob was playing five shows at the Orpheum I decided I needed to go to all five. His popularity at the time wasn't at an all time high having taken hits from critics and fans alike so getting tickets to all the shows wasn't particularly a challenge.

By this time Bob was well into his "Never Ending Tour" having established the ability to pull just about any song out of his vast catalog and make it new again. By the third show I was so into the music that I wanted it all to go on forever. The second show he sang this goofy and eccentric version of "Idiot Wind" and it dawned on me that the Cheapo newsletter that had just started up was a perfect vehicle for me to do what Bob was doing. The editor corner column was my opportunity to produce something new every week by reaching back and casting something old from my life in a new light. It didn't so much matter if it was brilliant. Just writing every week, doing the keep on keeping on thing, was exactly what my writing (and by extension- my life) needed at the time.

After the last show was over I looked at my notes and was astounded that Bob had done 50 different songs in the five shows. The only three that were played at every show were a cover of the traditional "Little Moses," the closing "It Ain't Me Babe"- the last encore where Bob came on stage alone and played a heartfelt acoustic version, and my all time favorite Dylan song, "Boots of Spanish Leather."

"Boots of Spanish Leather" is as autobiographical song as Dylan has ever recorded. From all accounts it accounts the break-up with his then girlfriend Suze Rotolo blow by blow. She was off to Spain with her mother and her sister who were trying to keep Suze away from Bob. The song describes feelings of betrayal that the object of the singer's love would so easily leave him behind. Whenever I hear the song, and whenever Bob gets to the punchline- it never fails to bring a tear to my eye.

"I got a letter on a lonesome day/It was from her ship a-sailin'/Saying I don't know when I'll be comin' back again/It depends on how I'm a-feelin'/Well, if you, my love, must think that-a-way/I'm sure your mind is roamin'/I'm sure your heart is not with me/But with the country to where you're goin'/So take heed, take heed of the western wind/Take heed of the stormy weather/And yes, there's something you can send back to me/Spanish boots of Spanish leather."

********

For those of you who have never been to a Bob Dylan show the ritual now goes something like this: The doors open well before he'll hit the stage. Whether standing in line outside or waiting for things to begin inside- there's a great anticipation of what songs he might do a particular evening with the off chance that he might pull out some unexpected nugget making the wait quite worthwhile. The stage is arranged with Bob's keyboard left of center. His people come out to tune the instruments and soon the smell of incense waifs from the stage. Around twenty minutes before Bob hits the stage the rumble of the crowd is briefly interrupted by classical music playing from the speakers on stage. When Aaron Copland's "Appalachian Spring" begins to play those who have been to a Dylan show before know the time is near and they begin cheering. All the lights then go down and the roar of the crowd goes up as the darken figures of the band take their place on stage. A deep booming voice fills the air with an intro written by a journalist recapping his version of Bob's career- including his period as a "has been" and his alleged drug abuse and subsequent finding of Jesus... and then comes the words that really set the audience off... "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Columbia recording artist, Bob Dylan" just as the band hits the first notes of the first song.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER FOUR
I was on a new anti-depressant medicine that was suppose to help me sleep better. It couldn't help me sleep any worse since I hadn't been sleeping at all. And it did do the trick. I spent days at a time in bed. I remember waking up groggy one Friday evening and turning on the TV. PBS had a special on celebrating George and Ira Gershwin's music. I was having a hard time staying awake.

A lone figure strode on to the stage. Dressed in a tuxedo and carrying his guitar with his harmonica rack sticking out from his chest, Bob began to strum some notes as the narrator announced him. It was a Gershwin song I had never heard before but it soon became my all time favorite Gershwin song. Bob's vocals were full of passion and sincerity. In a show wrought with pomposity and way too much polish Bob's performance stood out with it's authenticity. He looked so out of place and lost but that isn't something that seems to bother him at all. As he is wont to do he made the song his own by changing the lyrics just a smidgen.

"I've found the happiness I've waited for/the only girl that I was fated for/Oh soon, a little cottage will find us safe with all our cares far behind us/The day you're mine this world will be in tune,/let's make that day come soon, let's make that day come soon..."

