Setting: The Back Bay Fens, where the Walk for Music took place today. I was one of the three women helping the Brookline Chorus to get organized. I stood on the basketball courts on a perfect spring day, the air rife with pollen and sunshine, the musicians of Boston milling about in mass confusion. I stood, looking for Chorus members, directing them to the correct registration tables.
Enter Jerry, a tenor in the choir who looks quite dandy in a red hooded sweatshirt at 73 years old. He has mobile eyebrows and a penchant toward old fashioned dirty jokes that aren't quite dirty enough to be funny or offensive. Despite the symbolic bravery of a red hooded sweatshirt, Jerry looks confused - nay, lost. I wave to him, gesturing for him to come toward me.
JoBiv: Hi, Jerry! Are you ready to walk?
Jerry: I am indeed. What should I... where should I...
JoBiv: Here's what ya do. Proceed to yon table, get a name tag, go waaay down to the end and get a t-shirt, just like this one (points to self), wear it at Tuesday's rehearsal and tell everyone we're twins.
Jerry: (Pause, creased forehead.) BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahaha...
JoBiv: (giggling to self.)
Jerry: I've been told we're hard to tell apart. (Wiggles eyebrows in a Groucho-esque manner.)
I have no idea how to construe that as flattery.
4 comments:
Email me, babycakes! Or let me know how to make contact!
I'm open to telepathy.
And I'll email you. ;)
I'm going to go ahead and vote for "torque fist," which opens up an entirely new idea for a gross and disgusting discussion.
My *word* is opbjwhje, which I assume is open biviano, jo, where jesus?
Happy Birthday, Jo!
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