Adventures of a Street Performer

2015-06-21T12:35:00.000-07:00

A New Home For Piper Bob.com

Things are constantly in a state of flux it seems, so it is with piperbob.com. I have transferred this site to one that will be more under my control. Unfortunately, I was not able to keep "piperbob.com" as my domain name. It's all good. The new home for all things Piper Bob related will be:

http://www.bagpipebob.com

Still just as catchy and fun. See you there.

Back By Popular Demand

2015-01-04T17:24:00.001-08:00

A few Years ago when I sported a manly beard

Well, I have been pursuaded to continue the Adventures blog sight. I suppose it is appropriate since I am once again playing my pipes to provide a meager income. I have decided to chronicle some of the more interesting events that happen while I ply my trade.
Ah the end of another holiday season. I must admit, this has been the most enjoyable Christmas season in memory. The weather remained at a balmy 45 degrees for the most part and there were tons of people crowding around temple square. There are so many great memories, for example: The time was around 7:00 and a cute little family came by to listen to the pipes. As I played an adorable little girl, probably around 3 years old, came walking up and put a dollar into my bear's basket. She then promptly started taking money out and sauntered off as if this was how things are always done. I had to stop piping, it made me laugh so hard.

Later that same year, playing my Naills (Bagpipes) They took a beating
and had to be sent back to Scotland to be refurbished.
Since then I have purchased a much cheaper set that
I play downtown and Llieam (my bagpipes)
are now resting in my home office, enjoying a well deserved retirement.

This is actually the second time this has happened. I find it so amusing to watch the little toddlers. One little fellow stood next to Angus (Angus is the stuffed Gorilla I use to collect tips) with a perplexed look on his face. He looked at the pink basket held by Angus and then at his parents, who were offering encouragement to the young man. "Come on, just drop it in the basket", they called. The boy defiantly shook his head. Finally, the father came over and tried to help the lad. It became apparent that the problem was not a lack of knowledge about how to do such things. He simply had other things he thought should be done with that dollar, like buying him a treat.
The Father began to shake the tiny hand holding the dollar bill and reluctantly, the boy released his deathlike grip and let the bill float into the waiting pink basket. With a look of complete disgust, they boy walked off while his father simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled. I totally understood the look, having had five children myself. I smiled and thanked him and continued playing my pipes with yet another amusing tale tucked away in the recesses of my memory.
My favorite memory from this past Christmas was when an elderly woman came walking up and requested a tune. She asked to hear the Sky Boat Song. She was from Scotland and loved the pipes. She talked about her time there and we shared experiences from when I was able to visit the motherland some three years ago. I even got a compliment on my adopted Scottish accent. I told her that I had learned it from a friend of mine in Glasgow and she indicated that she could tell it was from Glasgow, (Still not sure what that meant.) She was in her eighties and still as spry and quick as could be.
I am always amazed at the number of people taking my picture while I pipe. I am sure they will look at the photo and say to themselves, "Now who was that guy in a skirt again?"
Well, that's a good start to some of my experiences and I will be updating this as the days and months go by. Oh, one last memory to share. I was playing away and noticed a younger man approaching. He wore military casual dress and walked up and said,
"Can you play (can't remember what now) but I agreed and also played my military tribute set, which consists of The Marines hymn, The Army tune (Not sure the real name of it) and ending with America The Beautiful. As I played the tunes I looked at the young man out of the corner of my eye. He stood erect as if at attention and had a misty glaze to his eye. It somehow touched me deeply. I suddenly felt a surge of respect and love for this young man, willing to lay aside his own desires to serve his country.
As I ended the set there was a moment of silence, as there always is with this set and then he gave me a nod of his head. Those out there who know me, know that I am a very emotional person. I reached out and gave the young man a hug and thanked him for his service. I am sure it took him by surprise and probably was a bit over bearing on my part but I felt a deep sense of gratitude and it was an honor to play for this modern day warrior. These are the moments I truly cherish as I play the pipes downtown. I feel truly blessed to be able to hoist the drones to my shoulder and will ever be thankful for the many years I struggled trying to gain some sense of mastery over this daunting instrument. I'm no where near being the best piper around, some might even say that I'm far from being mediocre, but regardless, I play on, resolute in my right to share my ancestry. Scots wa hay!

This Blog is Moving to a New Home

2014-10-23T12:17:00.002-07:00

News Flash! AOSP - Adventures of a Street Performer is moving to a new home. Well, not totally moving. I am pursuing my passion, writing. I love to create new stories and contribute to the already burgeoning plethora of minutia currently floating around the literary world. This Blog will continue to exist, however the posts may be few and far between for a while.

Please visit me at my new home. As always, I will be filling the internet with stimulating and thought provoking comments. But Wait, you say. You haven't done that in the past!

Quiet you rabble, you'll take what I write and like it!

Or not, it's up to you. See you at the new site. Here's to many more blog posts in the future.

The End of the Adventure

2014-06-08T22:14:00.000-07:00

Well, the time has come for the end of my ramblings on this blog. I found honest work in the summer of 2012 and have been happily employed ever since. I occasionally play downtown but the instances are fewer and fewer. It was a marvelous time and an adventure I will always cherish. Now I just play the pipes for myself. I still play daily, and have numerous stop and desist orders to prove it.

I find myself enjoying the antiquity of the process. I am studying the old Piobairaechd tunes and playing them with great relish. It is as if I can transport myself back in time to those damp and misty moors, where brave men filled the air with soulful laments and led great throngs of men into harms way. One can almost feel the spirits rise to walk with me as I pipe. I am reminded of my experience playing in Scotland.

It has almost been four years now, but I remember is as if only yesterday. The hour was late, well not that late. It was just as the sun was beginning to set. I arrived at Culloden to view the historic monument and tour the visitors center. Unfortunately, they had closed for the evening. A lone security guard greeted me with the sad news. I explained that I was here from the U.S. and wanted to play my pipes. He lit up and told me I was welcome to stroll the battlefield and play to my hearts content, no one would bother me.

A lone Cottage on the Edge of Culloden Moor

I hoisted the pipes to my shoulder as I passed a small cottage that stood on the edge of the old battlefield. The sky was awash with beautiful tones of amber and blue as I let the drones have their way. I began a mornful lament entitled, "Lament for Sir James McDonald of the Isles". The tones lilted across the moor as I strolled slowly past the large stones that marked the mass graves of those highlanders who fought for their freedom. The Mackintoshes, the McDonalds, The Macgillivrays, and so on... It seemed so still and peaceful as I walked along. The midges were buzzing around, obviously admirers of the Ceol Mor.

All of a sudden I felt as though others were there with me. I looked from side to side but saw no one, yet their presence was real. If felt as if a legion were walking with me. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I continued my lament. I was a stranger in a strange land and yet I was not. I felt at home, as though accepted and even one of them. In my minds eye I could see them, brave warriors in kilt and sporran walking proud. There were others too. Men with ancient pipes of their own, hoisted high and joining with me in a symphony of Celtic pride.

That is why I play the pipes, for them. To honor my ancestors with some symbol that defines who they were. The English tried to squash this Celtic symbol with no success. That I play today is proof of their failure. Long may the grand tradition of Scottish pride continue, and may I always honor my noble ancestors with the haunting tones of the Ceol Mor.

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Piper-Bob.Blogspot.com

Finding a Diamond Amongst the Pebbles

2012-04-30T18:01:00.001-07:00

What evil lurks in the hearts of men? I can tell you, it is the cruel desire to find that special bargain. Oh I hear what you say, "But Bob! How could you take advantage of a poor innocent Ebay'er like that? Wait I am getting ahead of myself. Let's go back a few steps.

It was a hot dry day in the suburbs of Phoenix. The excitement permeated the air like a freshly cooked Turkey on Thanksgiving. The fairgrounds were flooded with the bright hues of the various tartans as the Celtic gala began it's two day extravaganza. We had traveled there to ply our trade, to satisfy the voracious appetite of the waiting throng for the healing strains of the pipes.

All around us were the eager masses. We played and they cheered. It was a wonderful spectacle.

In the band competitions we took first place in both events. We were reveling in our victories as I glanced down at my beloved Llieam (That's the name of my Naill bagpipe). That's when I saw it, leering up at me. It was a spider like crack making its way into the lower section of my bass drone. A sudden horror gripped my heart. If there was one, there could be more! Frantically I examined my friend from top to bottom. Aaagggghhhhh, I found another! This one was in the top section of the outside Tenor drone. Damn you Arizona! Your dry atmosphere and low elevation have exacted a painful price from my helpless pipes. Numb, I slumped into a chair, unable to comprehend the gravity of the attack on my poor Llieam McNaill. The once pristine pipes were now horribly flawed, (well not really, but hey, this is drama!) OOps, I have to go fix dinner, I'll post this much and be right back to finish my tale.

Ok, I'm back. Where was I? Oh yes, The heat was stifling as I smoldered in a quagmire of despair and agony. As I languished the thought struck me, "What if Llieam becomes incapacitated? I'll be stranded, I'll have no pipes to play at all! The horror!" With my livelihood on the line I resolved to find a companion for my beloved Llieam McNaill. What better place than to look on Ebay. Oh there were many would-be suitors, but it had to be the right one.