********

To get to London's Carling Academy in Brixton from our hostel required us to hop on the Piccadilly line to the Green Park station. From there we boarded the Victoria train to the end of the line. Brixton isn't exactly the nicest part of London. One wouldn't want to flash his or her bling very loudly there. The venue holds around 5,000 and for the first show we were in the balcony overlooking the elegant stage that juts out on to the main floor. The British publication Time Out describes it thusly: "Bridging the gap between London's intimate venues and soulless arenas, the Grade 2 listed building is one of the capital's best live venues. Its sloping floor gives a decent view from almost anywhere and the slightly surreal interior (based on the Rialto Bridge in Venice) lends each show here a true sense of occasion."

The opening chords of the opening song were unfamiliar. Turns out it was a cover of "Rumble" from the recently departed Link Wray, the man who invented the power chord. Without a pause the band broke into a ragged version of "Drifter's Escape." Next came a favorite Dylan song, "Senor (Tales of Yankee Power)." Whenever Bob sings the last line, "This place don't make sense to me no more, can you tell me what they're waiting for Senor?" like in many of his songs I know exactly what he means even if I'm not sure what he was thinking about when he wrote the song.

There were three high points to this show for me. The always glad to hear it "Queen Jane Approximately" with its mournful, pleading, and tenuous chorus, "Won't you come see me Queen Jane?" was sung with clarity and precision. Likewise the way Bob sang "Desolation Row" was spellbinding and particular. Each verse was sung differently and by the end of the long song Bob left us wanting it to go on and on. "New Morning" emphasized what is the strength of the current band's lineup- its rhythm section. Drummer George Recile bashed his two snare drums in sync with Bob's odd keyboard chords in a bluesy version of the hopeful song- and Tony Garnier's bass held it all together. I loved hearing this song live for the first time. Yes indeed just as the song says I did feel lucky to just be alive.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER FIVE
I was in the hospital for my depression. I had brought with me just one tape to listen to during my indefinite stay- it was a bootleg recording of a recent Bob concert in Australia. He was touring with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and this show's opener was a cover of Dizzy Gillespie's "Lucky Old Sun."

"Out in the morning, out on a job. Work like the devil for my pay, But that lucky old sun got nothing to do but roll around heaven all day."

I loved the sound of Bob's voice. I loved the Heartbreaker's keyboardist Benmont Tench's piano playing. There's something about this performance that just made sense as all my world was crumbling around me. I remember listening to it when a nurse came in to check up on me. When she heard what I was listening to she seemed impressed and asked who was singing. I said Bob Dylan. She had never heard of him. It was then I knew they couldn't help me there. They didn't stand a chance.

********

We had to retrieve our tickets for the second show from a guy in England that neither Jennifer or I had ever met. Jennifer had ordered tickets through a service that would not deliver to a United States address. So with the help of a Dylan friend she had found this guy in England who agreed to holding our tickets for us.

She called him and he was having lunch at an Italian restaurant near his hotel. We took the train over to that part of town. The restaurant was small but had a nice atmosphere. Tim, the guy holding our tickets was seated at a table with a group of people that included the owner of the restaurant, Rob DeMartino. Rob's grandfather was a gangster, a local legend. During a great meal full of splendid food and adult beverage was one of the threads to our conversation- trying to identify the son or daughter of a famous parent who had managed to become even more famous than his or her parent. The topic of discussion had of course started with talking about Jakob Dylan.

We were having a hard time finding even one example of an instance where the child had outdone the parent. Liza Minnelli? Close but no cigar. Julian Lennon? Frank Sinatra Jr.? Angelina Jolie? Arlo Guthrie? Martha Wainwright? Gimme a break. I did mention Barry Bonds but I was seated with a group of British so the name didn't mean much. I also identified Bonnie Raitt and Whitney Houston but by that time the topic had kinda died.

Rob told us a great story about attending a Green Day concert where some youth approached him and scornfully said, "corporate." He knew what they meant and tried to explain to them that Green Day wasn't exactly authentic punk so their comment was somewhat ironic.
Ironically the first song in the encore to Bob's show that evening was a cover of the Clash's "London Calling." Talk about a smile inducing moment. It was an abbreviated performance- just one verse and chorus. But Bob spit out the lyric, "Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust/London calling see we ain't got no swing/'cept for the reign of that Truncheon thing..." was such venom and conviction that it would have made Joe Strummer blush.

