It started well enough. I had center stage, which at 11:30 was still in shade. I began with “Making Love Ukulele Style,” moved through the C-major medley of “Sunday,” “Fit as a Fiddle” and “I Saw Stars,” and ended with “Ukulele Lady.” As I’m playing, a couple of twenty-somethings sit down near me, then a couple more. They weren’t there to do the hula – I checked. They were there to practice a flash mob for tomorrow, when someone was going to propose to someone else.

“Is this going to take long?”

“Oh, no, just a few minutes. Go ahead and play, it won’t bother us.”

The mob had swollen to 25-30 people; they were swarming all around me, in loud conversation with themselves. I had become inaudible as well as invisible. Finally, they lined up, paired off, and followed their slim blonde leader through their number. It had Broadway choreography, high kicks, 2, 3, swing, dip, 2, 3, hop, hop, hula. I sat down in the shade and waited for it to end.

“So, is that it?” I asked when they took a break, knowing full well it wasn’t. “You’re killing me,” I told one of them. “How about moving this thing over there?” I motioned toward the Arcade, where the sacred singers sung. Slowly the mob moved off.

I had 2 contributors today, both teenage men, a 14-15 year-old who said he liked uke music but didn’t himself play, and an 18-19 year-old, who gave me $2 and danced with his friend for Margie’s birthday. Margie got a good laugh, but would not join in.