There were cheap ones with exotic sounding origins, like Pakistan and India (Ahhh, aaahhh craapp!) Sorry, had to sneeze. There were pricey hoity toity ones claiming royal bloodlines dating back to such nobility as, Henderson, Robertson, Laurie, and others. Unfortunately, to avail yourself of such company you had to be born a Duke, or a Prince or something. No, such pomp and peacockery could not be the lot for companionship to one so flawed, as my Llieam. Llieam may have been born in the high class English countryside, but upon migrating to the United States, he forsook that destiny for a menial life of toil and strife. He became servant to Piper Bob, and as such, found himself in sub-zero temperatures and scorching heat, struggled to sing his Celtic song. Such travail ages a pipe, as Llieam found out.

Though barely six years old, he looked as though he were over a hundred. His stark black lines and crisp shiny accouterments were now marred and yellowing with tarnish. His bag was limp, (Watch it!) and his once smooth, silky-white, projecting mounts were soiled with chips broken out from one to many knocks on the side of doors or what have you. And so here he was, cast aside whilst Piper Bob (myself) set about finding a suitable companion for him.

"Companion, hmmph!" Thought Llieam. "More like a geriatric nurse-maid I'll wager!"

Meanwhile, I continued my search. While doing so, a rare find surfaced. There were a few of them actually. The first was a vintage set of "Peter Henderson" pipes, complete with a Black-wood chanter. I began to salivate as I prepared to bid on the old man. Unfortunately, I let show my hand too early. The bidding ramped up far past my meager funds. The prize was lost. I then turned my attention to the next old boy up for auction. Skeptically, I reviewed the advertisement. The picture looked exactly like all the other Pakistani contenders, yet there was a diference. The Ad stated this old boy was born in the home of one "Hugh MacPhearson" early in the 1970's. My interest was peaked, but many claim such grand heritage; could the claim be proven? Aahh, there's the rub!

I began my due diligence. First I researched all I could about the famed pipe maker, Hugh MacPhearson. It turns out, Hugh was not a pipe maker at all, but rather simply a dealer in Celtic paraphernalia. He and his family lived in Canada and he began a retail outlet which did quite well selling Scottish oriented goods and merchandise. He did so well, in fact, that he contracted his brother to continue running the operation in Canada, whilst he moved back to Edinburgh and opened a similar shop there.

I suspect he simply longed to be back in Scotland, anyway, He wanted to provide a top quality line of pipes to compliment his other offerings. He enlisted the work of one, Willie Sinclair, to make the pipes for him and he would then brand them with his name (actually quite a common practice of the day). Well, I digress a wee bit, back to the story. I, examined the history of William Sinclair bagpipes and studied, at length, the Sinclair combing and beading and the cut and style of the ferrules and such.

After some considerable work, I determined that this was indeed an authentic set of vintage bagpipes and watched the bidding. It started out at a modest $300.00 As the auction progressed, I held my peace having learned a critical lesson from the afore mentioned "Henderson" Auction. In the last 30 seconds I made my move. I bid $700.00, the most I could afford. Up like a rocket the price soared. $400... $500... $600..., I began to sweat. It looked like the bidding might go past my maximum bid. But then there was a lull. The price continued again, $630, $640, and then nothing as the final seconds ticked by. At last I saw what I had been hoping for,

YOU ARE THE WINNING BIDDER AT @640.00

Breathlessly, I awaited the arrival of my new friend. Llieam sat in the corner, pouting and trying to look abandoned. The box finally came and I whisked it inside. As I opened the box, I was in heaven. There, cradled in old newspaper, sat my new friend, Llieam's companion. I gingerly took out the paper and looked at it. It was an actual newspaper from 1971 in Edinburgh Scotland, (by the way, if anyone wants to know what was happening on January 15th 1971 in the city of Edinburgh, I'm your man.) Talk about credibility, these pipes were the real deal! I anxiously assembled them and tied in an old bag I had laying around. I popped in my kinnaird drone reeds and put in one of my chanters and blew.

Slowly, the old man began to come to life. As it turns out, this would be the first blown in air these pipes would have seen for over forty years. That's right, the previous owner had tried to learn the pipes and became frustrated. She re-boxed the pipes and set them on a shelf where they sat for over forty years. As I examined them, they looked brand new. There was not a mark, a scuff, a crack, a blemish anywhere. The immitation ivory mounts had yellowed with time, but that is what they do.

Anyway, as I said, the old man began to come to life. Suddenly, there was a squawk from the drones, a brief hesitation, and then a symphony of sound. I quickly tuned the old man and blew again. This time the drones rang true and loud. The effect was magical. There was such a wonderful blend of tenor and bass. It was full and round and sounded akin to a pipe organ. As I played them I was instantly transported back to the highlands and the sound was intoxicating.

Meanwhile, over in the corner, Llieam stared on with obvious disdain. How he loathed the old man, these pipes which had come to upset his Nirvana-esk existence. Soon, however, he came to love the old man. He found that he was still taken out and played with frequency, and loved to sit at the feet of the ole pipe, whose name was now "Angus MacPhearson". Llieam and Angus are best of friends to this day, in fact, many find it hard to tell which is the older pipe. Ha, ha, such is life. And so the saga continues.

Oh the Horror and the Shame

2012-04-20T09:44:00.000-07:00

I have been a bad boy. I have been so laxed as of late. I have neglected my wee blog and it is calling to me now. "Bob! Where hae ye gone? I am wasting awa tae nothing!" Therefore I repent of my evil ways and commit here and now to do better. In fact, I will recite the Bloggers oath:

I promise to always seek opportunity to share meaningless drivel whenever possible.
I promise to malign and besmirch any and every individual that deserves such treatment.
I promise to always post content that will offend the P.E.T.A. members.
I promise to discuss controversial topics that Vegans find offensive.
I promise to include insightful and thought provoking pictures to accent my useless diatribe.
I promise to keep my informative posts to no more than 20 million words or less.
I promise to continue posting until my cold dead fingers must be pried from the black key board.

In recognition of Semper Jovialus, I so swear.

Ok, expect a post in oh, say a year or so.

You Can't Fight Mother Nature

2012-01-18T14:04:00.000-08:00

Recently I re-learned a very valuable lesson. That is, if you fail to take care of your equipment your equipment will eventually fail. I guess this is a fairly common weakness, especially among we men, but it is nevertheless a flaw that left unchecked can wreak havoc. It's fascinating the level of care my pipes receive. I oil them regularly. I polish them to a high luster. I constantly check the joints for snug fit and for wear. Yes I am fastidious about that part of the equipment of my trade.

However, the rest of my equipment I have allowed to languish in disrepair, and to want for the smallest morsel of attention. What equipment is that, you ask? Well, see there's the rub. I didn't really consider it equipment either. I am referring to my body and my health. My pipes perform flawlessly in all kinds of whether because I ensure they are well protected and cared for. Myself, I allow to muddle along without much attention. Well this time the results were disastrous.

I have always prided myself on my robust constitution. I have not had a major illness for over ten years, and that is the truth. Of course, I have always tried to eat right and take vitamins and proper nutrition and get plenty of exercise. That is not to difficult a task when life is normal. However, what about when the world turns upside down? Ah, that be a different beast, laddy!

The Christmas season was upon me and I was thrilled. I vowed to myself not to make the same mistake as last year. This year I would work every day and reap while the harvest was great. Ok, no problem so far. Work is good, it makes one strong. Well, I did just as I vowed. I worked my Kilt off, and reaped a enviable harvest. Unfortunately, that's when the grim reaper came to exact his due. It started as a mild cough, but grew into a full encompassing storm. I had a fever, my energy was gone, I felt horrible.

Well, it has been two weeks and the stupid thing hangs on like a lion to it's prey. I have been reviewing to see what went wrong, and I think I have it. One of the most difficult things to achieve as a Busker, is an adequate level of rest. I would come home late and be so wound up I could not sleep until 2:00 A.M. Having a family, I would be roused out of bed at 5:30 A.M. and would average maybe 6 hours of sleep a night. "I'll be OK, as long as it is consistent", I told myself. Well, unfortunately for me, that myth is just that, a myth. Well a wiser and older man now stands before you. My new year's goal? To treat my physical self as well as I treat my Pipes.

So, It's adequate rest, adequate fuel, and adequate protection from the elements for me from now on. With any luck, 2012 will be a prosperous year and I'll still be piping into the future to come. Well, that's my gems of wisdom, not much but there it is.

Cheers.

Imitation Isn't Always So Flattering

2011-12-20T12:17:00.000-08:00

Isn't it interesting how difficult things, often seem quite simple? Some people see me performing downtown and say to themselves,

"Hey, I can do that. I play the bagpipes. Well, sort of. I bet I could make out like a bandit!"

So, without another thought, they traipse onto the streets and begin plying their trade. Fortunately, we live in a free society where such things are allowed and even encouraged. Far be it from me to dissuade the would be entrepreneur. However, there are some who should seriously consider the innocent bystanders, forced to endure their hobby, especially when it involves a blatantly intrusive instrument such as the bagpipe.

