Bob-like Divinity

"Oh, Mama, can this really be the end, To be stuck inside of Mobile With the Memphis blues again."
-Bob Dylan

When I was younger, my family often took road trips, usually to South Dakota, Dad's birthplace. Many of these trips, of course, included long car rides that involved fighting over what CD or tape we'd play next.

Dad chose, almost exclusively, Bob Dylan. Robbie, my little brother, often chose Alanis Morrisette (in the earlier days), and, once the Alanis cassette melted and that phase faded away, soon he found himself drawn towards Incubus. I sometimes chose Sublime, but usually changed my mind when my parents heard the swearing contained in the music. And Mom, the poor thing, usually chose something like Neil Diamond, which was immediately voted down by the three males in the vehicle.

Since Dad was driving, and since it was usually his car, we pretty much listened to Dylan for at least 3/4 of every trip. Every once in a while, Dad would choose Cat Stevens or Randy Newman, but for the most part, his choice was Dylan, no ifs, ands, or buts.

I was raised not on the teachings of the Bible, but rather the Gospel according to Bob. Dad was one of those people that, every time the weather came on the television, would say "Ya don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows." On those long car trips, Mom, Robbie and I were forced to listen to that gravelly voice as he put forth some of the most obscure, ambiguous lyrics that, to this day, often baffle me. You can imagine that, as a child, I had nothing but trouble in comprehending what I was hearing.

It wasn't until about two years ago that I really got into the world of Dylan. I had listened to him passively up until then, but I gradually became the obsessive that my father is. And now, I'M the one keeping HIM updated daily on the Bob news. I'll call Dad and inform him that Bob's new album is out in a month, or I'll ask him if he's seen the new Bob iPod commercial.

When the car trips involved listening to Cat Steven's Tea for the Tillerman, Robbie and I reacted as if our fingernails were being pried off with pliers. We bitched and moaned about the album's lameness until the CD finally ended and we could play our Sublime.

Yesterday, I sheepishly snuck the Cat Steven's CD out of my parent's house, and now it's in my car's CD player.

I could only imagine the type of music I'd be listening to today, had I not been subjected to hours upon hours in a car listening to Dylan. What if Mom had driven? What if we'd taken her car? What if, God forbid, today I eagerly awaited the next Neil Diamond album?