Dylan and I stumbled down the middle aisle as Bob Dylan took the stage. Standing about twenty-five yards from us, the skinny minstrel gripped the microphone, his penetrating eyes peering straight ahead, seeming to stare straight through me. Part of me was already beginning to write the story, while another part wondered whether I was worthy of this encounter. The first part immediately answered the second: “Only if what you write about it proves you worthy.”