The Great Highland Pipe is not a subtle instrument, nor is it one that is gentle and forgiving. I personally adore the sound of a well played pipe, but have recently gained a new understanding as to why some claim to detest its melodic tones. Let me explain,

I had arrived at my favorite spot downtown, the south gate of Temple Square. My display was set and my pipe was tuned. I was playing Celtic favorites as well as yuletide selections. As I concluded one particular tune, I heard a strange sound in the distance. It sounded like a bagpipe, however, it lacked the melodic resonance. This particular piper was beginning to ply his skills not more than a hundred yards from me.

Please understand, all are welcome to perform downtown. However, with an instrument as loud and intrusive as is the bagpipe, it behooves one to provide ample distance from another piper, so that both can be enjoyed. Most skilled pipers understand this and try to position themselves accordingly. However, this particular evening the piper in question was not of the aforementioned variety.

He was obviously a novice piper, lacking the ability to adequately tune his instrument. His pipes squeaked and squawked as he tried to prepare them for their performance. Finally, he began to rend the air with his three memorized tunes. It was akin to audible torture. His pipes were a half step flat as he belted out "Scotland the Brave", which soon became "Scotland the Brash".

I looked and saw small birds fleeing for their lives. Cats began crossing themselves prior to darting into oncoming traffic in an attempt at suicide. Even nature herself seemed to be registering her objection as a frigid wind began to waft from the East. Adding to the torture was the fact that this individual was using a very loud chanter reed. The horse drawn carriages that normally staged in a long line quickly vanished. The discordant piper continued, oblivious to the carnage he was inflicting.

As I tried to drown out the evil tones, I found myself fighting a loosing battle. As soon as I concluded one tune, the offensive tones filled the air like a foul odor. Desperately, I searched for some acquaintance who could tend my station while I ventured up to talk with this individual, I could find noone. In vain I searched. Finally, I pleaded with visitors passing by,

"Could you please walk up the street and tell that guy that I will gladly tune his instrument for him."

It was terrible. In the end, I believe this guy actually helped me. People were fleeing in droves. In affect, he was bringing the crowds to me, like a skilled herding dog driving sheep. I had the most profitable Monday ever. That's when it hit me, Why should I care? True talent will win out in the end. I was forced to admit that this piper, as offensive as he was, still was free to express himself. The same freedom that allowed me to ply my trade also allowed for others to do the same. Crap!

So, to the reader I would say only this; please do not judge the pipes by such novices. The Bagpipes are an instrument of antiquity that can reach deep into the soul, with healing balm. Unfortunately, they can also be the source of great irritation. If you don't want to hear the offensive tones of an unskilled piper, simply don't pay him. Despite the good intentions, you only compound the problem. Force him to work harder on his craft. It's better for him and for you. Ya right, well at least there are ear plugs.

The Plight of the Abused Horses

2011-12-04T19:27:00.000-08:00

It was a cold night, the worst in several weeks. There I stood, pipes in hand preparing for an evening of Celtic Music. It was Christmas time and the lights on Temple Square were beautiful. The peaceful breeze wafted it's cold embrace as the crowds pressed on toward the anticipated cornucopia of lights. Children were bundled up like cocoons and there was a general gaiety in the air that foreshadowed a successful evening for me.

That's when I became aware of a terrible tragedy taking place downtown. I must warn the reader, this story is so heinous and graphic it may cause you to become disturbed. Hats off to the brave animal rights protesters for bringing this travesty to light. Here's what's happening.

First, this company, "Carriages For Hire", forces these poor horses to reside in covered stalls, out of the rain and snow. Each one is forced to endure grooming, and must subsist on a meager diet of oats and highly nutritious grains. Of course they can eat as much as they want, but what of that? They are captives! And where do these beasts come from? That's the horror. CFH takes abandoned horses, horses that have been severely mistreated, and those that no one wants and they bring them here to Salt Lake, why it's like an Equine slave trade or something.

They then prepare them for their slave workday. It's horrible. I've seen one horse actually forced to wear a cowboy hat, oh the shame. Some are forced to wear their mane in braids with ribbons in their hair. During Christmastime they are paraded around with fake antlers on their heads and some have lights decorating their necks. Heck, I warned you, this is graphic stuff. Then it only gets worse. They are strapped to lightweight carriages that are pulled out of the garage by the drivers. That's right, I said each horse's driver actually pulls the carriage out to attach it to the horse, how humiliating for the horse. I mean, shouldn't the beast be allowed to go in and get it's own carriage? What if it didn't care for the style of the carriage selected for it? Come on! show a little common courtesy to these beasts.

After being attached to these carriages, they are then told to "Walk On". What? Are you serious? These are God's free creatures, how dare you issue such an order to them, oh the humanity. In the carriage each driver has a whip, that's right I said a whip. Not for use on the horse of course, but hey, they have them all the same. Just the mere presence of such an instrument of torture must drive the horses crazy. They are forced to wear heavy iron shoes as well. They claim it eases the burden on the horse as it walks on concrete, But I know it is a blatant attempt to quail the horses own sense of fashion and personal Identity. Would it be to hard to find designer horse shoes?

In talking with one driver, he explained that the whip is great for keeping unwanted drunks and vagrants from approaching the horses, I could not believe my ears. What more evidence need we? Here we have clear proof that they are denying these beast interaction with the street folk. How will these horses ever be ready to wander free in the streets of Salt Lake if they are not familiar with all the people that live downtown.

CFH is extremely clever as well. They have found a way to make their horses look as if they are healthy and happy in their work. How do they do it? I mean, these horses hold their heads high, their ears are erect and they seem to actually enjoy pulling those carriages. Their muscles are large and they have a wonderful prance as they walk, it is so insidious. It's all a clever ruse to cover the actual abuse these horses are experiencing. I spoke with one of the activists protesting and she outlined their grievances.

1. The horses must pull the carriage around the streets of Salt Lake for many hours a day.

Well, that's basically it, oh the humanity! I mean, what if a human had to pull a carriage full of people around town like that for hours on end, wait, they do that in China. In fact, I think that the activists protesting should offer to take the place of the horses. That would really be an act of service; put your foot where your mouth is.

Then I thought for a moment, wait a minute. In the early eighteen hundreds, horses did just the very thing this company is being accused of doing. Where was the outrage then? What about the fact that these horses are receiving daily exercise that will undoubtedly prolong their lives and make them much more happy. And what about the carriages? If humans can pull them around they must not be that heavy. These horses are Belgians, Bertrands, and Clydesdales. They can pull twice their weight without breaking a sweat. Hmmmm.

So let me see, the protesters would have these animals vegetate in a field somewhere, away from people. They would have them live a life of no work, merely frolicking in the pasture. The result would be folly for the poor beasts. So next time you are downtown and you see such protesters plying their trade, express your support by telling them to go pull a carriage and stop ruining the wonderful atmosphere for everyone else.

The bottom line is this. The carriages hearken to a more civil time. A time when life was slow and stress was low. A time when folks stopped and talked with one another and when the quality of time was more important than the quantity of time. So in conclusion, all I can say is, "Walk On Boys, walk on."

The Blue Balls of Scotland

2011-11-17T14:32:00.000-08:00

With a deep sense of dread and foreboding, I glanced at the clock on the wall; it was time. The wind was howling like a lone wolf in the black of night. Dark clouds were surrounding the tiny valley and the temperature was plummeting.

Alone in my room, I began to prepare for the evening. I learned long ago that the secret to warmth on extremely cold nights was layering, however, such a strategy presented a major fashion problem. I would appear to be severely overweight, Oh The Humanity!!!! Oh well, I would just have to sacrifice style for comfort. There is a more weighty problem to contend with, how to keep the Pipes playing in the extreme cold. I have developed several methods that have proven highly effective over the years, none of which I will share here; instead, I will share some poetry appropriate for the oncoming winter. I call it, "The Blue Balls of Scotland"

The Blue Balls of Scotland

I'm a Scot, aye sure it's true
And my garb is thar tae prove
I wear the Kilt, the shoes and such
And my knees are bare tae boot.

A heartier soul ye ne're will find
For that's the Celtic way
We come frae folk who spurn the cold
Who welcome the winter fray

Oh oft's the tame I hear the phrase
Lad, what under the Kilt is worn
I hae tae laugh and slap my knee
For the answer has drawn such scorn

And many a jest has thar been thrown
And quips are varied too
And so I share with you
The answers though thar be quite a few

What is worn beneath my Kilt?
Ye ask wi' no regreats
So I'll gie ya the first o' many quips
That you're sure to always git

Why Nothing Lass, and that's the truth
I Swear on this heart o' mine
Fer if ya take a peek below
You'll see it all works just fine

A blushing lass away doth walk
I'm sorry fer her fix
But then another lad walks buy
His mouth begins to twitch

Excuse me sir, he bellows oot
But, I've a question on me mind
That's such a pretty dress ye wear
Underneath whit will I find

My blood begins tae boil
As the bloke strides up tae me
He's tryin tae be funny
For his lads who laugh, tee hee

I look the Jackey in the eye
And with a sly ole grin
I say, I think ye'll find yer mother's lipstick
still fresh frae where's she's been

Oh yes, the comments come and go
Frae folks who've nae a care
But, whit's the bottom line tae this
Ah yes, I'll kindly share

Though many lads puff oot they're chest
And tout there manly ways
They're just like strutting peacocks
Fer they lack the crucial trait

Fer tae be a man is no' just talk
Nor how the lad be built
A man's a man who without shame
Can proudly wear the Kilt.

