Feel like baby sittin’ on a woman’s knee

You know, it seems that every time I turn around someone else, someone totally unworthy of the privilege, is getting jiggy with The Bob. Today there was the following article on Page Six.

EASILY SCARED

KINDERGARTEN kids in ritzy L.A. suburb Calabasas have been coming home to their parents and talking about the “weird man” who keeps coming to their class to sing “scary” songs on his guitar. The “weird” one turns out to be Bob Dylan, whose grandson (Jakob Dylan’s son) attends the school. He’s been singing to the kindergarten class just for fun, but the kiddies have no idea they’re being serenaded by a musical legend - to them, he’s just Weird Guitar Guy.

And you just know that they have no appreciation of the finer points of guitar picking or lyrics like “I used to care, but things have changed.”

Miserable rug rats.

And you also know, that, same as it ever was, I’ll be having a nice dinner complete with birthday cake on May 24, and the ungrateful man won’t show up at my door. I don’t get it.

A few years ago MTV had a contest along the lines of explain why you are your favorite artist’s biggest fan and we’ll send you on the road with them. Yeah. I didn’t win.  It’s not like I’m stalking him for pete’s sake. I mean, I never, ever rush the stage and grab him, unlike that 15-year-old emo skank in the Jerry Garcia t-shirt a few tours ago. I’ve never painted Soy Bomb on my naked chest and boogied like a spaz while The Bob edged away and waited for the bouncers to drag the loonie off. I thought about, but did not, rip off my arm sling and scream “I’ve been healed” when he made eye contact with me the year I had shoulder surgery, and I was mashed up against the stage in an open seating venue. I’ve never even dumped an entire serving bowl of potato salad on him, as one of The Coolest Person In The World’s other friends did, when she was in a buffet line and the person behind her asked for some, and she turned around and saw that it was The Bob*.

I’m respectful, dammit, and what does it get me? Bubkes, baby, bubkes.

Never mind. The table will be set for my personal Elijah, and if he wants some home cooking, he knows where to find it.

* Ever cool, he just said, “I didn’t want that much.”