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I spent all day yesterday "busking."
Busking is an activity that involves whaling away on a guitar or a banjo while trying to sing loudly enough to be heard over the sounds of passing Harley-Davidsons and pedestrians shrieking into cell phones. Usually in the key of "D."
Me, not the pedestrians or the Harleys.
I was hired to provide street entertainment in the nearby city of Plymouth as part of "Kidpalooza," an event organized by the area merchants to provide a fun day downtown for families with young children. I sang "Aiken Drum," and "Little White Duck," and "Shake My Sillies Out," and "We Are Going To Be Friends" for hundreds of children who had their faces painted with bunny rabbit noses and whiskers.
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One evening not too long ago I was sitting out on the deck with my friend Tom, sipping a mug of beer, gazing at the lake, and admiring the festive way our dock twists and undulates its way out into the water. The warm glow of the setting sun bathed the cloud-white sail of a small sloop silently slicing through the glassy evening water, and flooded the trees and houses across the lake in a shimmering pool of golden light.
At that moment Tom finished his beer, stood up, belched, and said, "Well, I have to run. The new episode of Ice Road Truckers is on tonight, and it looks like Alex might have a blood clot."
That sentence probably made a lot of sense to Tom.
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My wife and I celebrated our wedding anniversary on Saturday. We've
been married thirty-three years; that's twelve thousand and forty-five
days. Actually, twelve thousand and fifty-three, if I've managed to
calculate the leap years right.
This means that my wife has had to listen to me singing the first verse
(the only part I know) of Bob Dylan's "Buckets of Rain" something like
seventy-two thousand, three hundred and eighteen times, a feat of
endurance that some experts feel ranks right up there with surviving
the Spanish Inquisition or a Neil Diamond concert. Personally, I think
I at least partially broke her spirit sometime in the mid-eighties.
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