What a bleeping day

To preserve the dignity and privacy of those involved, I will not recount some of the events of this evening. Nobody was injured, the cats are fine, and I won’t speak for Jeff but I would describe my current mental state as “spitting out feathers”.

Jericho was fine; I heard my first ever submarine shanty, which really is a fine thing to be able to say, the other performers were wonderful, Ballyhooley was great, they did a kickass version of Wraggle Taggle Gypsies and one of them plays uillean pipes ver’ well.  And there was an octave mando and more fracking pipes with holes in ’em than you imagine one guy lugging around.

Paul and Keith showed up, and just as promptly, disappeared, due to scheduling issues. I hung til ten but I had to get the car back to Joyce Station.

One block north of Joyce Station, and may the laws of probability and a pterodactyl’s left great claw be thanked that I had my back turned to this jackass, I heard a guy who hawked up a throat oyster so big that it was carrying a cell phone with ease – I heard the sucker bounce on the ground – and then he made an even MORE incredibly loud noise which sounded like somebody trying to clear a vacuum cleaner hosepipe jammed full of liver with a toilet plunger, and I must repeat, really loud. Reverberating between two buildings, drowning out the car noise. Score one for the human capacity to be really fracking disgusting.

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Born when atmospheric carbon was 316 PPM. Settled on MST country since 1997. Parent, grandparent.

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