Bob Dylan

When I was five or six I decided I didn't like pizza.  I can't remember the exact moment, but I knew I didn't like it, and would never eat it.  This is what happens sometimes to only children living in a house with five adults (mother, grandmother, grandfather, uncle, and housekeeper).  Eh-em.

Fast forward to my first semester of college.  My roomie Vanette saying, "WHAT?!  You don't like PIZZA?!   We're going to Conan's."

Oh!  Mi!  GOSH!  Pizza is good.  Hey Mikie!

It was kind of like that with me and Bob Dylan.  I never paid him any nevermind one way or the other through school, then I moved in with a guy (Peter) who worshiped him.  WORSHIPED.

We lived in a tiny, teeny, squeezebox of an apartment at Speedway and 35th.  Sunday mornings, Peter woke up, pulled out his guitar, sat on the couch, and "Isis O Isis," only louder.  Much, much LOUDER.

Lordy.  That very first time he did that I decided I hated Bob Dylan.  ickyeeyuckypoopooargh.

Make it STOP!  Please!  HEP ME!

Fast forward ten years.  Peter and I have long since broken up and I now am living with Ryan, who is in a punk rock band that practices Tuesday and Thursday nights in our spare bedroom. 

O Irony, thou white dog!  Anyhoodles, I'm driving home from work one crisp, cool, sunny fall day and I'll never forget the moment....

I'm listening to KGSR and Tombstone Blues comes on...Hey!  HEY HEY! 

Hey Mikie!  Up until then I always quickly changed the station if Dylan came on...but no more baby!

Oh, was I a fool....