I was going to talk to you all about the near-full moon silvering the endless pastures last night. But frankly, I would rather briefly touch upon the Bushman's Blowie. An art I'm still coming to terms with, I'm galled to admit. Gloop drying down my salt and pepper goatee, awaiting the stares and subtle hand gestures of everyone I meet, hours later. BUT we're not here to talk about me.
We're here to talk about the finest Bushman's Blowie I ever did see...
In the late 70s I was tooling about, riding skateboards down at the Sydney Opera House with some other reprobates, when along the northern promenade a dignified couple in their late sixties leisurely appeared. It must have been intermission for the Berlioz or Shostakovitch recital because they were discussing the merits of the horn section with some animated yet knowing gravitas; she resplendent in a full length green silk creation and him in some Italian finery.
As we skated past, she stopped the conversation mid-sentence saying, "Excuse me, dear." And with one finger pressed to her nostril, proceeded to emit a substantial amount of gloog and snoodge from her other one. With consummate aplomb he turned away until she had finished this curious ablution whereby they resumed their discussion on the finer things in life.
For me, it was love at first sight.
Ein kleine mucous musik.
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