And that's the honest truth.

By Robert (Piper Bob) Jacob
All rights reserved 11/18/2011

Change of Attitude

2011-10-30T22:27:00.000-07:00

There I was, setting up shop on a cold Wednesday evening. The sun was setting and the temperature was following suite. I have a terrible secret to confess. I have become somewhat of a bigot. Let me explain. In the two years I have been doing this, I can count on one hand the number of tips I have received from people from Asia. I have been told that their culture considers tipping to be an insult. It has become a source of irritation with me to the point that it has affected how I view them. Just seeing them reach for their cameras throws me into an internal tirade. I want to just stop playing and turn so they cannot photograph me. So it was on this Wednesday evening.

Unfortunately, it was to be a long night. There was a convention in town and people from all of Asia were converging on Salt Lake City. As I played I watched them. They traveled in packs, huge groups. As they passed, they would smile, wave, motion that they wanted to take pictures, and various other things, but not one penny found it's way into my pot.

My resentment is not totally without foundation. You see, I am a street performer. If I don't play, they don't pay, its as simple as that. Therefore, time spent posing for pictures is time that I don't get paid. I normally don't mind, but for some reason, these people gang up on me. I allow one photo and it turns quickly into two, then three and soon I am doing nothing but posing for photo's while my pipes sit idle. Not a good thing. After taking their photos, this crowd smiles, waves and then walks away without so much as a dime for my trouble.

By now you the reader are probably incensed with my callous disregard for racial tolerance. "Where's your charity?" you ask. Well, let me continue. I played the pipes for four hours and went home with a big goose egg, nada, Zippo. I got skunked. Needless to say I was fairly discouraged at this point. Fast forward now to Thursday of the same week.

I was heading to work, dreading the same encounters with the oriental contingent on the streets. I could feel my blood begin to boil, and I began to think of ways to avoid these visitors. Then, a small voice in my head said,
"Who are you hurting with this negative attitude?"
I looked around but saw no one. Then the voice came again.
"It's me, your inner self. So, answer the question!"
"Uh, well... Uh, what was the question again?"
"Hmmmm... Bob! Who are you hurting with your misplaced anger?"
I thought about that for a few moments. It was a very good question. I certainly did not feel happy or excited about going to work, whereas I normally was elated to play my pipes. I answered in a timid thought,
"Well, I guess only myself."
"Bingo!"

I began to realize that the problem was not with our friends from other lands, but with myself. I was trying to place the blame on them, when in reality, I was at fault. It was I who had failed to elicit the proper response from the foreigners. That voice again sounded in my head,
"You fool, you speak Korean don't you? Aren't over half of these people from Korea?"

I felt stupid as I answered the voice in my head with an affirmative response. That was it, of course. Right then and there I learned a very important lesson, one essential to anyone desiring to be a successful street performer. The first part of the lesson was to do your homework. It was crucial to understand your audience and what will peak their interest. The second part of the lesson was attitude. I had to do a complete reversal of how I viewed these people. If I replaced the hatred with tolerance, and maybe even friendship, things might change. Oh, they probably wouldn't change, but I would at least enjoy the experience and life would be better. I resolved to make that change. I would use my ability to speak Korean to break through the shields of anonymity.

I was excited to try my new idea. I set up shop in front of the Salt Palace Convention Center. I tuned the pipes and began to play. Sure enough, three lovely Korean women approached me and in their broken English let me know they would like a photo. In the best Korean I could manage I explained that I would love to take a picture with them, but that it would cost 1$ per photo. To my astonishment, they simply nodded and became extremely excited with my ability to speak their language. I made three bucks in three minutes, but more importantly, I made three friends who went away happier than when they first met me. My change was working.

The next night was another chance to test my theory. It was Friday, and the streets were teeming with people. I was across from the Energy Solutions Arena, in downtown Salt Lake. I met the most amazing gentleman who turned out to be a bus driver for the Korean folk. He was very gracious and loved the sound of my pipes (just the right thing to say to an old Scottish Piper). He had noticed that not many of his people were helping me or even stopping. He slowly walked over to me with a tender smile on his face. He leaned in toward me as though he were sharing a national secret and whispered,
"You know, if you play "Arirang" you will have almost every Korean on the street stopping to pay you money."

He gave me a wink and a smile as he walked back to his bus. I could have hugged him, why didn't I think of that? Arirang is the national song that they play every morning over the loudspeakers in Korea. They love that tune. I walked back over to my new friend and said,
"I don't remember how it goes."

He gave me a knowing smile and in his beautiful voice he began to sing the song for me. I sang it with him and it all came back. I bowed and thanked him. It took a few tries, but I eventually was able to play the simple tune and the effect was amazing. It was like finally finding the secret key to a secret door. The crowd of people began to cheer, some sang along, others just smiled and threw money into my orange pot. Crowds gathered as I played and I stopped to talk with them. I sang another Korean folk song out loud, The Mountain Rabbit. I was on a role.

The more amazing change was in how I felt toward these people. What was once anger and resentment had now changed. I felt love and respect for them. They were as I remembered them, gentle, loving and willing to give. They laughed and smiled and I had the time of my life. The moral of this long tale? If you find yourself low on money and long on irritation, try to make a change. Reverse your attitude and you will increase your altitude. At least that is what I discovered.

The Video Journal

2011-10-16T11:49:00.000-07:00

Hi Piper Bob fans. I have recently started a new addition to the Piper Bob family. I am posting short clips from my recent trip to Scotland. They will feature the highlights of the two weeks I spent in the isle across the pond. I Hope to build a link here in my blog as well. Happy viewing.

View from across the pond

2011-08-31T21:21:00.000-07:00

What is the stuff of memories? What is it that fashions the images of time in our brains? Is it the wonderful experiences or is it the painful test of endurance? Perhaps it is a little of both and that is exactly what I was in store for as I headed to the airport that Friday morning. It was time, the anticipated day had arrived and everyone was in high spirits. We were actually going to Scotland to compete in the World's Piping Championships. For me, this was the culmination of years of anticipation and work, not to mention a real sacrifice.

There I sat in the airport anxious to be on my way when over the loudspeaker we heard: "For all those boarding the United Airlines flight to Denver, there has been a delay of two hours due to adverse fog conditions. Your flight will depart at 12:15" A low buzz began around me, people trying to ascertain the impact of the message we had just heard. Then, like a room closing in around us, we suddenly began to comprehend. We would miss every connecting flight we had in our trip across the pond. To make an unbearable story short and palatable, I will simply say that 48 hours and two uncomfortable nights in cold airports later we arrived in the land of Scotia.

What a thrill it was; the sights, the sounds, the new experiences. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined such a great adventure. I had some life changing events occur while there.

I was able to play a Piobairaechd on the battlefield of Culloden as the sun was setting. It was a surreal experience. I could feel the departed Scottish warriors gathering around me. I could see the terror stricken faces of the English souls as they fled from the condemning tones of the great pipes.

I was able to play the sultry tones of "Loch Lomond" as I stood on the pier of the small town of Luss, located on the banks of Loch Lomond. I saw the wonder in the eyes of the tourists as they gathered around me. A beautiful Indian girl, about three years old, stood before me with eyes as big as saucers. She wanted to take a picture as she held out the camera. She was adorable. Her mother helped her snap the photo, but at the last moment, the little girl jerked and the camera went to the side. I am not sure what she got a picture of, but it wasn't me.

I was able to visit every town my Great Grandfather lived in. I played in a pipe competition in the town of Yoker. I later found out the competition was held in the Elementary school, the very same one my Great Grandfather would have attended so many years ago. There was a 97 year old woman there who I spoke with. She claimed to remember my great grandfather (I remain a wee bit skeptical about that). Regardless, I couldn't help but feel grandfather's presence as I played my pipes.

I was able to make new and amazing friendships that I will treasure for the rest of my life. The Meiklejohn's of Bishopton. The greatest family I have ever met. They took me in and let me stay with them for the entire week. They fed me and treated me as family, which we are. They were awesome, pure deed brilliant. Trish, Vhari, and Heather were the sweetest girls I have ever seen. I will miss Heather's quick wit and Vhari's gentle smile and her tender caring attitude. Trish and David are wonderful parents and set a great example for me.

I was able to tour the old Lamont Clan Manse where Mary Lamb and her husband Jim are caretakers. They were so sweet. We had a wonderful visit and they invited me to be the Clan Piper for the following year's Lamont Gathering. I am saving my pennies to try and make that happen. It would be such an honor.

All too soon, the time came for me to depart. It was with a heavy heart that I proceeded to the Glasgow airport and home. With me came a treasure trove of memories that were born of both the best and the worst of my sojourn abroad. Thankfully, the best overshadow the worst and leave me with fond, heart warming memories. May the road rise up to meet ye, and may the wind be always at yer back. Slainte.

The Dumbest Falcon ever!