That performance would have been enough to push the show over the edge but how about the live debut of "Million Dollar Bash?" "Well, I looked at my watch/I looked at my wrist/Punched myself in the face/With my fist/I took my potatoes/Down to be mashed/Then I made it over/To that million dollar bash" indeed. There was also a lilting version of "Boots of Spanish Leather" that melted my heart. We also got a note perfect version of "Visions of Johanna" ("Madonna still has not showed...") The band also pounded out a heart stopping "Highway 61" that demonstrated as rudimentary as Bob's keyboard skills are- as he pounded out a three note riff that was echoed by guitarist Stu Kimball- and as the whole band soon hit the same riff- that this was spine-tingling stuff. A great great performance.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER SIX
I had read nothing about the Traveling Wilburys so when their CD came out it was a complete surprise that there were some new Bob songs available. During a decade long slide into near oblivion it was frustrating that one of Bob's greatest strengths- his sense of humor- was nowhere to be found. That's why his contributions to the Traveling Wilburys were so greatly appreciated. Somebody was finally letting his curly hair down and having some fun again.

Fellow Wilburys Jeff Lynne, Tom Petty, George Harrison, and Roy Orbison weren't exactly slouches but it was Dylan's participation that made the collaboration historical and hysterical.
I played the first CD over and over. Couldn't get enough. On a novel writing trip out west I was playing the tape somewhere in Kansas and singing my heart out along with Bob on "Congratulations" "Congratulations for breaking my heart/Congratulations for tearing it all apart" with so much conviction that my soulmate and traveling partner Stephanie Jane told me to cut it out.

********

It used to be that the only element to my Dylan concert going experience that I did not like was the presence of so many Deadheads. I've never understood the connection between the artists- how fans of the noodling, doodling, hemphead band saw any relation to Bob's music. Over time I just got used to the distraction of the swirling dancing of the tie-dyed t-shirted crowd- put up with them to hear Bob play one more time.

I now think I'm starting to get it. Bob's fans tend to be fanatical- eating up every scrap he throws our way. Those newest over the top fans aren't unique- obsession has been part of the game long before A.J. Weberman started digging through Bob's trash to find clues to Lord knows what. Going to a Dylan concert now days I tend to see some familiar faces that I always see at every show. There's Francesca, the woman who strolls up and down the line of fans waiting to get into the show- carrying a sign pleading for someone to give her a free ticket to get in (and weirdly she always does), to the scary looking people whose eyes appear translucent and depraved. There's also a group of Dylan fans who want to be in the first row and will stand in line for many hours in order to do so. These fans have replaced the Deadheads. Their erratic spastic dancing at the show shows they have no concern about those around them. It's all about making a spectacle, how every Dylan concert is meant strictly as a mechanism for them to get closer to the Almighty Bob. A couple of Jennifer's friends fell into this group. They were willing to forgo any sightseeing in the terrific European city to sit on the hard concrete next to the venue all day long.

So the third show Jennifer went to see these friends and I ended up involuntarily holding our place in line having not eaten a bit of food all day long. (Back home I get paid plenty by the hour.) This might have clouded my vision of the third show- a show I thought lacked any trace of inspiration at all.

There were two highlights of the show for me. Bob's version of the ravages of war song, "John Brown" was note perfect. I loved how when he sang the line, "he stood so straight and tall" Bob stretched out his legs at his keyboard just as tall as he could. I also loved hearing the terrific "Mississippi" live for the first time. Every time he got to the chorus of the many wonderful lyrics of the song, how the only thing the singer admits to doing wrong was staying in Mississippi a day too long, my memory of standing in line to see the show made a humorless situation seem downright funny.

FAVORITE DYLAN MOMENT NUMBER SEVEN
Bob's 1995 show at the Target Center was just another arena show except for one stellar moment. It came during a performance of "Mr. Tambourine Man" a song I've heard so many times it has ceased to mean anything to me at all. After a nothing special run through of the song Bob began a harmonica solo that seemed like more this is what we are doing every night dreck. But he kept blowing, kept trying to make this something memorable. And he did. As he blew note after note the whole thing crescendoed and built upon itself. I've never much liked Bob's harmonica playing but as his solo ebbed and flowed I couldn't believe my own ears. By the time it was finished I felt like the top of my head had been removed the insides had replaced by a brand new brain. It was like Bob had started lost and not knowing where he was headed and by the time he reached his final destination the journey had come to mean the meaning. It didn't matter where he ended up it was how he ended there that was the brilliance.

