I choose my dishwashing music carefully. Horrifying as the notion might have been to the younger me, this is the time of the day when I get some of my closest listening in. Of course, back then, I was single and able to have music playing around the clock if I so chose, not having to worry about anyone's sensibilities but mine, with the freedom to be selfish in my auditory habits I felt like, so maybe the younger me should just shut up.
Anyway. On this night I've chosen the magnificent two night stand by one Mr. Bob Dylan in New York City back in late October 1994.
The then-five-year-old wanders in for a drink. She stops and listens. Narrowing her eyes, she asks, "Is this a joke?"
I loves me my Dylan, but it's not an unreasonable first reaction, at least to his post-
Under the Red Sky material. As George Martin once said, someday she'll understand.
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