2011-07-10T17:37:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Perry Grin Falcon flew gracefully through the afternoon skies above the thriving metropolis of Salt Lake City, Her keen eye scanning the landscape for any sign of food for her four little ones. Mrs. Falcon was just one of the many unfortunate rabble that found themselves at the mercy of the big city.

Who knew why they came, this mass of transient wildlife. Some were just out of hope and luck, others were lazy fowl looking for a free meal between their drunken binges on the pond. This particular predator was just trying to make her way in the world. She was a proud parent when the eggs were laid. Their father was a shifty sort and abandoned her when he found out she was with egg. She had to find a home for her family by herself. The top floor of the tall Joseph Smith Building seemed to be perfect; No one would bother them and she had a perfect vantage point from which to hunt.

Meanwhile... those annoying animals that walked around below her on two legs were congregating and staring up at her little family. They peered through strange boxes with large round eyes and pointed. To be honest, it kind of freaked Perry out. After a while she accepted the strange behavior as part of her new home's bizarre rituals.

It was late in the evening when Perry returned with the evening meal. It was a nice fat pigeon who had not been alert enough to escape her swift attack.

Yoo hooo! Mama's home! Cried Perry, as she lit on the edge of the nest. Before her were four gaping mouths squaking for food.

"Who's first?" She screached.

"Me, me! I want to be first." Said Joey.
"No, me first!" Cried little Suzy.
"Hey, I'm the oldest, I should be first." Said Lenny
"Duh, gee maw, I'm not firsty right now." Quipped Leon.

Ya see, Leon wasn't the brightest bulb in the box. He was the last one to hatch and almost didn't make it out of the shell. He just seemed to be, well... different. Perry noticed his oddities early. As they began to develop their wings, the little ones would hop and jump around the nest, but not Leon. He was too busy studying his own foot. He'd hop around while holding the other in front of his face, it was a bit embarrassing.

The Strange earth bound creatures continued their odd behavior. Perry found it most annoying. Why were they so preoccupied with her little family. Hadn't they ever seen a bird before? Still, there they were, day in and day out. So it went.

Well, this is where I, as a piper, enter the story. I too was amazed at the general buzz in the air over this little family of Falcons. Then one day it happened. I was arriving at my usual spot and preparing to play when a woman came up to me.

"Did you hear? One of the Falcon babies are missing!" She said.

The whole street was in an uproar. hundreds of eager eyes scanned the buildings and the skyline to locate the little lost fella. Finally, some intrepid birder found the lost wee one high on the eighth story of a building across from the south gate of Temple Square, in Salt Lake's business district. I was playing the pipes and enjoying the evening when a woman approached me.

Bird Woman: "Excuse me, we have a lost little Falcon up on the eighth floor of that building. It's calling for it's mother, but she can't hear because of you playing the pipes. Could you go somewhere else and play?"

Me: Uh, no. This is how I feed my family, it's what I do. I have to play here because this is where the people are.

Bird Woman: But the mother can't hear her little bird and come and rescue it.

Me: Sorry, but I have to make a living too.

I know what you're thinking. "You heartless beast, how could you say such a thing." Before you judge me too harshly, let's look at the woman's request logically.

First: what if this scene were being enacted in the wild? Once the young bird can fly and leave the nest, the mother moves on. She doesn't keep a spare room in the back just in case her little one wants to come home.

Second: Falcon's have extremely acute hearing. I wasn't playing my pipes continuously. I take a few minutes to rest between each tune; more than enough time for the piercing cry of the young Falcon to reach the, most likely, uninterested ears of it's mother.

Third: These birds are wild, by nature, and as such adhere to the rules of the natural wild kingdom they live in. They do not live their lives by the same morals and social standards that we do, and it is a mistake to transpose our ideals upon them.

This is just one more instance showing the desperate need these type of animal activists have to get a life. Obviously, this woman had read the classic childhood book "Are You My Mother" and believed it.

"For those of you not familiar with the book, it tells of a small chick who falls from a nest and has to go in search for it's mother. It asks all kinds of things if they are it's mother and is finally rescued by a huge steam shovel that drops it back in the nest."

So, Our bird loving woman must have thought that this scenario was identical to the poor lost bird from the book. Oh, fantasy can be fun, can't it. Wake up lady! Sheesh! Anyway, Leon the bird eventually flew away, oblivious of the many frantic do gooders below running around like chickens with their heads.... well you know the line. It's just natural selection at work. If we saved every Leon that came along we would have a world full of stupid... uh, Wow, now I see the problem we have in our government. Hmmm, that's a tale for another time. Night all!

The Piper's Ethos, "Play Well or Stay Home!"

2011-06-26T23:45:00.000-07:00

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon as I pulled onto Little Cottonwood canyon road. The afternoon sun was bathing the landscape in warmth and a gentle breeze wafted down the valley, creating a surreal, euphoric feeling within my soul. With the windows open and the sunroof full agape it was the perfect leisurely Sunday drive, if only I weren't on my way to play for a memorial service.

It's the call of the pipes that brings healing and comfort to a family bereft of a dear one. The lonesome strains have the ability to transcend time and space, lifting the grieving hearts heavenward, but for the piper it is a solemn reminder of the responsibility we bear. There is no place for poorly tuned drones, or squeaking chanters. There is no tolerance for sloppy embellishments or lazy fingers; there is only one requisite, "Play well or stay home."

It pains me to say that there have been times I have not delivered on the piper's ethos. Perhaps it was the extreme cold of the day, or a chanter reed that had weathered too many performances and should have been retired long before. Whatever the excuse, I've had occasions where I felt ashamed for not performing at my best. Happily, those occasions are few and far between, but still, the stinging memories haunt my reflections.

So it was today, as I wound my way ever higher into the beauty of the pristine canyon. I found my self bombarded by the questions of an over protective psyche, "do you have your Chanter?", "Which chanter is best for high altitudes?", "Don't forget to tune before you get there." "Crap! I forgot how the altitude plays havoc on the pipes.", on and on it went. The stark reality that began to reveal itself was that such questions had no definitive answer.

Therein is the piper's burden, discovering how to play well under any circumstance one finds oneself. It all boils down to one thing, experience. Admittedly, I have not had a vast amount, I just am stupid enough to strike out and try, inexperienced as I am. I have had to take my knocks and climb the rocky road, and I still have so far to go. Please understand, I am not implying I am a sage, wise piper by writing this tale, I just hope some may find it useful. I digress; where was I? Ah yes, anyway as I drove, the beauty of the canyon seemed to ease my anxiety.

The call today was to bring the healing balm to those who knew Tucker Evans Taffe. Who is Tucker? I must admit, I knew little of him myself until I dug deeper. Tucker is the embodiment of all that youth aspires to be.

Tucker was a lean and handsome lad standing nearly six foot four inches tall. He was known to some as, "The King of the Wasatch". His exploits were legendary. In talking with his Uncle, I learned that Tucker would climb a steep mountain face that loomed high above the Alta Lodge. Upon reaching the top, he would ski to the bottom only to repeat the feat twice more in the same day. As I looked at the forbidding rock face, I could not even imagine making it up once, let alone three times.

As so often happens to those who dare to challenge the limits of mother natures bounty, Tucker found misfortune on the steep slopes of Mount Rainier. While traversing uphill to reach the summit of the Nisqually Glacier, Tucker fell into an unseen crevasse and fell over a hundred feet to his death. The starkness of the tragedy is only underscored by the youth that was ripped away. Tucker was only 33 years of age.

As I drove up the canyon I found myself nearing the Alta Lodge; time to tune, I told myself. I pulled to the side of the road and pulled out the pipes. I thought nothing of the slight difference in altitude from where I was to where I would have to play. The pipes rang out true and beautiful. My mind was at ease, this would be one of my best performances yet.

Finally I arrived at the lodge and made my way down the four flights of stairs to the entrance. There I met Scot Laidlaw, Tucker's uncle. After a brief discussion, it was time to let Llieam do his thing. As I struck in and began tuning the first tenor drone, I realized my Chanter was extremely sharp. Great! Evidently, the higher the altitude the less dense the air with which the cane reed can vibrate, and so the reed will pitch higher, who knew?

I was able to wrangle the pesky reed to the correct pitch and I tuned the drones. Now it was show time. I walked to the back of the lodge, to a patio overlooking the majestic rocky mountains. I played the "Dark Isle"; the sound reverberated off each lofty mountain peak. It was awesome. As I concluded the tune, I noticed a large crowd of people above me on the balcony. They looked at me intently but were silent as the grave. It felt awkward, almost like playing the pipes in church. I proceeded to play tune after tune, "Danny Boy", "The Skye Boat song", "Amazing Grace", and many others.

I could tell that Lliem was applying his healing balm to the listening crowd. In the silence of the onlookers, I heard the soft tears falling as each remembered Tucker, as son, brother, friend and companion. It's hard to describe the feeling as you play to such an audience. You simply must play well. It proved to be a challenge. The 8,500 foot altitude was unyielding. It took all the concentration I had to keep a steady drone as I played. But I was able to carry it off and it proved to be a beautiful performance, or so I was told.

