As I made a list in my head of the stuff in this room that I considered the "c rème, " a lightning bolt entered the room: Bob Dylan, puffing on a cigarette harder than Bette Davis, one knee bobbing in time to a shotgun monologue. He was dressed in a dark red polka-dot shirt and blue striped pants. Electricity seemed to be shooting up through his hair . His dark prescription sunglasses accented his nocturnally pale skin and wiry build. This wasn't the folk traditionalist Dylan; this was the emergence of a new species.