My brush with fame is quite mundane. I was at a now-famous Midwest club watching a band and between sets I was in the ally answering nature’s call because the line for the bathroom was too long and because, well, I’m a guy. As I stood there, facing the brick wall and contemplating the forces of a benign Mother Nature, a guy steps next to me and does likewise. We glanced over at each other, being mindful of the upper Midwest rule to always stair off at a fictitious point on the horizon. The guy starts making the typical small talk, “Gettin’ cold. Winter’s coming,” he says. This guy understands upper Midwest small-talk etiquette.“Yep,”. I says, being the talkative guy I am. By now, I recognize it’s Bob Dylan. “What you up to, Bob?” I ask, like we’ve known each other all our lives. “Lookin’ at these guys for an upcoming tour,” he replies. I nod, knowingly. “Son in law says I should check ‘em out.” Then we parted, flowing along on our own tributaries into vast darkness of the future. He, into a side entrance and I, back into the sweaty throng of humanity.