Bob Dylan Wallpaper

My basement is covered in Bob Dylan sheet music.

I didn't do it.  I've always been more of a Paul Simon guy.  When it comes to songs about New York City streets, give me the one about 59th over the one about 4th any day.

(I have a theory that you're either a Simon or a Dylan person.  Prose or poetry.  Stories or sonnets.  Yes, you can be both, but you inevitably have a preference and what the preference is says a lot about you.  For example, if you are a Simon person you tend to wear glasses, eat way too much Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, and wear the same pair of blue jeans every day for a week.)

The old owners of the new blue house were obsessed with all things Robert Zimmerman.  There were posters and pictures everywhere.  Young Dylan.  Old Dylan.  Folk Dylan.  Rock Dylan.  Every album on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, and CD.  Concert tickets from the last three decades in shadow boxes.  Framed Rolling Stone covers.  And when they refinished the basement they made wallpaper out of Bob Dylan sheet music.  Famous songs and obscure songs.  Early songs and old.  A history of one of the great American writers in various key signatures and tempos — on my wall.  

Right above my desk is "Tangled Up In Blue" and "Going, Going, Gone."  

Next to the couch is "Open the Door Homer" and "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again."  

Above my daughters' toy chest is "I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine" and "Hurricane."    

Despite not being the world's biggest Dylan fan, I love being surrounded by his songs.  Some I know and some I don't.  Some are important to me and some are downright lousy, but I love them all.  I find them oddly comforting.  And inspirational.  So much so that the other day I got out my guitar for the first time in three months and decided to learn some songs.

That's when I discovered, to my horror, that they're not in order.  The pages are random; put up without any regard for song, album, era, year, decade, key signature, time signature, tempo, or theme.  Yes, "Tangled Up In Blue" is above my desk, but only the first page.  Next to it is the second page of "Yea! Heavy and a Bottle of Bread" and odd pages of two other songs without titles that I don't recognize.  

"Knockin' On Heaven's Door" is followed by the third page of "Wiggle Wiggle."  (Which is an absolute travesty.)

"Like a Rolling Stone" is followed by the second page of "Quinn the Eskimo."

It's driving me mad.  I want all of "I Shall Be Released," not just the second page.  I want all of "Masters of War," not just the first page.  Or better yet, I want to be ignorant again.  I want to go back to that moment before I had that spark of inspiration and got my guitar out of it's dusty case only to realize that the songs on my wall serve no purpose but as wallpaper.  The lyrical equivalent of flowers and neutral colors.  

It could be worse though.  They could be Paul Simon songs.  That would be a real travesty.

R

Zing!

Thursday.  6:14 pm

Rilla:  Dad, what's our balance?

Me:  What balance?

Rilla:  Our balance.

Me:  I don't know what you mean.

Rilla:  Yes you do.

Me:  No I don't.

Rilla:  I know what it is.

Me:  OK Rilla, what's our balance?

(pause followed by a big smile)

RIlla:  Your face.

The student has become the master.  You never forget your daughter's first "your face."  I'm so proud.

R

Augustino

My best friend is a 70 year old Greek man named Augustino.

Unfortunately, Augustino doesn't know that yet.  He thinks his casual waves to me as he walks up the steps to his house are just that — casual waves between two neighbors.  But it's slim pickings in South Bend and a best friend is hard to come by.  The runner-up was the crazy-eyed bagger guy at Krogers, but I can't tell if he wants to be friends or if he wants to eat me.  Plus, I'm pretty sure there's a bird living in his beard and I've always said that personal hygiene is very important when it comes to picking friends.  You know what else is?  Not being a cannibal.  Big no-no.

Rilla came home from her first day of pre-school and announced that she had a new best friend.  She still had her best friend in Kentucky, but now she also had a best friend in the state that keeps Kentucky from falling into Tennessee.  "My best friend is named Olivia and she has an elephant," Rilla emphatically declared and I immediately was jealous.  Yes of the elephant (which disappointingly turned out to be just a stuffed animal, ruining quite a few hopes and dreams) but also at how easily Rilla was able to make a new friend.  And not just a friend, but a best friend.  The next day when I walked Rilla into her classroom she looked around the room, scanning the faces for familiarity, when a little head popped up from behind a shelf.  "Rilla!"  "Olivia!"  The two girls ran towards eachother, hugged, and then — like little girls do — jumped up and down giggling.  Other than the last part, it was a pretty spot-on impression of the ending of every Kate Hudson movie ever made.  

I want that.  Well...not that.  Not the hugging and the jumping up and down and the giggling.  I want the thirty year old male equivalent.  I want someone to share a beer with.  To watch a game with.  To talk politics with.  To throw a baseball with.  To make fun of and to cringe at when they make fun of me.  

I don't know what I expected when we moved.  Maybe some part of me actually thought there would be neighbors lined up outside our front door with fresh baked goods just itchin' to introduce themselves.  While we were unpacking our moving van a 30 year old man would knock on the front door and ask me:  "Do you want to play catch?"  I'd look at the pretty, brown-haired girl with dimples with puppy dog eyes until she finally caved — "Oh, alright.  But be back by dusk you hear?" — and then I'd run and grab my mitt and Reds hat and tear through the front yard.  "I'm Rob."  "I'm Gary."  Hours later I'd return and emphatically declare that I had a new best friend.  Maybe he'd even have an elephant.

I'm from a small town.  The kind of place where the kids you go to pre-school with are the same you graduate with 15 years later.  You don't have to make new friends when you grow up in a town like that, friends are just kind of made for you and you never have to introduce yourself because everyone already knows you.  I never moved.  I never had new neighbors.  It wasn't until I left for college that I first had to make new friends and, well, it was a lonely freshman year.  I spent the vast majority of my time in my dorm room on the seventh floor of Poland Hall counting down the days until I could go home.  (And also trying to ignore the ungodly loud Madonna songs being pumped out of the stereo of the room next to mine.)  I swore that this time would be different.  This time I would make new friends — but don't worry, I'd keep the old.  One could be silver and the other could be gold!  But here I am.  Two months in and I've got bupkiss.

That's where Augustino comes in.  Sure, he's not perfect.  He's twice my age and his English isn't that great. But we both like feta cheese and I have an impressive knowledge of the inhabitants of Mt. Olympus.  

Now to tell Augustino the good news.  Sigh.

R

robcarpenter11@gmail.com