********

I was on my own to find my own way. And I was thankful for the chance. It was my fourth day in London and I finally had the chance to see things through my own eyes. Jennifer had joined her friends in trying to secure a spot that would ensure the "rail position" right in front. So I went to explore the government side of town. Buckingham Palace and the House of Parliament and Scotland Yard, I suddenly felt at home in a foreign land, suddenly felt like I found my voice at the same time that I hardly said a word to anyone all day long.

It was this day that I found the things in London that I absolutely loved. I loved the sign that declared "Humps in the Road- Next 250 yards." I loved passing a shady looking group of youths on my way to a train station that reeked of reefer- reminding me of a scene from To Sir with Love. I loved passing places with rows and rows of scooters. I loved passing geeky guys that all sounded like Rufus Wainwright or Giles from Buffy. I just walked and walked realizing that I couldn't be lost if I didn't know where I was going.

I got to Brixton around five and saw Jennifer with her friends a bit back in the line. On this night the venue's security did something different from the nights before. They opened the outside doors and let the crowd flow in, but at the inside doors they stopped people and let people go forth one by one. This method meant that those standing in line all day had no advantage over those that showed up much later. And this meant that I ended up with a better place to view the show than those who had been there all day long. It was as if Bob was telling the kids that life is too short to waste your time standing in line in such a historic city. You just never know, just can't know, when your time is up so you might as well discover everything new that you possibly can during this impossibly short journey.

The fourth show was as good as the third show was as bad. The only overlap between the two was the performance of the waltz "Waiting for You" from the Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood soundtrack that features the all too true lyric- "Happiness is just a state of mind/Any time you want to you can cross the state line..." The show's setlist was tremendous featuring carefully sung versions of "Shelter from the Storm" and "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll." The more recent songs like "Million Miles" and "High Water (for Charlie Patton) were equally as sterling. There was also a one off cover of Fats Domino's "Blue Monday" that made me smile ear to ear.

What really made the show for me however was "Positively Fourth Street" that demonstrated what a brilliant live performer Bob is. His night before performance of one of my favorite kiss off songs was nothing special. His gruff vocals expressed a weariness and remorse that isn't as present in the recorded version. His effort this night however was entirely different. Bob sang the first two words of every verse with a sneer and emphasis that turned the song inside out. "YOU'VE GOT," "I KNOW," "DO YOU" were sung with such contempt that I couldn't help but severely grin. I even chortled outloud something that I rarely do.

FAVORITE BOB MOMENT NUMBER EIGHT
In the late 80's Bob inexplicably took the role in a never to be released in theaters movie Hearts of Fire. He appropriately and convincingly played the part of Billy Parker a washed up rock and roller. The highlight of the movie was the scene where Billy skinny-dipped with the lead actress, singer Fiona.

The one redeeming thing that came out of that project was a BBC documentary called "Getting to Dylan." The documentary ends with a long interview with Bob that has him sketching his interviewer the entire time. The questions are blatantly insipid but watching the whole thing is a great opportunity to watch how Bob thinks. It was the most intimate opportunity to do so until last year when he released his entertaining memoir, that was likely equal parts fiction as non-fiction.

I bought a book a long time ago that was all about trying to figure out the meaning of Bob's song "Jokerman." The author writes about the Biblical references of the song and tries to pass it all off as some great yearning to discover the meaning of life. Reading it though, I saw through the ruse. I believe Bob when he said he is just a song and dance man. Everything he does is done with a cynical dose of skepticism and humor. He knows his fans dissect his every word, his every move, with sickening religious fervor. So he tends to throw us all a bone. But it all goes back to the beginning of his career. He isn't really Bob Dylan after all- it's all an act of some brilliant sort.

********

The final show fell on Thanksgiving not that the British would recognize that. As I woke up and strolled into a light rain I said to myself that Bob Dylan isn't much of a meteorologist. The show the night before featured the best version of "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" that I've ever heard. But what was falling from above wasn't a hard rain so much as it was just a nuisance, an excuse to spend all day inside a museum where infinity goes up on trial.

