How Bob Dylan Stole My Mojo

I blame Dylan.

No, not the one from the title, my BEST FRIEND Dylan (although he is named after Mr. Zimmerman’s alter ego). We were meeting for lunch and I arrived first, meaning that while I was waiting I had to resort to my favorite public pastime – eavesdropping. I find other peoples’ conversations to be fascinating, even when it’s utter drivel. What would I say if I inserted myself into the repartee? What if a giant monster suddenly burst through the ceiling, who would run first? And what would the entire back-and-forth sound like if it was a Monty Python skit? (This last one also works incredibly well when reading Shakespeare, I might add.)

But the crowd at this little brewpub changed the game for me. Their conversation topics were fairly boring and predictable – Obama, politics, lagging economy, blah-blah-blah. Maybe a nap would make better use of my time, I thought. But then one woman started talking about music, so I tuned back in. She was telling the story of “This Bob Dylan character (which was said as if there were air quotes around his name, like he was an actual fictitious character) from back during the Vietnam War. He was this folk rock activist type who protested the war. Kind of an acquired taste – he sounded like (mocking/ impersonating Dylan) “De ansah mah fren, ees blowen inna wind”. And everyone laughed.

The ridiculous imitation wasn’t what set me off – I actually chuckled a bit. It was the fact that at this table of six, not one person said what I was thinking: “Duh, everyone knows who Bob Dylan is. But please, continue.” They all reacted as if this woman had pulled an obscure character from an ancient text for her tale, with a chorus of “Oh, really?”, “Who’s that, again? and “Me like beer!” ringing out from her companions (okay, that last one might’ve just been in my head, but still – c’mon!).

And there it was. A relatively intelligent-sounding group of twenty-somethings using Mr. Dylan as a historical allegory. Suddenly, the only voice I heard was in my own head, saying: “Holy crap, when did I get old?!” And just like that, my mind was thrown into a maelstrom of connecting thoughts:

- There was the time I was at work singing “Conjuction Junction”, and a girl asked what song it was. I told her it was a Schoolhouse Rock classic, assuming that it would need no more explanation. Now I can see that the befuddled look on her face was silently pleading: “Tell me more, Grampa!”. Arrggh!

- Or just yesterday, when a friend asked a question on my Facebook page, and I just couldn’t figure out how to reply. He explained to me that you don’t just respond to the one person, you put the answer up for everyone to see. “But what about privacy?”, I wondered? In a generation that collects “friends” like we used to do with trading cards, doesn’t that open up your conversations to a plethora of virtual eavesdroppers? (Although I guess I’m not the one to be pointing fingers about eavesdropping, hmmm?) I mean, yes, I know that Prince Harry got dumped on Facebook, but do I want Prince Harry to know what superhero I’d be according to my quiz results? (The Flash, in case you’re curious.)

Okay, so a table full of pretentious know-it-alls made me feel Yoda old (Episode V Yoda, not that jumping-around-CGI youngster), but I’m sure I’m still hip, right? After all, I’ve got this cool blog. What? So does your Grandma?

Crap…