11/04
Had a good time in the Park Blocks this afternoon.
I started learning a new song. Not exactly new. "A Man's a Man (For A' That and A' That)" was written in 1792 or thereabouts by Robert Burns. It's actually an anti-aristocratic, anti-oligarchic anthem that, true to the spirit of the Age of Revolution, praises the honesty and integrity of the commoner by contrasting him with the ostentatiousness and dissemblance of the wealthy. I'm surprised the Sex Pistols never gave it a turn.
Anyway, this fellow walks by and sits down on the bench a few feet distant. I no longer acknowledge people with eye contact if I'm in the middle of a song. More often than not, a passerby simply wants to know the name of the instrument I'm playing. Making eye contact seems to translate to "Please interrupt my art at any time" for such folks. The ones who have the patience to wait for me to finish are usually musicians too. This fellow did not interrupt me.
When I finished, I acknowledged him. He said, "Me and my bandmates have been looking for someone who plays that thing." Then he invited me to join him and the band for their weekly rehearsal Wednesday evening.
As he's telling me all this, I notice a very pretty lass with short (collar length) red hair, approaching, in casual conversation with a girl friend. She was wearing a long sleeved orange t-shirt, under a denim vest and skirt combo. Not so fast my Celtic Princess! I immediately launched into a horn pipe, The Little Red Haired Boy. Not because of her red hair. It's the instrumental piece I know best. As I hoped, she responded by glancing my way, and flashing a killer smile. I sighed, turned to this fellow musician, and said, "That's why I do this. That makes it all worthwhile." He grinned and nodded.
I chatted with this fellow for another ten minutes. Then we heard a man shouting. It was a Christian evangelist calling for repentance. Repentance must be very hard of hearing, because this fellow was loud. Still, I bear him no ill will. He's exercising his right to speak freely in public, just like me. What disheartens me is the passersby who respond loudly with such erudite witty retorts as "Fuck you!" and "Eat shit, asshole!" That only feeds his fire.
I finished my conversation with the musician. He said his band performed original songs, which he characterized as honky-tonk with overtones of bluegrass, a nod to the band's banjo player, no doubt. It was at this point I noticed his fashion style, which was kind of an updated rockabilly look, with wavy black hair and a curled goatee. I took his phone number and told him I would call him.
He thanked me and went his way. I turned and noticed that the pretty red-head had paused to carry on her conversation with her friend a few yards off. She was standing so that I could see her, and she me. I tried to catch her eye again with my guaranteed chick-magnet lure, "Cape Cod Girls". If she acknowledged me, it was very subtle.
Or very coy.
I'm a gudgeon for coy.
Had a good time in the Park Blocks this afternoon.
I started learning a new song. Not exactly new. "A Man's a Man (For A' That and A' That)" was written in 1792 or thereabouts by Robert Burns. It's actually an anti-aristocratic, anti-oligarchic anthem that, true to the spirit of the Age of Revolution, praises the honesty and integrity of the commoner by contrasting him with the ostentatiousness and dissemblance of the wealthy. I'm surprised the Sex Pistols never gave it a turn.
Anyway, this fellow walks by and sits down on the bench a few feet distant. I no longer acknowledge people with eye contact if I'm in the middle of a song. More often than not, a passerby simply wants to know the name of the instrument I'm playing. Making eye contact seems to translate to "Please interrupt my art at any time" for such folks. The ones who have the patience to wait for me to finish are usually musicians too. This fellow did not interrupt me.
When I finished, I acknowledged him. He said, "Me and my bandmates have been looking for someone who plays that thing." Then he invited me to join him and the band for their weekly rehearsal Wednesday evening.
As he's telling me all this, I notice a very pretty lass with short (collar length) red hair, approaching, in casual conversation with a girl friend. She was wearing a long sleeved orange t-shirt, under a denim vest and skirt combo. Not so fast my Celtic Princess! I immediately launched into a horn pipe, The Little Red Haired Boy. Not because of her red hair. It's the instrumental piece I know best. As I hoped, she responded by glancing my way, and flashing a killer smile. I sighed, turned to this fellow musician, and said, "That's why I do this. That makes it all worthwhile." He grinned and nodded.
I chatted with this fellow for another ten minutes. Then we heard a man shouting. It was a Christian evangelist calling for repentance. Repentance must be very hard of hearing, because this fellow was loud. Still, I bear him no ill will. He's exercising his right to speak freely in public, just like me. What disheartens me is the passersby who respond loudly with such erudite witty retorts as "Fuck you!" and "Eat shit, asshole!" That only feeds his fire.
I finished my conversation with the musician. He said his band performed original songs, which he characterized as honky-tonk with overtones of bluegrass, a nod to the band's banjo player, no doubt. It was at this point I noticed his fashion style, which was kind of an updated rockabilly look, with wavy black hair and a curled goatee. I took his phone number and told him I would call him.
He thanked me and went his way. I turned and noticed that the pretty red-head had paused to carry on her conversation with her friend a few yards off. She was standing so that I could see her, and she me. I tried to catch her eye again with my guaranteed chick-magnet lure, "Cape Cod Girls". If she acknowledged me, it was very subtle.
Or very coy.
I'm a gudgeon for coy.
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You got some substantial journal posts.