The quiet zone in Strawberry Fields, which hasn’t been quiet yet this year, was especially not so this morning. Instead of mostly Beetles, the accustomed program played from a bench, today a disheveled young man sat cross-legged on the ground, blocking foot traffic, singing \u201cRainbow Connection\u201d in imitation of Kermit the Frog. It was creepy; he might be the same guy who yelled at the tourists. <\/p>\n
The day is hot and muggy; a lawnmower gets evermore loud. The parks worker pushing it greets me with a wave and mouths “Aloha.\u201d John Boyd and his Sacred Chorale are working the vaulted tunnel, as they do all year long. It always draws a crowd in the heat and rain, and besides there’re restrooms. The fountain is lovely, but there’s no shade. Heading toward my spot on the path, I note that the azalea is over, while hydrangea and spirea are coming on strong.<\/p>\n
Shortly after I started singing, a woman walked by with a hand-lettered sign. \u201cWhat are we protesting today?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo protest,\u201d she said. \u201cWe\u2019re just saying thank you to Chen Guangbiao for feeding the homeless.\u201d<\/p>\n
That\u2019s nice I thought, playing on. After almost an hour, a middle-aged woman dropped the first — and what was to be the last — dollar of the day. I took advantage of the gaps in passers-by to practice \u201cDown among the Sheltering Palms,\u201d and was a little dismayed to find I\u2019d forgotten some key chords. A man asked if it was okay to take a picture. <\/p>\n
\u201cOk, you\u2019ve got your picture, now how about a hula dance,\u201d I said. No, no, he protested. \u201cIt\u2019s only fair,\u201d I told him, trying to save the day with the hard sell. I didn\u2019t get the hula, but I managed to shame a handful of change out of his pocket.<\/p>\n
An amplified rant emanated from The Boathouse Restaurant. Someone with a bullhorn was screaming unintelligibly. It sounded as if she were shouting to have someone\u2019s head cut off. I playing over the tumult, but my concentration was shot. \u201cBlah blah blah blah cut off. Blah blah blah blah blah off.\u201d<\/p>\n
The big bubble maker, who works at the north end of the Mall, walked up from the boathouse with his pail of water. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cSome Chinese billionaire is buying lunch for homeless people and people are protesting. Something about how he made his money, or Falun Gong, I don\u2019t know. I see something like that, I walk the other way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGood policy,\u201d I said. \u201cI saw the counter-protest earlier today.\u201d<\/p>\n
Five minutes later, a NYC cop shooed the bullhorn-wielding shouter away. Quiet again descended. I played my finale, \u201cMy Little Grass Shack.\u201d At the end, I shouted, \u201cAloha New York,\u201d as I sometimes do.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"