I'm listening to a recording of live Dylan from '65 on KRUU and kind of mellowing out before crashing for the night. The show is A Fistfull of Daller's. KRUU is a little station in Fairfield, Iowa with a range of about 5 miles. Unless you listen to the stream or get the feed. All the shows have feeds. And they're good.
"Ballad of the Thin Man". Dylan rasps, Something is happening, and you don't know what it is. Do you, Mister Jones?
Mojo? I dunno. I'm in Baltimore, where the frozen slush is melting, making little plapping sounds in the drainpipe outside the window, reminding me I'm deep in the East Coast. Home country. Recalling childhood in New Jersey, when we'd wish it would snow and once again the forecast would say Snow mixed with and changing to rain... And then it would all freeze, crusty and white, too hard to crack or take a footprint.
Here is your throat back. Thanks for the loan.
A memory. I'm in 8th grade, and a Safety Patrol kid at the corner of Maywood Ave and Passaic Street. I'm an accessory to Mrs. Lesh, the crossing guard. I break the boredom by cracking off bits of frozen crust along the sidewalk or the street gutter, and then kicking them out to where they'll get run over by traffic, making up a game with friends that are just hanging out, waiting for me to get off duty. Ten points if the kicked hunk gets smashed by the first car to come along. Five if it's the second one.
He screams "You're a cow. Give me some milk or go home."
Now Daller's playing "Knockin' on heaven's door". It's gettin' dark, too dark to see...
Night.
Night, Doc. Sweet dreams.
