Monday afternoon, 12/23
What's that? Bagpipes? Bagpipes!
I circle around Pioneer Courthouse in search of the piper.
He drones, in navy blue parka and tan slacks, looking nothing like a Scot, at the northwest entrance to Pioneer Place, the corner of 5th and Morrison, by the free paper vending machines.
I lock my bike at the rack in mid-block. I stroll by and toss a dollar bill in the pipe case open at his feet.
I take to a lamp post, take a deep breath, and take in the parade.
The facial contortions of the passersby amuse me.
The New Millenium Man, dealing on his cell phone, wincing as he plugs his ear.
The stupefied rural pilgrims, pausing, cock-headed like puzzled puppies, then shrugging and shuffling off in a chuckle.
The wise-cracking teens, gurning in self-congratulatory concert.
The doughy majority, acknowledging his art with bare smiles, hustling on to spend wages on soon-to-be-forgotten tokens.
In the midst of all, a chap, in pea coat and beret, crosses my sight line, catches my eye, and in undistinguished American, concurs in passing:
"Ah! The music of home."
What's that? Bagpipes? Bagpipes!
I circle around Pioneer Courthouse in search of the piper.
He drones, in navy blue parka and tan slacks, looking nothing like a Scot, at the northwest entrance to Pioneer Place, the corner of 5th and Morrison, by the free paper vending machines.
I lock my bike at the rack in mid-block. I stroll by and toss a dollar bill in the pipe case open at his feet.
I take to a lamp post, take a deep breath, and take in the parade.
The facial contortions of the passersby amuse me.
The New Millenium Man, dealing on his cell phone, wincing as he plugs his ear.
The stupefied rural pilgrims, pausing, cock-headed like puzzled puppies, then shrugging and shuffling off in a chuckle.
The wise-cracking teens, gurning in self-congratulatory concert.
The doughy majority, acknowledging his art with bare smiles, hustling on to spend wages on soon-to-be-forgotten tokens.
In the midst of all, a chap, in pea coat and beret, crosses my sight line, catches my eye, and in undistinguished American, concurs in passing:
"Ah! The music of home."
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
excellent,I love her
And about the irish girl who I followed for a few yards, I knew she was irish because she sounded irish. But she could have been someting else, I guess. I don't have the best ear for that kind of thing. I mean, I know she wasn't brazillian, or french.
You're reminding me of the dwarf in that movie, lord of the rings...
I like Cool Hand Luke too.
Do you know who Utah Philips is?