|portlandic street singers of balkan gypsy jazz.|
don't let this photo fool you,
these guys were twice as blurry in person.
'i'm so glad they keep the air out here on autumn evenings,' many-a-tourist has been known to probosculate. 'i'm not entirely shure about these street folk, though.' and then they get mugged, and then everything continues as usual.
and this is the game we engage with, everyone misunderstanding each other in the comical mass-mis-communications of massive greed and misanthropic displacement.
nakedness, for instance, is not allowed on the sidewalk, which is, strictly probosculating, a clothes-only zone. and horses from far and wide, are shivering, because all their blankets got gaave out to no-good and hella-stoned anti-(trojan)war hobos.
now, we might probosculate, if it tickles our chins and shivers our elbows, that each of these disparate street creatures are simply being human beings...
horses, however, would like to interrupt here, and readily assert that they, for one, are not;
and neither are the drinking fountains, which congregate in large numbers on the sidewalks to serve humanity in a categorically racist fashion. but they are so unlike like the spange-heavy fountains which bore them, and, if memory serves, raised them from a knee-high grass-hopper, or so they tell them. often.
be that as it may or may not be, i think it's high time for people who are street singers to start working on exclusively and explicitly barter terms. there is opportunity here, people!
what do people say when you refuse their money?! they are seriously puzzled like all birds, and like all chipmunks think that you are nuts, and too good to be true.
i'm just sayin'.
p.s. i (really) love this post.