Dylan does nothing – and everything is undone.

I admire Bob Dylan’s inaction over his Nobel Prize, even as I recognize that it may be less a principled stand than it is typically-sphinxlike Dylanesquitude: The answer, my friend, comes with putting your finger to the wind to know which way the mob glows.

My guess: When people in tuxedos claim they want to honor you, it means that want a photo of you accepting their paycheck for services rendered. The Voice of a Generation™ would rather look like a rebel than risk seeming to be a yet another grasping toady.

What might settle the question for me? I would love it if the great Bob Dylan – truly worthy of veneration, even if not in the Nobel committee’s outrageously inflated currency – would hunt down this surly, snotty, drunk, high, hideously-underfathered punk-ass kid and give him the thrashing fatherly cultivation he is so desperately begging for: