ONLY IN YOUR HEAD
When the Wizard brought me my morning coffee today, he said, "Your phone's been ringing since 6. It's playing Bob Dylan."  It was 7.  "Please bring me my bag," I mumbled after a slurp of homemade latte.

Although I apparently hadn't heard the ringtones emanating from the depths of my leather carryall (Subterranean Homesick Blues for incoming voice  and Like a Rolling Stone for voice messages), maybe that was why I was actually having a dream about Bob Dylan before the latte was delivered.  I don't generally dream about celebrities or my particular idols -- although Vincent may have turned up in one or two -- but Bob?  In this dream, I was at a concert, a small venue, he was there, I was probably flirting, and he introduced himself.  I shook his hand. It was small and delicate and soft, feminine. I wasn't sure it was really him though, he looked young.  I commented on that and he said he'd had a face lift.

I returned the phone call; someone on the 6-hour-later East Coast urgently needed something, and I had to rush to the office to satisfy the need.  Dressing quickly, I actually put on an old Bob Dylan T-shirt. My office has a pretty forgiving dress code.

I was thinking about the dream when later someone else came to me and said, "There's a new Bob Dylan album at Starbucks."  Huh?  I usually know about these things well in advance. "No,  I'm sure that's Jakob, his son."  They insisted.  So I went to Starbuck's and confirmed that it was indeed the younger Dylan. Looked just like Bob, with a face lift.