As I made a list in my head of the stuff in this room that I considered the "crème," 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.
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