Where Have All The Flowers Gone

Sometimes crazy things happen when I'm busking.  I think this one qualifies for the Darwin Awards, celebrating the least evolved humans among us.
Yesterday I was busking in Suburban Station.  I have a small sprig of artificial white flowers sticking out of my guitar case, which I found on the floor once while busking and figured it was an omen.  I've been displaying them for over a year.
Anyway, a man reeking of alcohol came up to me and stared at the money in my case.  He counted the bills out loud so everyone around could hear him.  When he got to twenty-one, he stopped.  By then I had stopped singing, too.  He got up in my face and called, "Man, you got at least twenty-one bills in there.   Can I have two.  I'm homeless."  Then he shook my hand, like he was my buddy.
Maybe I'm overly sensitive, but I don't like it when people yell into my face with alcohol breath when I'm in the middle of a song.
Of course, I wasn't feeling the love at this point.
"No," I said.
"Why not?" he barked back.
"Well, you see, it took me three hours to earn that 21 dollars."
"All you're doin' is blowin'," he said, referring to my harmonica.
"I'm busting my ass, man.  I'm sorry you don't look at it as work."
There was a tense moment.  I could see he was contemplating his next move.  "Well, then, I'm just going to....take your flowers and eat them."  He leaned down, plucked my artificial flowers (wires and all) out of my guitar case and shoved them in his mouth.
I didn't say a word.
I watched him chew.  His face contorted.  He walked over to the trash can and spit out what was in his mouth, and then he wandered off, waving his hand and mumbling.
Maybe I should learn the Peter, Paul and Mary song, "Where Have All the Flowers Gone."

9/11---Music for Peace

I think music is pretty powerful.  On this anniversary of 9/11 I've been thinking about bullies a lot.  I can't think of any better way to combat the Bullies of the World other than with music.   I know, sometimes people feel missiles and guns are better, and perhaps they are right.  I'll leave that method of combating tyrants to the people who can bring themselves to use those weapons of destruction.  I, for one, can't seeing myself using one.  I prefer a more peaceful approach. 
Song.
Last night I was busking on Walnut Street.  It was pretty busy.  I was singing a song and a medium-height man with shades walked up to me and stared me in the face, leaving about six inches between us.  He muttered something in a low voice to me.  I stopped singing, as his in-your-face approach was a little much for me to continue.  What is it you want, I asked.  He muttered something about giving him a dollar.  Then I noticed he was carrying a battery-run power drill.  He pulled the trigger, revving the motor, as he stared at me with his insect-sunglass eyes.  The drill actually had a sharp drill bit in it.  I took it to be a threat.  I said, please move on, and then I broke into song, right in his face.  I don't even remember what song it was.  But I belted it out with guitar, backed up by a healthy testosterone-pumped attitude.  My mugger backed down and moved on. 
If I had thought a little about my choice of song, I would have sung this one by John Lennon.  One of my favorite songs. 
Thank you, John Lennon, for leaving us with this song and giving the Bullies of the World something to think about.

Imagine
John Lennon

Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Jah-may-ka in Feely, Mon!

It is a hot Thursday afternoon and I opt for the air-conditioning of Suburban Station.  A slender black man comes up to me and stands with a gentle smile.  He is listening.  His head nods to the beat and at the end of the song, he says, "Dat is reel-y gooud."  I tell him it was one I wrote and ask him if he does music.  He says he sings and writes songs.  "I'd love to hear one of your songs," I say.  He starts singing a soulful, bluesy song with a reggae flavor.  I pick up the key and start backing him up softly, letting him have center stage.  He sings shyly, but loud enough for a few curious passers-by to smile and flash us a thumbs-up.  It is a great song.  We both gain energy from the music.  When he finishes, we both laugh with cathartic joy.  I tell him he has made my day.  He asks what I play besides original songs and I tell him about the covers and standards I have in my setlist.  "Here's one you probably know."  I play for him "Summertime" from Gershwin's "Porgy and Bess."  I've arranged it for guitar with a soulful harmonica solo in the middle.  He doesn't know the song and I am surprised.  I thought every knew "Summertime," if nothing else but Janis Joplin's version of it.  But he tells me, "I'm from Jah-may-ka, mon!"  We laugh and I thank him for singing his song.  We give each other the fist bump.  I don't want him to leave, but I know he has must move on.  I wish him well, thank him again, and start my next song.
I love playing on the streets of Feely-del-feeah, mon!