Gliding back down the canyon, I reflected on the power of these ancient pipes. I felt a sense of pride and humility. Proud to be able to wield such an influential instrument, and humbled that I have so far to go before mastering it's fickle ways, but I traverse on. Until next time, "May the road rise to meet you and may the wind be always at your back."

Memorial Day Miracle

2011-05-30T19:00:00.000-07:00

It was 8:30 A.M. on a cloudy Monday morning. I made my way along the I-215 interstate toward my morning gig. There are two things I hate about piping, playing in the rain and... uh... ok, maybe there is only one thing I hate about piping. Well, today was shaping up to be a true anti-piping situation. As the wipers beat out an unnerving melody, I rehearsed in my mind all the things I needed to do to be successful. Ok, I need my Inverness cape, I have to remember to rotate my reeds, blah, blah, blah...
This particular gig was extremely important. Among the invited speakers were Senator Orin Hatch, and some big wig from the media, plus, Channel Five News would be there and they always love to film the piper. That's alright, I can handle it, I told myself. It took just 20 minutes to reach the Douglas Cemetery. As I entered the lane, I saw canopies set up with officers and enlisted men mulling around. I parked the truck and sought out my friend, Lt. Col. David Schroeder. After the usual pleasantries, I excused myself and returned to the truck. The time had come. Gently, I cooed,
"Wake up little Llieam, it's time to go to work!"
From inside the pipe bag I heard a grumbling noise, the zipper came down a bit as a weary drone peeked out. Immediately, the bag zipped shut again and I heard a fearsome growl start to emanate.
"Oh come on, Llieam. Don't be like that. It's not so bad out here, in fact, it's kinda pretty. Come take a look."
Again I heard the same growl, as if Llieam were saying,
"Dinnae come another step closer, or I'll hae tae kill ye."
"Look Lliem, ye kin either come oot, or I'll no' be treatin' ya tae yer favorite Teak oil bath."
There was a stirring and then the zipper came down. Out came a grumpy, disgruntled set of pipes.
"let's git this o'er wi'", I thought I heard him say.
So, we did just that. As we began to tune, the heavens let loose with an annoying volley of hail. You gotta be kidding me, I thought. I said a silent prayer that my tuning would hold and that the pipes would be in tune. Finally the time came. We took our seat next to the army band and waited for our time to shine. Llieam was now quite excited. He always gets that way just before he performs.
"Is it time yet?"
"No!"
"Is it time yet?"
"No!"
"Is it time yet?"
"No!"
"Is it time yet?"
"Fer cryin' oot loud, Llieam. Will ye shut up an' let me hear the speakers?"
Llieam went silent and his drones sunk down a bit. It was the ole guilt trip again. This time I didn't pay any attention, after all, he deserved it. At last the speakers concluded and they began the roll call. This is where they call a few names and then call the names of those who have died in action. It is quite moving. I turned to Llieam and whispered,
"Ok, it's time. Are you ready?"
There was no response. I had hurt his feelings, sheeesh!
"OK, I'm sorry I scolded you. I'll try not to be so hard on you in the future."
Suddenly, Llieam's drones perked up and he was at attention, just in time. I stood and blew life into the bag. Llieam responded and to my delight, the pipes were still in tune and sounding great.
The sky was still dark with grey clouds. Then a strange thing happened. As I began the second refrain of Amazing Grace, the clouds parted and a ray of sunshine flooded through. It lasted for only a few seconds and then it was gone. It was almost like God heard the sound of the pipes and parted the clouds like someone parting window curtains. I could imagine him saying.
"Hmmm, who is making that wonderful sound? Ah, there he is. Well done, carry on!"
I concluded the tune and sat down. It was a miracle, praise the Lord! Well, maybe not anything so earth shaking as that, but to me it was a really cool experience, and so I pipe on. Cheers!

(No animals were harmed in the making of this story. All facts are true, except for the animation of the pipes. As we all know, pipes can't really talk, or can they?"
To view the video of the event described above, click on the link below.
Veteran honored for sacrifices made 93 years ago - ksl.com

How to Incur A Piper's Wrath

2011-05-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

The bagpipes have a proud and noble heritage, one that hearkens back to the days of chivalry, when men were men and sheep were... well that's another story. Still, one cannot help but be moved when they hear the haunting refrain of the pipes. Why is it then that occasionally you find some who just don't get it? Allow me to illustrate with a short story.

It was a dark and stormy night... (Cliche I know, but true.) Anyway, the clouds were thick and unyielding with the rain lightly falling as I prepared for an evening's work. I was ready, I had my Inverness cape, my hoody, my fourteen hundred layers of garments and of course my trusty Glengarry Cap. I closed the tailgate to my loyal Bronco and set out to battle the elements.

It was 5:00 P.M. on a stormy Wednesday afternoon and my prospects looked dismal. Still, I was undaunted. After all, this was Scottish weather. My destination was the old Capitol theater in the business district of downtown. The opera was playing, it was always a hot spot for potential success. The feature for this evening was a work entitled "Falstaff", an opera adapted from a Shakespeare comedy about an old man's woes as he strove to find love.

After organizing my display, I set about tuning the pipes. Soon I was filling the air with slow airs, jigs and reels. It's interesting how the sound reacts with the moisture in the air. It gives the tone of the pipes a solid, full sound. It seems to carry much further as it bounces from building to building. Llieam was in full voice and tuned to perfection. Each note seemed to be poetry. The reaction I received from the people passing by confirmed my assessment, it was going to be a grand night, despite the falling precipitation. Things went well all night. I played until 7:30 and then went to a favorite spot by Squatters.

I set up next to a street lamp just to the left of the restaurant. The rain had subsided and it turned into a wonderful, cool evening. I met some interesting people and again the pipes did their thing. Wow, this was shaping up to be a wonderful night. Only one gig left, play for the folks coming out of the opera at 10:00 P.M. I decided to rest for an hour and let my pipes dry out before tackling the last objective of the night.

I love my Bronco, it is the perfect rolling office. It is large, warm, affording an excellent place to rest and take in a little classical music. Finally the appointed hour arrived and I again ventured forth into the dark night to ply my trade. All not for profit of course, I mean, I do this for fun not for money.

I arrived at my appointed spot on the corner of 2nd South and West Temple and began to play. Again the pipes gave me a wonderful tone and it was a joy to hear. Soon the folks from the Opera began to emerge and walk toward me. Here is where I will stop my story momentarily and interject a comment or two...

Ok, This is the educational portion of the post. For those interested in really pissing off a Bagpiper, here are a few suggestions.

1. Walk up to the piper and say, "Will you please stop that noise, it makes me sad."
2. Drive by and try to upstage him by honking your horn repeatedly as if to be louder than him/her.
3. Lean out of your car and make lude and suggestive comments to the Piper.
4. Continually refer to the Kilt as a dress or a skirt.
5. Tell him he has a very nice purse.
6. Tell the piper that you just love Irish Music.
And finally I will revisit my story to illustrate the 8th way to really piss off a Piper.

Anyway, as I mentioned, the folks began walking toward me. Soon, the orchestra members began filing past. Most were congenial and polite, some even complimented me on my performance. Then I noticed her. She was about thirty feet away and walking towards me.

She had her fingers in her ears with a pained look on her face as if to say, "Can't you find some other place to make that racket."

Seriously? She has to plug her ears from thirty feet away? At that distance, city buses are noisier than my pipes. No, she was making a statement. She obviously did not like the pipes and was letting me know. I felt a tiny spark ignite deep down in my soul. It was possibly the same one that ignited in the Scots when the English forbade us from playing the pipes so long ago. I watched her as she came, hoping it was just a mistake and she wasn't meaning the obnoxious gesture for me. But as she approached she looked at me and gave a slight shake of her head and proceeded on. On her back she had her Violin.

What? A fellow musician? The nerve! What gall! Something just snapped inside me. I was playing a rendition of "Scotland the Brave". As she neared me, I snaked my way through the crowd and got right next to her. I played as I walked backward, keeping my pipes in her face the whole time. I stayed that way for a good ten or so steps before retreating back to my post.

I know what the reader must be thinking. You brute, how could you? Actually, I felt really bad afterward, I just couldn't help myself. There's a lesson in all of this.

MORAL: When you encounter a piper playing, whether it be in a mall, on the street, or in a park, think before you act. If you don't care for the sound, simply walk another direction. I mean, The piper was there first. By all means, do not feel some noble need to display your distaste in a way that disgraces the piper. It may be your undoing.

Is This a Real Job?

2011-05-17T13:59:00.000-07:00

With hesitation I glance at the clock, It's 3:45 P.M. My pulse quickens and I begin to feel that sense of anticipation build. "It's go time!", I mutter to myself, as I drag my old sorry carcass up the long flight of stairs. I start dressing and find myself pondering the age old question, Is this really a job? I have wrestled with this dilemma for months. Well do I remember the first days of my street performing career.

There I was standing on the street, timid and fearful, afraid to breath life into the waiting pipes for fear of incurring the wrath of some outraged passer by. Then the first tell-tell sounds of the drones as the instrument of antiquity slowly came to life, watching as I played, for any signs of police action. The siren that would signal my doom. It never came. Still, I played on. One by one, the rabble passed, some smiling, others merely trying to ignore me. Then it happened, a fan of Celtic music came by, and the first offerings found their way into my waiting case.

