Me and Bob Dylan go back, way back. I mean, not only is he the voice of my generation, he’s the voice of my life. I’ve been listening to his records and singing his songs for decades now. When I was 11, my parents gave me a vintage leather jacket (from Ridge Furs on 8th Street) and a Bob Dylan songbook.

I loved that aviator’s jacket. But that songbook. That was my bible for so many years because as a budding singer/songwriter, that was my music.

Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright. Bob Dylan’s Dream. All I Really Want to Do. Blowin’ in the Wind. A Hard Rains’ A Gonna Fall. These were the songs I sang sitting on my bed, strumming my Maderia guitar.

And the albums: Freewheeling Bob Dylan. Highway 61 Revisited. Blonde on Blonde. Self Portrait. Nashville Skyline. Blood on the Tracks: the music of my childhood.

I saw Bob Dylan and the Band at Madison Square Garden, at the Arena in Binghamton, NY, at Radio City Music Hall, at Madison Square Garden with Tom Petty, at Madison Square Garden during his born-again phase, at Madison Square Garden in concert with Joni Mitchell.

Best of all: I saw Bob Dylan on Eighth Avenue in Park Slope across the Street from the Montauk Club back in June 1999 on my son’s birthday. He was wearing a cowboy hat and was roaming around with a photographer, and stopping to chat with people. I asked him for an autograph and he signed his name on the back of an American Express billing envelope I had in my bag. Luckily I didn’t mail it.

About a year later my son bought me The Definitive Bob Dylan Songbook for my birthday. He’d told me for days that “I’d probably start to cry when I opened it.” And he was right.

Happy Birthday, Bob.