Kirk 0000 the boy

Almost everyday, for the last six months, I have biked right past this street-side trumpet player, this African American, jack of all trades. I was road ragged into assuming that he was bitter, that he would either not care or think that I didn't care.

Several minutes ago, my intuition pulled me over, "What's your name..... Kirk as in Captain Kirk...." born in Boston, wearing glasses and a suit, Kirk bowed to my attention, I told him about myself and that I appreciated his music, at the SW entrance to the Hawthorne Bridge, "What makes you unique, as compared to the others, is that you are consistenly in that spot, playing soundtracks like Star Wars..." and I personally recommend soundtrack, especially since our human words, that are placed alongside the music, can only do so good to our soul, it often interferes with the natural rhythm, the flow (not that I am against singing or anything, but for the most part, I am sick of most music), and lyrics can often refrain the creativity of music, of what it does to the mind, but all of this is beside the point. Today, just several minutes ago, I met Kirk, he even had puppets who first displayed a goofy marriage dream that quickly warped into a fight, "Now they're normal people," as he said it.


The moral of the story, I should have known, is that I wish I would have met him sooner.