It seems like ages since those first intrepid attempts at Busking. So much time has gone by, now it feels natural to play on the street. I no longer worry, or even care about what others may think of the Celtic strains. How is it that such change has come upon me? Simple, I have learned the truth; people welcome the addition of music to the otherwise drab atmosphere of the city.

For months I have been frequenting various locations, playing my simple tunes. I have found fulfillment in sharing my heritage with those I meet. I have thrilled to the opportunities to play as young highland dancers consent to show their skills as well. Recently, while playing for the Quilting Convention (Rough crowd you say?), I met a young girl walking with her mother. They were from Canada and she was a budding Highland Dance star.

"Would you like to dance while I play?" I asked.

I expected the same response I usually get when I pose this question, but I was pleasantly surprised. The young girl merely smiled and said,

"Sure."

I played a Strathspey, to which she danced the "Sword dance". I struck in the pipes and began, watching out of the corner of my eye as she assumed a stately pose, then slowly gave a grand bow. She sprang into a beautiful rendition of the old Scottish folk dance. She bounced and bobbed with excellent style and grace. Her arms precisely mimicked the stately horns of the great stag. It was all I could do to concentrate on the tune. I didn't want to be the one who screwed up. I played a simple Strathspey called, "The Orange and Blue". Quickly, a crowd formed and watched as the spry youth danced and smiled brightly. I began the refrain a second time, then remembered how exhausting it was to dance the dance. I glanced at the young lady. She was smiling, but showed signs of fatigue. I skipped to the last bar and concluded the tune, to which she gave another bow amidst the cheers of the crowd.

Again I queried to myself, Is this a Job? Nae, I answered. This is a passion. I reflected on how blessed I am to have such an opportunity. Who would have dreamed that loosing my employment would eventually lead to such a wonderful pursuit. Whether street performing is a job or no' is a moot point. What is important is that I continue to pursue the dream, and to bring joy to others. Therein is my true satisfaction. Someday I may return to the workforce and earn money in the traditional way, but for now, I am content to share and offer my skills to others. Hopefully, they will be enriched by my efforts and I may yet be able to say, "I have done some good here."

So, when you are driving in downtown Salt Lake, and you see an old man playing the pipes, won't you give a wee honk of the horn and a wave? It will do me a world of good. Better yet, why not pull over and spend a moment or two listening to the timeless strains of the great Ceol Mor!

(Special thanks to Connor Barry for taking these photos of me. He is an awesome up and coming Photographer.)

It's all about the Photos!

2011-04-17T20:20:00.000-07:00

One inevitable distraction to the, would be, street performer is the constant paparazzi. If you are seriously thinking of plying your skills on the mean streets of your local town, consider how you will handle the gawking onlookers. It definitely is something to think about. I have had countless times when I have been prevented from making money because of people wanting to have a picture with the piper. Don't get me wrong, I love people and am happy to pose for the photo's, its just that I don't make a dime unless I'm playing those pipes.

You can't be camera shy, but you have to maintain your focus or else you will become a non-profit street performer. Therefore, one must decide a clever and unique way to handle this modern day dilemma. I decided to place a wee note on my display explaining the procedure. I included this: "Photo's are welcome for which a small donation would be greatly appreciated."

This actually worked somewhat, but now a secondary problem arose. How much time to allow for photo taking and performing. Remember the basic rule: "If you no play they no pay!", so the decision becomes, how much money do you want to make? Tricky choice. Ultimately, you have to please the masses. Public praise and acclamation is the goal. I got around the problem by telling the photo seeking fan that I needed to play while we took the picture. They have always been just fine with that, in fact, they have welcomed it because it lent authenticity to the photo. Well, that should do it for the photo op problem.

Leading By Example

2011-04-10T17:50:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: The following story is biased and full of religious influence. Those offended by such language should cease from reading this article and pursue some other form of entertainment. The Author in no way apologizes for the content, merely wishes to advise those who would discredit or malign these thoughts that such actions are utterly insignificant and pointless, not to mention totally ignored by the author.

It's a funny thing about adventures; some are exciting and leave us breathless and spent. Others are deeply moving and simply leave us humbled, pondering the marvel of it all. Such is the case with the latest addition to my blog. I call it, "Leading by Example". Let me set the stage.

The story took place on a stormy April afternoon. It was General Conference weekend and Salt Lake City was abuzz with activity. A light rain was falling and had been doing so all morning. I arrived at 10 A.M. intent on playing for the folks coming and going from the various sessions of the L.D.S. conference. I also wanted to be a positive force in a sea of negativity. A tide brought on by those wishing to destroy the faith of others, merely because of a difference in ideology. There they were, gathered in menacing groups, holding their signs with meaningless jargon. Some were peacefully standing, while others were shouting and railing against the mass of humanity, making their way to the massive conference center. Their rants sounded something akin to an old Baptist minister preaching hell fire and damnation from the pulpit.

For almost five hours, I played various hymns on the pipes. Loud and long, the strains filled the air, muffling the discordant antagonists as they plied their trade. It was a thing to behold. The lone piper playing outlawed tunes on outlawed pipes (OK, that might be a bit melodramatic, but hey, it's my story.) However, all this is secondary to the real point of this article; for what I witnessed later that day would stay with me for the rest of my life, as a humble and powerful example of true Christianity.

It was now 5 P.M. and I had played my pipes for nearly five hours. Those of you who play, will understand when I say that I had a "Bagpipe Headache". My head felt as though it would explode every time I exerted myself. Unfortunately, my stubborn nature would not allow me to quit.

Who is the master here? I asked myself.

I was now playing at the south end of Temple Square, across from Deseret Book Store. It was overcast, but fairly warm with a slight breeze coming out of the west. As I prepared to strike in the drones, I noticed a familiar face. I didn't actually know her, but I had seen her numerous times on T.V. and in magazines. It was Sherri Dew! As she walked by I said,

"Aren't you Sherri Dew?"

Sherri turned and smiled at me. I could see the unbidden thought in her head,

"Oh great, I can't even walk down the street anymore."

It was probably just my imagination, for she certainly did not convey that sentiment. We spoke briefly. She asked how I learned the pipes, or something like that. I'm not sure how it came up, but I mentioned the bagpipe headache I was experiencing. She smiled and apologized to me and then was off to some other destination.

I forgot our chance meeting and continued to rend the air with the intrusive tones of my surly Celtic instrument. I just love the bagpipes. They have the ability to say "I Love you" and make you wish you had never met them. On and on I played. The pipes were in tune and singing beautifully. Unfortunately, the annoying pain in my head was like having the whole drum corp accompany me, up close and personal.

Then, in my peripheral vision, I noticed two people approaching. I turned and noticed it was Sherri, with her friend, walking toward me. She approached in a take charge manner, much like a mother taking care of a sick child.

"OK, you've got Aspirin, Ibuprofen, or Tylenol. Pick your poison!"

There she stood, holding a bottled water and several packets of pain relievers. It was so unexpected that I didn't know what to say. I gratefully accepted her kind offering, and thanked her. She acted as if it were no big deal; something she routinely did for people. In an instant, she disappeared in the flow of bodies filing past and was gone. I was left to ponder what had transpired.

I had witnessed a sermon on selflessness and service. The words of the Savior echoed in my mind,

"Go and do thou likewise."

I will ever be grateful that the Lord sent a wise servant to teach me the meaning of service, first hand. It doesn't take great need to be of service; Sherri taught me that small acts of kindness have a lasting impact on the lives of those we meet. I am trying to "Go and do thou likewise."

Surviving the Redneck Comedy Tour

2011-04-01T13:40:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I have been pursuing this street piping thing for about eight months now and I have learned alot. Valuable things like, Don't wear only one pair of underwear when the temperature dips down to below freezing. Also, Ive learned that you can't make money when there aren't any people on the streets. So as I prepared to play for the Redneck Comedy tour, I felt fairly confident. After all, these were good ole boys right? I mean, what true backwoods boy doesn't love the pipes? Well I have again been blessed with a new learning experience. Apparently, there are multiple levels of Redneck-ocity. Or as President Bush would say, Redneck-ification.

So, in an ongoing effort to make a public contribution and to edify the general masses I present the Dummy's Guide to Rednecks. If you are a Redneck reading this and some how understand it enough to become offended, then I congratulate you. Ok, so here are my findings presented as the various categories of Rednecks.

1. The Wannabe Redneck - Generally, these are younger people who somehow missed the whole point to being a redneck. They are the ones who walk around in boots that look as if they belonged to Liberace (He's an old entertainer from Las Vegas, google him). They are over the top as far as being obnoxious. I'll give you an example. I began warming up for the end of the show as the mass of humanity would come streaming toward me, and along came three young men. Evidently, they felt my presence offensive because they began talking loudly about how they hated the pipes and bagpipers in general. Then one decided to be brave and came strutting toward me. As he grew closer, he held out what looked like money at first. I was in the middle of playing a tune so he stopped in front of me just holding out this offering. It turned out to be his old ticket stub.

