No iPod listings today– I won’t be on the bus. I’ve taken today, Monday and Tuesday off. Can ya smell it?! Whoo-whee! That’s the smell of a five-day weekend, baby!
It’s 8-8-08. Word on the street is that this string of 8s is "lucky". That’s right. A “lucky” number. Frankly, I don’t believe in “lucky” numbers any more than I believe in “lucky” rabbits feet or any other form of supposedly “lucky” vegetation, mineral deposits, or articles of clothing. To me, ‘luck” is nothing more than the struggle to assign control to something other than ourselves. “Luck” has nothing to do with it.
And sometimes neither does punctuation. Hey! Today is Friday, and you know what that means, kids! That’s right, it’s time for new blog sites and a small story.
But just a small story. I don’t want you to think I’m easy!
New Blog Sites!
This first one is Quotation Marks. I love this site. Love love love this site. You know, I’ve always wondered what goes through people’s heads as they write things like “Kurt and his “wife” attended the event.” What do you mean, Kurt and his “wife”? Is she really not his wife? Wait – is this person even a woman?
The second site is Cake Wrecks, with a big “shout out” and “thank you” to Special Work Friend and Library Sciences Super Hero Lora for this one. Love it. Which one of these cakes would you like to see at your surprise party? I’m opting for the Bound Foot cake at the podiatrists. Truly delicious.
And I hate to have become predictable so early on, but oddly enough I have one more beggar story. This one is my favorite beggar story so far because of the imagination and joy involved.
I saw the guy in question just the other night, off 94 and Dowling. As I approached the exit, I could see a man standing there, as there usually is, but he didn’t have the obligatory sign, the creased and oldish-looking cardboard is folded up and stuffed in the back pocket at the end of the shift.
But this man wasn’t holding a sign. He appeared to be playing a banjo.
I was the third car back from the lights. I turned off my stereo and hung my head out the window. I couldn’t hear anything; and yet, there was this man, just two car lengths ahead of me, a’pickin’ and a’grinnin’ on the ol’ ban-joe. From the neck up, he had no movement, no expression at all. He was hopping from one foot to the other, his left hand running up and down the neck of the instrument, his right hand strumming madly.
And yet, there was no sound. Why no sound? He certainly looked like he was making sound.
And that’s when I stopped noticing the faraway, almost blissful look on his face and saw the banjo. But it wasn’t really a banjo. This banjo was made out of cardboard boxes, shaped in a very good imitation of a banjo and held together with duct tape. No strings, no frets. Everything had been drawn on.
He continued to hop around at the quiet intersection.
The light changed, and as I pulled up I yelled toward him. “Hey!”
He looked at me, and I smiled at him. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all day,” I shouted. “That’s gotta be worth something, don’t you think?”
He came over to the car and I handed him two dollars. He took it without speaking and walked back to his spot on the corner.
“Thanks for brightening my day,” I yelled as I pulled away.
But he didn’t hear me. He was back at the banjo, hopping from one foot to the other, strumming manically.
I’ll bet it was the best two dollars I spent all week.
Be Not Separate
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