last night

I did very little today. Really only stepped outside to go to mass (lesson learned in a Marilyn Monroe moment: floor vents and full skirts don’t mix. Particularly not in church. Granted, I don’t think my skirt was full enough to really cause scandal. But I dropped my hymn book in my automatic effort to push it back down (real smart, Lauren, why not just keep walking?)) which is unfortunate, because I may not be stepping back outside for awhile. The gate to the parking lot is broken somehow, and no one is coming to fix it until 8 tomorrow. Too bad that’s when my first class starts…or maybe not too bad, as physically not being able to leave your building for a completely unforeseen cause you didn’t even know about until the night before, when it was too late, seems a legitimate reason for not going to work.) So I’m trapped in my building for now. I’m only writing this because by the time you read this the situation should be resolved, but I really hope there’s no fire tonight

(ok, if there is it should be alright, we should be able to get far away enough from the actual building to survive.)

Saturday night walking home from confession (sweet!) and purchasing an honest to goodness French breviary (and nearly purchasing one of several really cool French comic books in about Saints (sorry Dad, they really are cool) but I couldn’t decide between Louis King of France/Saint Clare, Charles de Foucault, Jean Paul II/ St. Bernadette, or Mary, mother of God.) I passed a crowd of people in front of these two guys playing guitar and another guy with what looked like a long wooden pole stuck into a upside down plastic tub, with a cord stretching from the top of the pole to the tub, which he held against the pole higher or lower to change the pitch of the bass note he was strumming. It was amazing. How do you learn to do that? No frets, just higher on the pole for higher and lower for lower, and he was managing to play along with the guys on guitars. And they were good! I mean, there’s always someone playing the saxophone or the accordian or the guitar in that area, usually really out of tune, but these were drawing a crowd.

I stopped several minutes to listen to them. Some girls with dreadlocks with them selling beaded bracelets they had made, and they had a dog with them that kept picking fights with other dogs who walked by. At one point, one of the girls went over and lifted it physically up by the scruff of the neck and the scruff of the, well, buttocks or lower back, and hauled it back over to the guitar guys, giving it a good scolding. It seemed so odd that these seemed like the crowds of dirty young folk I always felt like avoiding, dirty with hippy-like clothes and rough looking dogs, often asking for money or calling out mocking words to people. But these seemed almost oblivious to the crowds forming around them. They just kept playing, intently, and singing, and talking about what they were going to play next.

If they were selling CDs I would have probably bought one. I had to restrain myself from breaking out into Charleston. They were so playful. At one point a guy started improvising a harmony with his mouth, like he was imitating a kazoo or something. There was a flyer taped onto the plastic tub that said “Bateau Ivre” (Inebriated boat), I suppose that’s what they called themselves.

This was right by Notre Dame des Poubelles as I’ve dubbed her, the Mary and baby Jesus that they like to dump all the trash by. Almost like they were serenading them. Almost made up for all the empty boxes nearby.