You're Who? Uh, I knew that.

You know, sometimes you just feel stupid, there's no mystery in it, it is simply life's way of keeping us humble. For some it is slipping on a banana peel in the grocery isle, for others it is not answering the physics question correctly. For me it is simply, well... allow me to share a story that may explain.

Being a street performer is a challenging and thankless job. Sure it may seem glamorous, but the truth is much less alluring. For all it's faults, however, it has great benefits, one being the opportunity to meet interesting people. Tonight was such an opportunity. I had taken the usual time to scope out the various venues in which people might attend for their Friday evening getaways. There was the Circle Cycle at the Capitol theater (a fanciful dance troupe that uses hoops and balloons and such). There was the new thingy at Abravanel hall, uh some Italian cultural thing, which of course I know nothing about. Yogurt, that's my form of culture.

Of course there was also a Jazz game going on, could be fun especially if they win, which they did. There was also some show called New Tuna, or Fresh Tuna, or something about Tuna going on at the Studio Theater. Anyway, the point is that there were many ways to make a buck. The key to being a successful S.P. (that's street lingo for Street Performer for those in the know) is to know when to be where, and when to not be where you were when you were where you wanted to be. Confusing? Well, duh! Like I'm going to divulge all my trade secrets here.

Anyway, I digress. So I was moving from one venue to another like a lioness stalking her prey and I found myself in front of Abravanel Hall precisely as I had planned. Ah, it was a thing of beauty. There I was perfectly poised to serenade the oncoming patrons with the magical strains of the Celtic way. As I was filling the air with the melodic tones a man and his wife came up to me and began listening to my work. He looked familiar but I just couldn't place the face. As I played I wrestled with the quandary that presented itself. Who was this guy? He looked so familiar, almost like a family member. Was it some Uncle I haven't seen for awhile?

Whoever it was had a stunningly beautiful woman standing next to him. As I concluded my tune she spoke,

"Young man, could you play Scotland the Brave for us?"
She knew the correct name for the tune. She didn't call it "Praise to the Man." Who was this couple. Were they Scottish tourists? I had to find out. I slowly drew closer to the man and said,
"Excuse me sir, but you look so familiar to me, may I ask your name."
"Of course, I am Dallin Oaks."

Suddenly it was as if I was standing in public with nothing but my underwear on. The horror! How could I be so stupid. There were no words, I was left to flail in a pool of quicksand of my own making. I leaned close and apologized for being so dense, he merely chuckled and said it was not a problem.

The result was that I was able to chat with him for a moment or two and then they were off to the thingy, whatever it was. It wasn't Yogurt so I had no interest. As they walked away, I played the best Scotland the Brave I could muster. All the time my awkward moment loomed ever present in my mind. How cool would it have been to be suave and debwaner, but no, such is not my way. Oh well, at least I played well. That is why I will never be ambassador to any foreign country, I just don't have no culture, yogurt excepted of course.

The Groping Groupie

Yes you heard right, woman gropes man. We have always heard about the perverts out there who get their jollies by copping a feel from some unsuspecting woman but what about when the shoe is on the other foot? Ever since I have embarked on this road of performing on the street I have had one bizarre incident after another. What was the latest debacle you ask? I'll tell you.

It happened just a few days ago. I was bound for my usual spot at the Northeast corner of the Energy Solutions Arena to play for the hordes of eager people pressing to attend the Jeff Dunham comedy show. After setting up my gratuitous advertising I set about tuning my pipes. The weather was a chilly 32 degrees and Llieam (That's the name of my bagpipe) did not want to sing.
"I'll no' lift my voice in such cold" he said with a twinge of malice in his tone.
"Ach, Ye'll play lad, and ye'll play now. Or would ya rather have yer drone reeds ripped oot?"
Their was a brief silence as the brash pipe mulled over his options, then in a contrite yet defiant voice, said,
"Oh all right. Ya've won this tame. I'll gie it a wee go, but no' because I am afraid of ye. The show's the thing!"
"Whatever!" I muttered as I proceeded to breath life into the unruly set of wood and cloth.
As if by magic, the cloth bag inflated until it was full. The tale-tale high pitched squeal signaled the onset of the pipes anticipated melody. At first the tones were brash and shrill, but soon they turned into the most melodic of strains, sending wonderful tones cascading across the landscape. Even in the bitter cold of January, Llieam's voice was heard and it bid all to come and partake in the joy of the luscious sound.
And come they did, by the hundreds. Soon the little orange suitcase began to fill with tiny paper bills and random change. I was so consumed with Llieam and his musical offering that I did not see the woman standing in front of me with her arms outstretched.

As I began to take notice of her presence she said,
"Can I have a hug?"
There was an awkward silence as I struggled for a response.
"Uh, sure I guess..." I answered hesitantly. The woman then proceeded to wrap her arms around me and squeeze. I suddenly found myself in the tightest bear hug imaginable, with no way to release the myself from the woman's grip. To my horror, she began kissing my sweater and saying,
"I'm kissing your boobs."
She followed the comment with a maniacal laugh that sent shivers down my spine.
"I'm from Ireland and I just love pipers!" she cackled.
That's when I felt it, the unmistakable feeling of someone grabbing your nether most region, it was a fanny fondle, a cheek check, the rear seat softener, you get the picture. There I was, locked in her pincer-like grip while she had her way with my manly seat cushion. Oh the humiliation, the agony. As if I might be unaware, she somehow felt the need to express her actions.
"Now I'm grabbing your butt!" she announced proudly.
"Ya, I'm here remember?"
Mercifully, she released her grip on me and ceased her unwanted molestation. As she began to leave she had an evil grin as she hissed,
"I'm Irish, I just can't help myself!"
I suddenly found myself rethinking my upcoming trip to Scotland. I had toyed with the Idea of making my way to Ireland to see the sights, now it seemed the furthest thing from my mind. No, I'll stay wi' me own folk on the great Isle of Scotland, Thank you very much. There must be some magical force when a man wears a kilt. I suppose it's that animal magnetism or that intense wave of testosterone that sweeps helpless women off their feet. At any rate, I suppose I can expect many more such encounters in the future. Let's just hope there isn't anyone with a video camera nearby when it happens. I'm not sure how tolerant my wife would be upon seeing such doings. Well, that's me then. Off to my next exciting adventure.