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  • Ninety-three degrees and then some as rained threatened to dampen this balmy Denver evening. We strolled from our car to Santa Fe where the people milled, the musicians played and the artists had opened their doors to display their wares. Some of the art was worth stammering up stairs to get a glimpse of. Other art fit well with the mildewed basement studios in which it was displayed. Creatives living the Bohemian dream. Some worthy of the title "artist." Others living a fiction until they can find a job. The "occupy"-ers marched down the lane with their police support. And then the kazoo broke the tension of this pseudo artistic vision. The unshaven, guitar laden mad with the kazoo at his lips sang in a guttural tone accompanied by washboard and upright bass and jug...and banjo too. Stood for a while listening in to the wail of a life seemingly squandered, but inspiring this shabby tune. An honest pricking of the ear as the kazoo interruptus halts the eye - gives way to the ear for a short while. Take it in. Absorb the plucking and pining before taking in more art. High art. Low art. And mediocrity.
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