I don't post much

...but you knew that.

I had a great idea for a blog, but it escaped me. I seem to recall I was driving home from downtown in rush hour traffic. Oh yes, now I remember.

Every day on the sidewalk protruding between the on-ramp from Front Avenue and Market Street onto the Hawthorne Bridge, there is this regular character - a dark black man in his mid-to-late 30's perhaps, donning a white suit, Mickey Mouse ears, coke-bottle glasses and a plethora of props.

Why he puts himself in harms way like this every day is somewhat of a mystery. Perched atop a stool precariously studious of his battered music stand, he entertains the crowd of drivers rushing to get on the bridge en-route to the grocery store, apartment or home. What's perhaps most profound about this arrangement is the obliviousness of the reception.

This man puts his talent out there for everyone to see. Since his audience is moderately captive and insulated, he may never hear the laughing, jeering or amazement coming from drivers (except perhaps the few with the top down). How does he go on not knowing if anyone cares or appreciates what he does?

Perhaps this is the power of a healthy self-esteem. Maybe the sneers roll of his back. It could be that he assumes everyone who drives by is inspired or lightened up a little by his act.

About that act. Onlookers are greeted with waving (courtesy of a giant Mickey Mouse glove), trumpet playing, some child's toy that grows from a very small globe into a large globe when tossed in the air (you'll have to see it yourself to believe it). It's peculiar at best. One can only surmise that he's playing in the road.

Yet, we all look in awe. His quick, 10 second appearance in my windshield calms me down a little from the torture of circumnavigating downtown Portland. Perhaps he knows this? Maybe he figures a little kids play on the side of the road might remind people that there's more to life than being pissed off in traffic.

Maybe I read into it too much, but I honestly believe that perhaps our white suited black friend knows something we don't. Something much deeper than the meaning of life.

Then again, he's probably retarded. Nevermind all of that.

Prosingly,
Gregsta'