Your Horoscope

Once again, I can’t go on/I’ll go on. I wonder if anyone has figured out where that is from? It’s been a beautiful day today. So pleasant, sun has been shining, a nice breeze wafts through the air.

Bill came home, safe and sound from Amish County bearing bagels and the paper and went right to bed. He’s off again driving the bus down to North Haverbrook.

Some sort of whoop dee doo happening down there tonight. I don’t ask questions, I don’t get involved.

I stopped by the bibliothèque as I walked over to Pier A for more of my strumming. I returned Joe Strummer: The Future is Unwritten. I’ve seen it before and ultimately it’s sad. But it’s a warts and all look at Joe.

I had another Joe Strummer DVD called Let’s Rock Again by Dick Rude. I lent it to my brother and when I asked for it back a number of months ago he didn’t know I lent it to him, he had forgotten.

I hope to see it again, but chances are I might not. That’s karma I suppose. A small price to pay. I sat under a tree on a granite bench and played my guitar in the usual spot.

Tariq is still MIA since he was featured online in Hoboken Patch. I texted him the link to the story but got no response. It was fine playing guitar on my own though.

Up to a point that is.

After about an hour of playing guitar up comes the Mister Softee truck, not playing his chimes, but actually quite worse, parked with the loud hum of the diesel engine going.

I knew if nobody bought ice cream they would move on but a few people did. On top of that, about 30 feet away from 2 mandolin players and a guitarist set up, case opened for cash and just started playing.

Not paying any attention to me, and I was there first. Twenty-something scumbags with no sense of protocol. I mean, I move on if I see someone playing nearby. Sometimes even rebuffing their invitations to play.

These Holy Anal Wankers just did their faux bluegrass or whatever it was. And people dropped money in their case. It’s a good thing I’m not in it for the money.

I did my best to play loud enough to throw them off, and eventually they did move further down Pier A and set up shop there.

I don’t know if I would have played with them if they asked me to, but my playing Elton John’s Hercules seemed to be the number that shooed the Holy Anal Wankers away.

And not too long after the Holy Anal Wankers moved away, Mister Softee gave up the ghost and moved on somewhere else.

By that time it was going on three hours that I was out strumming. Bill mentioned that he had to be awake at 4:15 so I decided to make it on home and wake his bus driving ass up.

And he was stirring when I walked through the door. Now he’s been gone about an hour.

And then there’s me, trying not to write and failing in my attempt.
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