The Purdzilla Show

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.

  Photo by Noah Buscher on Unsplash

 

There is a big difference in the types of women that you see from the stage when you are with the Stones compared to the Dead. With the Stones it's like being at a porno convention. With the Dead, it's more like the women you see by the river in the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou? Bob Dylan (in The Philosophy of Modern Song )

  Perry Como, 1956

Photo by Daniel Schludi on Unsplash "There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief, "There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief. Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth, none of them along the line know what any of it is worth." Bob Dylan

Photo by  Jordan McQueen  on  Unsplash

...take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind; d own the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves, t he haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach, f ar from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.  Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, s ilhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands, w ith all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves; l et me forget about today until tomorrow. Bob Dylan.