If no one likes a know-it-all, no wonder I’m so full of self-loathing. I mean, it’s all I can do to refrain myself from trumpeting my prophetic accuracy - not only my calling the last presidential election in September but nailing the electoral vote tally, my prediction last weekend that giddy Republican Congressional shut-downers would be soon ruing the day, my informing Tiger Nation that beating Georgia early in the season was no reason for hyper-over-ecstasy, etc.
No, I’m going to resist the temptation to pontificate about politics, metaphysics, popular music, Alice Munro, climate change, Rastafarianism, or film in this week’s fun-filled post; no, I’m going to take you on a little stroll down Center Street so you can cop a few glimpses of Follypalooza.
This fellow in the orange wasn’t shy about asking the ladies to dance, and they smilingly accepted, doing a sort of slo-mo shag.
Follypalooza centers on music and therefore attracts a sort of Asheville lite crowd, though relatively few twentysomethings made the scene. You were much more likely to see old hippies dancing in the streets than high school lovers clasping hands as they peeked into souvenir shops.
The photo below featuring a world class walker and empty stroller captures the wide range of ages represented
cradle to grave, or in this case, vice versa
Yep, lots of baby gawking going on all over. It’s what we people do.
The fellow below and his dog are doing their shepherds-encountering-angels-on-the-first-Noel imitation:
sore afraid he ain’t
Actually, he was looking at these surfer dudes perched on my former place of employment, Ocean Surf Shop.
Oh yeah, dogs. Plenty of dogs.
And beer, cold, discounted beer.
And a moon, worn as if it had been a shell/Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell/About the stars and broke in days and years.
fin