If you are one of the 16 rotating readers here and you have paid attention to the scribbling you know that I have promised to include bits and pieces of thoughts, stories and comments about the world and my life. Nothing like a little flotsam and jetsam to pass the time.
This is a true story. I love saying that, even though it typically is a major red flag. My son is in his second year of pre-school. One of the joys of pre-school has been watching him make friends and that is how this story comes to be.
Last year while doing the birthday party circuit. I’d link to my initial commentary on this, but I am not that cool, just don’t remember when I discussed it. Anyway, most of the time what you find is that all of the children in the class are invited to each birthday party. It can be costly for the parents, but it is kind of nice. You get a chance to meet the other mothers and fathers and watch your children interact with each other.
Anyway, last year we went to a party for a three year-old boy. It was a nice set up, nothing crazy. We went to a local indoor playground where they had gym equipment set up for the kids and watched them run wild in there. It was great.
So there I am standing in play area in my socks, and might I add that I remembered that no shoes were allowed so I made sure to wear my finest, white and no holes. 🙂 As I am standing there one of the other father’s points out to me that Bob Dylan is there with his much younger wife and young daughter.
A short time later we gather to sing “Happy Birthday” to the birthday boy and I find myself standing next to Bob. He is tiny and weathered with a knit cap and white socks that are just like mine. Not that I really cared, but it is part of the story.
As we sing I notice that Dylan is clapping along, but he is off-key, off-beat and a step behind the rest of us. And it occurs to me. Is Bob Dylan doing this intentionally? Am I witnessing and experiencing musical genius? Or have the drugs and time killed his ability? I don’t know.
The song ends and I say to Dylan “Nice party.” He grunts and shuffles off for some cake. Eight months later I realize that I screwed up. I should have used that little sing-song he does to communicate.
“Hello Mr. Dylan, it is a nice party. What do you thiiiiinnnnkkk?” And of course he would have responded with some cool line or something.
That party was Positively Fourth Street.