I went to see the Bob Dylan line last weekend.

Not the show, mind you—that’s still ten days away—but the line. I’m sure you heard about it: a bevy (or is it a herd?) of Bob Dylan die-hards camped out overnight, lining the sidewalk outside the Orange Peel to save their spot when the box office opened at 10 a.m. The first campers hit the bricks at 5 p.m Friday, so by the time I rolled through they had been there for 16 hours.

I had planned on bringing a few fresh muffins from the local Bakery — what fun is a trip to the zoo if you can’t feed the animals? — but by the time I laced up my sneakers, I was already running late. I decided that a big steaming plate of warm wishes would have to suffice.

Before you scowl at my cruel indifference, remember that these folks were there by their own free will. If you ask me, standing in line for hours upon hours just to shell out a couple of hundred bucks sounds more like a day at the DMV than a leisure activity.

Eli wondered what all the fuss was about, and as we drove to town, it struck me that he had never heard any Dylan tunes. At 3 years of age, that’s just a cultural misdemeanor, but at 4, it’s likely an indictable offense. Eli turns 4 in June. The only Bob I had in my car was Live 1966. Scanning the track titles, I decided that “Mr. Tambourine Man,” would have the most appeal to a preschooler. (“Desolation Row” seemed a little heavy at that tender age, especially at nine in the morning.)

Bob was still nattering on about magic swirling ships when we crested Pack Square and coasted down Biltmore toward the Orange Peel. The line stretched for blocks, up past the Hot Dog King and the city parking lot, and had just turned the corner by the Double Decker Coffee Company.

It was a weary, bleary scene, my friends. The campers were quiet, their faces lined with ennui, sleep deprivation, and, in some instances, the obvious signs of a head-splitting hangover. I had imagined diving right in and extracting a few hilarious quotes for my loyal readers, but something in those wild, blank stares gave me pause.

I talked to a few of the kinder faces, and the impression I got was generally favorable. Folks were in decent spirits, the weather had cooperated, and in a few cases harmonics may well have converged, but I can’t say that anyone looked like they were having a grand old time.

A few of the younger, more bohemian folks in line made something of a party of it — peanut butter, patchouli, bananas, guitars, old folk songs, and perhaps a snort of a little something from the pharmaceutical arm of botany. The middle-aged crowd — those with the silver hair and the higher-end folding chairs — seemed a bit more subdued, as if it was just now occurring to them that they weren’t built for nights on the sidewalk anymore.

Still, they had their eyes on the prize: Dylan, live, at the Peel. If this was 1980s Stalingrad, after all, their only reward for the torturous line would be a loaf of old bread and two tins of pickled herring. And free Krispy Kreme donuts? Not a chance.

As it happens, most of the loyal herd got their tickets. I couldn’t stick around — Eli and I had a birthday party to attend — but Mountain Xpress scribe Steve Shanafelt did. Later, he told me that the show sold out a little before noon, and about 30 people were turned away. His guess was that the unlucky few hadn’t hit the sidewalk until about 9:15 that morning.

Slackers.

(Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)