The British Museum is a place you must visit. Just like many museums its artifacts are a reminder that where we are now is nothing more than where those that walked before us were at a long time ago. But there is just so much stuff, so much to see that a one time visit can't be enough.

I was dying of hunger throughout my visit so I decided to cut my tour of the museum short in order to get a bite to eat. I wasn't hoping to find my traditional turkey and dressing meal so I thought about what I could do to replace those staples. Cowboys and Indians, England is known for its Indian population- how about some fancy curry delight? Sounded quite appropriate.

I saw an Indian restaurant on my walk to the museum. But to get there I had to cross a busy street, maneuvering myself past the many crosswalks and I needed a restroom badly so I made the fateful decision to go back first to our hostel and hope there was a good Indian restaurant nearby. I hopped on a train at a station that wasn't where I had gotten off in the morning. The train was empty- a weird sight- and when in the middle of the ride it came to a complete stop in the darkened tunnels and just sat there for ten minutes I wondered if I hadn't made a huge mistake. The wheels began to roll again just as my stomach barked out how unhappy it was.

At my hostel I asked the front desk person if he knew of any good Indian restaurants within walking distance. He gave me directions that I knew I couldn't follow but was more than eager to try. The rain was still falling and as I somehow managed to once again find my way to a place someone else mapped out for me I found that the restaurant was closed. I continued walking on hoping that curry food was somewhere close.

My stomach was unforgiving though so I ended up at an Iranian restaurant. The host coolly greeted me in the nearly empty place. I ordered a chicken and rice meal and waited for it to arrive. I waited some more and thought that my street view with a crosswalk signal telling people to "wait" was all too ironic for my present situation. People came and went with their orders long before my food was served. When I finally got it however, it turned out the best meal of my trip. On the restaurant's tinny speakers I swore I heard the Iranian version of Barry Manilow's "Copacabana." It almost made me yearn for the disco era.

I again arrived at the venue with a line already queued up. I went to the end of the line and the lady that arrived after me didn't stand behind me but next to the guy in front of me. It was apparent she wasn't with the guy as they never said a word to each other. I would have said something about her decision to not honor my place in line but I thought it bold that she would so blatantly ignore me. As she talked to other late arriving people I deduced she was Swedish and began to wonder if her method of lining up was the way things are done in Sweden.

Once the doors opened I somehow found myself in the first row clinging to the rail. I stood next to Barbara, a German woman, who told me a couple of interesting things about her life. She told me that when she was learning English in her German elementary school her music teacher made her class sing Bob's "With God on Our Side" that features the lyrics, "Though they murdered six million/In the ovens they fried/The Germans now too/Have God on their side." I told Barbara that was intriguing although I'm not sure she understood my mumbling English. She also told me all about her living day to day running a flea market and how all the money she doesn't spend on paying of food and her living accommodations she spends feeding her dog Achilles and going to see Bob.

The final show was a fitting end to the trip. The setlist was disappointingly similar to the previous show but the two step bluesy version of "Sugar Baby" lessened the disappointment considerably. The song makes great sense to my world back home- another lament of a world gone wrong. "You always got to be prepared but you never know for what/There ain't no limit to the amount of trouble women bring/Love is pleasing, love is teasing, love's not an evil thing..."

At the end of every show, at the end of the encore finale of the Hendrix like "All Along the Watchtower" Bob and his band lined up mid-stage to take their bows amongst the wild cheers. During night three's performance the band looked toward the balcony where the Pogues' Shane MacGowan stood and wobbled, but the rest of the night they didn't seem to be looking anywhere at all, all standing with probably ordered blank looks on their faces. The most movement came from Bob himself who held two harmonicas chest high, one between his forefinger and his middle finger, the other held in the same hand between his ring finger and pinky. He seemed to gesture this handful toward someone in the audience but the movement was subtle just like all the notes played before.

These days Bob looks all the world like a mirror image of Vincent Price especially with the pencil thin mustache yet he moves like a combination of Charlie Chaplin and a cat. He's the type of person you just can't take your eyes off of and yet all the time you're watching him you're not quite sure you really see him. And that juxtaposition just makes you want to see him another time all the while realizing the next time may very well be your last chance because it can't go on forever.