A dapper older gentleman with silver hair to match his necktie and a doublebreasted pinstriped blue blazer sang 'way off key in between growlingly exhorting his audience to catch the fervor. The audience ignored him in favor of their huge platefuls of delicious-looking food, served buffet-style.
Exiting the place, I wrote the last verse of a little gospel song of my own I'll finish by and by about a divorcing couple:
She stood up in court in her harlot's red blouse.
I kept my Jesus. She got the house.
Maybe I'll be able to persuade Ken to play bass on it.
In the Muddy Cup, a classical guitarist who shouldn't give up his day job was playing to an audience of two, one on the other's lap. But the barista didn't snarl at me, for once, and what more can one hope for at the Cup? A couple of doors to the east, a bunch of swells were celebrating someone's birthday at the Van Brunt Gallery, but I'm boycotting same because the proprietor seems not to remember my name, or our cordial conversation about the lead singer of the Psychedelic Furs now being a local painter. For the revelers, ignorance was bliss.