One night in someone’s room I open the gatefold sleeve of Blonde on Blonde and take hours to roll a preposterous joint that goes all the way across both discs. Someone takes a photo of me unsuccessfully attempting to smoke it. When The Big Bust happens, the policeman searching his room points at this photo, stuck to the wall and says “Who’s this? We’d very much like to speak to him.” Someone dummies up, but I am as pleased as punch when he tells me this story because, theatrics aside, I have nothing to fear from any such encounter.