This is the closest I'll ever come to Bob Dylan, the first night of his two-night stint at the Bill Graham auditorium in San Francisco. We crammed into the core nearest the stage in general admission, one of those rubberized cement floors, partly to get a close up view of the the immortal American alien poet himself -- who somehow squeezed through the fatal 60s rock star bottleneck unscathed. Okay, a broken neck, a religious awakening or two, Self Portrait, but that's it.

The other reason we were on the floor though, was to be with the people, the Dylan folk. How can you resist their myriad charms? It was a little disappointing actually, no jealous monks or lumberjacks or lepers, no sword swallowers or one-eyed midgets. There was though, a smattering of young modish pilgrims -- the Bobsters in dark glasses and tight jeans, ala Don't Look Back. Yes, I remember them well.

"Check it, I printed a set list," he said, whipping a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket.

"Let's see," his fellow Bobster said.

"Hang on. Oh awesome encore! I totally called it."

"Let me see it."

"Wow. This is going to be a really, really good show."

"Why won't you let me see it?"

"Hey, I just had a thought. Holy shit. We should get Dylan's autograph! We should get the set list autographed!"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Umm. I dunno man. That's kinda lame if you ask me. The whole 'autograph' thing."

"What? Fuck you man. Why is that lame?"

"Because that's what 12-year-old kids do, with like sports stars and shit. I like Dylan more as a myth, not an actual living human being. I mean, would you ask -- I dunno -- like Buddha or Vishnu for an autograph?"

"Yeah probably. If it was convenient."

"SO lame. Can't you just absorb the show without having to take home some kind of memento?"

"I don't understand why you think that's lame."

"You know 'Leave only footprints, take only memories.'"

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind dude."

"Fuck off."

Here's the set list, by the way:

1. Lenny Bruce
2. Rollin' And Tumblin'
3. Señor (Tales Of Yankee Power)
4. I'll Be Your Baby Tonight
5. It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)
6. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
7. Desolation Row
8. Tangled Up In Blue
9. Highway 61 Revisited
10. When The Deal Goes Down
11. Watching The River Flow
12. Workingman's Blues #2
13. Summer Days

(encore)
14. Thunder On The Mountain
15. Like A Rolling Stone
16. All Along The Watchtower

There were lots of confused pubescent high school boys smoking joints on the down-low and sweeping their nappy bangs out of their faces and acting suspicious.

Then there were the pickled hippies, relics of the good old days -- lots of them -- the genuine summer of lovers. Big, drunk, Santa Clauses dribbling whiskey in their beards and sun-baked tootsie roll-colored women with stringy hair and crystal amulets.

As the crowd warmed up to the empty stage, one of these -- a jolly man outfitted in a safari hat and woven poncho -- clear leader of the Dylan expedition, ambled past and, perhaps sensing an opportunity to exude some of his happiness, paused at a pair of straw haired preteens sitting on the floor bothering their blackberry wielding parents.

"These kids grow up with Bobby?"

His tootsie roll lady friend smiled bizarrely down at the girls, who seemed stunned by the old hippy and sat motionless, frozen in his only-slightly-creepy gaze. He squatted and spoke directly to them with a wheezy smile.

"Do you girls like Dylan?"

Terrified, the younger girl spun around and clawed her distracted mother's leg while the older girl managed a shrug. Mom stared up at the booming old man from behind her plastic wine glass.

"Can I help you?"

He was unfazed and remarkably well preserved, glowing in the pre-Dylan daybreak. He swung a plump arm around his skeletal lady friend and let loose a chuckle.

"Did these kids grow up listening to Bobby?"

"Oh, sure, they've heard him."

"That's great," he said, still eyeing the girls benevolently. "It's just amazing to see how Bobby transcends all generations."

"Whether they actually listen, I'm not sure. They like the -- oh I can't remember the name -- who is it girls?"

In unison the daughters -- eyes on the ground -- chirped: "Cheetah Girls!"

"Yes," Mom said, with some sarcasm. "They like the Cheetah Girls better than Bob Dylan."

Defiant now behind her mother, the younger girl met the old hippy's gaze.

"Yeah," she said. "We like the Cheetah Girls."

"Well, I think I've heard of them," offered the old hippy lady to her man. But he didn't seem to hear, apparently hypnotized by the little girls.

"What's your favorite Dylan song girls?"

Aware now that she was dealing not only with children who don't understand dirty old hippies, but old hippies who don't understand children, Mom gently interceded.

"I don't think they really have a favorite Dylan song."

"No favorites? Sure they do! What is it girls? 'Subterranean Homesick Blues'? 'Like a Rolling Stone'? 'Lay Lady Lay'?"

"That's a really fascinating question, isn't it girls?" Mom said, sparing her daughters momentarily. "I'd have to say that MY favorite Bob Dylan song of all time has to be --"

But the boozy old man wasn't hearing it. He squatted again, determined to make a breakthrough with the little girls.

"Aww c'mon! We don't want to hear what boring old MOM likes, do we girls?"

"Excuse me?" Mom said.

At this point the younger of the two girls bolted straight for Dad, a few feet away and enmeshed in conversation on his cell phone. I can't say I blame her; at this point I was scared shitless too. Sorry hippies, you just don't seem to age well.

"You're so drunk Harold!" cackled his crazy lady, slapping him in the head lovingly. "Look, you're scaring the children! Ha ha!"

Harold did not hear though. He reared up, red-faced and sliding quickly from jolly to terrifying. He raised his voice an octave, addressing the entire vicinity.

"I dunno about you all, but MY favorite Bobby song has always been 'Maggie's Farm'!"

Having gotten everybody’s attention, Harold began to sing, loud and mournful, stamping his foot as he went. His lady performed the ancient hippy ritual twirling dance around him.

"Well, he hands you a nickel!
He hands you a dime!
He asks you with a grin, if you're havin' a good time!

Then he fines you every time you slam the door!
I AIN'T GONNA WORK FOR MAGGIE'S BROTHER NO MORE!"

And he held the last word. 'MOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRR,' carrying it high and far across the auditorium, pulling out a Zippo and lifting the flame high above his head. A few like-minded rebels clapped. Harold bowed deeply to the little girl, now on the verge of tears.

"Whew!" he said, laying a sloppy kiss on his lady. "God I love Bob honey."

"I know you do baby. And Bob loves us too."