But you break.

It occurs to me that I haven't blogged for the last seven or eight busking trips. This might lead some to suspect that I've given up the ghost, fled for the Catskills, or been pinned between a steel subway car and a concrete stubbly platform, my guts precariously prepped for bursting should anyone attempt to rescue me. But this is not the case.

I am merely scatterbrained. Plus, I didn't feel like anything of interest was happening. I mean, I'm sure that the one or two friends I have that read this blog LOVE to hear about me learning the lyrics to "Guantanamera," or my latest encounter with a group British high schoolers, but I can't pretend that anyone else experiences such passion when perusing these passages.

So, the last four weeks, abridged: A girl ran by me while I was playing and told me I'd done a great job at the Magnet Level One Showcase (the house fits like seventy people, so the chances of her seeing me in the subway are mighty slim), I went out with Cat again (our act is slowly materializing), I played for a three-year-old's birthday party after his mother saw me in the subway (great people), and I've been playing a cupboard full of Bob Dylan songs (latest obsession).

I've also decided that I fervently hate Music Under New York. Not familiar? They're a group of petty thieves, basically...it's a bunch of buskers that the city authorizes to perform at choice pitches, and endows with schedules that are so uncannily powerful they can drive non-MUNY buskers away from their precious locations. I've been booted more times than I can take, and the next time some freaking ethnic yuppie (I haven't seen a single causasian person, not to mention singer/songwriter type) brandishes a laminated schedule, there might be some fur flying. Of course I'm kidding.

I'm just gonna piss on 'em.