Oh, what a crushing blow! I looked at him and said, "What's that?" He replied, "It's a ticket to the show!" I said, "Wow, Thanks but your about two hours too late. Buzz off!" Then to show my insult had no affect, he slowly walked around me with his gaze fixed on my pipes. I just started laughing. I mean, the scene was so comical I couldn't help it. He walked off like some conquering hero. You see, Wanna Be Rednecks have no clue when they are making themselves look absolutely stupid. Later, as the crowds were coming past, they began yelling obscenities and screaming how stupid I was, as if all the other people would suddenly agree and join in.

Their efforts had the opposite effect. The people flooded to my side in droves to put money in my case. I was actually quite grateful to the fools and I told them so. As they walked by me at the end I shouted, "Hey guys, Thanks for the motivation. If it weren't for you I might not have made half as much out here. Let's do it again sometime!" They simply gave me the California Wave and walked off.

2. The Closet Redneck - These folks are really true Rednecks but they are a wee bit shy. You'll know them because they will be wearing cowboy boots with designer jeans and a tommy Hillfiger shirt. They also have a stylish dew and a businesslike gate. The women dress similar but are given away by their Gucci bag and their bling. I don't mind these folks, heck I say if you cain't beat em, join em. That is the motto of the Closet Redneck.

The folks I met were generally appreciative of the pipes. I do wish some of them were a bit more graced in the social skills. As I was finishing up and walking back to my car, I spotted two couples I had talked with earlier. They were great folks from Wyoming. Imagine, rednecks from Wyoming, That's kind of rare isn't it? Anyway, I thought it might be fun to walk with them and chat a bit, so I hastened my pace. Boy, I wish I hadn't. As I neared the group, I saw one of the women squatting next to a large tree. Evidently, nature was calling and she just couldn't hold it in. I arrived just in time to see two fat cheeks sneaking back into the safety of their restraining underwear.

I tried to act as if I hadn't noticed, but I don't think they cared anyway. These folks definitely belonged at this concert. Well done!

The Art of the Gig

2011-03-27T21:41:00.000-07:00

If you are going to make money on the mean streets of America you have to learn "The Art of the Gig". Really, it is more about how to survive the thing as much as anything else. Take one of my more recent money making opportunities.

It was a dark and stormy night, one of those nights that makes you wish you were curled up in front of a nice cozy fire. The wind howled and the dark forbidding clouds lurked near, poised to make a relatively peaceful night a real disaster. The event was a long awaited "lady GaGa" concert. Lady who? You gotta be kidding me.

As I walked toward the throng of waiting fans, I felt as though I walked onto the set of the Twilight Zone. All that was missing was Rod "What's his name" guy. I groaned within myself, "Great, this should be a wonderful evening."

It is impossible for the tongue to describe the bizarre stream of humanity that came flowing past me as I walked to my favorite spot. It was as if the world had lost all the mirrors. Seriously, It only takes a minute people, take a quick peek in the mirror, if it looks wrong it probably is.

It was horrible. I'm walking along and there are two female things barely dressed. One of them had a slight weight problem. Don't get me wrong, I understand the battle of the bulge, it's just, well... is it really necessary to show us how the battle is progressing? She wore these tights that were black and nothing else. It looked like someone had just painted her obese body black. I felt a lurch in my stomach as I had a horrid gag reflex. She gave me a perverted wink as if to say,
"Oh ya, I got it goin' on!"
"You should put something on", I thought to myself. One after another they came, each as lurid and bizarre as the next. The only thing positive about the experience was that, for once, I was not the center of attention in my Kilt and other attire. I actually felt as though I belonged, which did little to settle my upset stomach.

The air was violated by the constant barrage of "music" from a couple of stations in front of the arena. Well, one thing I learned long ago, never try to play the pipes in competition of that kind of drone. It only irritates the patrons and they won't give you a dime. I decided to pass on playing at the beginning of the concert and try for the end exodus of fans. (Fast Forwarding to 9:00 P.M.)

I have learned a small trick. It has to do with knowing when to show up at the event so you aren't stuck waiting for hours for the thing to get over. I called the Event Arena and said,
"Hi, I need to pick my son up after the concert. Could you tell me when it is over?"
The lady on the other end of the phone responded,
"Well it was supposed to end at 11:00 P.M., but they are delayed. I'd come by about 11:30."

I thanked her and proceeded to get a little bit of shut eye in my truck. That is another crucial tip. Find a great parking garage and set up your vehicle as your rolling office. I have a '96 Ford Bronco that is nice and roomy. with the front seats slid forward, it feels like a small apartment in there. I made an impromptu pillow, turned on the classical music station, and closed my eyes. When I awoke, the clock read 10:15 P.M. Whew, that's cutting it a little close, I thought.

I got ready and raced to the Events Arena. It was 34 degrees and raining lightly. The dark looming clouds had made good on their threat and were now making life a living hell. Great, I love playing in the rain. It's just like Scotland! I finally reached my spot and set my show in motion. I set up the suitcase that would hold my millions, took out the pipes and got them tuned. Just in time, here they come. Oh no, here they come. I had a knot in the pit of my stomach. It was like the circus was in town and had let out early. This must have been the freak show. I saw a man in nothing but a black jock strap and a towel draped over his shoulder. There was a woman with shorts so short it looked as if she had simply taken a roll of duct tape and wrapped it around her waist once.

On the plus side, these guys were so high on Ecstasy and other crap that they were in a happy mood and willing to share. My case began to fill with green slips of paper with the pictures of Benjamin Franklin, Jackson, and Washington. Praise the lord for wild concerts. Hey, it's a living.

Next installment: "Surviving the Redneck Comedy Tour"

The Day of Miracles Has Come

2011-03-06T21:19:00.000-08:00

As a Street performer, it is essential to know the where's and When's of the daily social scene. I mean, it simply won't due anymore to randomly pick a place and start playing. For example, Playing for the chipmunks in pioneer park is not a wise idea. First off, as we all know, Chipmunks are French. The French have not been keen on the U.S. for years, and playing an annoying instrument to them simply makes them more annoyed. Second, Pioneer park is a rough area. The chipmunks all carry and are prepared to bust a cap at a moments notice. So It wouldn't be a wise idea to try to serenade them.

With that thought in mind, I found myself pondering the merits of playing for the upcoming Jazz game against the Sacramento Kings. After all, the Jazz have not won a game in the last seven contests. The fans are beginning to grumble. I hear them all the time. Some even go so far as to insinuate that I am the root of the problem. Blowing my pipes is viewed as bad luck in their eyes I guess. One guy asked me a question,

"Why do you only play the pipes when the Jazz Loose?" I answered,
"Hey, I play for every Jazz Game, you do the math."

It really hurts as well. I mean, I don't make squat when they loose, not that I do that well when they win either. So I have a vested interest in their success you might say.

So there I was just waiting for the mass of humanity to flow past my waiting trap. It took forever.

"Come on, Come On, I have places to be ya know! I still need to try to play for the guys up at Abravanel Hall. Let's go, let's go!"

Finally a large group of people make their way to where I am waiting patiently.

"So, who won the game guys?" I asked hesitantly.
"We don't know, they are tied and going into overtime." Came the reply.

"Overtime, are you kidding me? Don't they know who I am? Why, I have half a mind to walk right in there and give them a piece of my bagpipe's mind... OK, Bob just calm down."

It was 9:25 already and the symphony got out at 10:00. There was no time! Great beads of sweat began to break out on my forehead. I felt torn, do I stay or go? It didn't help that I had some vagrant who decided to share with me his love of bagpipes and his desire to learn, even though he had no way of paying for it. That was fine actually, if he would only let me play. But no, he just kept talking.

"Uh, I hate to be rude but I really need to warm up."
"Oh ya, right. Just go ahead. I'll just stand over her and enjoy your music."
"Fine, thank you."

I said, though I would have preferred he listen from a distance. What made it worse is that after every tune he must have felt I needed a break, because he again launched in to a tirade of questions about the pipes. Mind you, I have no problem sharing my culture and heritage, just not when I could be making money by playing my pipes for the oncoming Jazz fans. Well finally I could see the masses working their way to the exit doors of the Energy Solutions Arena.

"Finally!" I thought to myself.

As the first people came toward me I shouted,

"OK, which do I play, Victory tunes or funeral dirges?"

They gave me the thumbs up as they shouted,

"We won!"

Hallelujah, the day of miracles has come! The long drought is over, my people have been set free! Free at last, free at last. Praise the Lord my team is free at last! Of course my motivation was much different than the other Jazz fans. I couldn't give a rat's %*&&% about basketball, I just love it when the fans are happy.

And Happy they were. I played my best Jigs and Reels and they cheered and needless to say I was the benefactor. But what of the time? I looked and it was 9:55 P.M. Holy Crap! I looked and most of the crowd had come and gone, there were just a few stragglers. Do I wait, maybe pick up an extra few bucks, or race for the symphony? I made my decision and packed my pipes hastily.

As I walked, I felt my pulse quicken and my breath become labored. You see, it is virtually impossible to run in my Piper Brogues. I silently wished for a pair of Air Jordans. There it was, the final corner. If I could get there and then up the street to the hall I'd be in, like Flynn. As I rounded the corner I saw a horrifying sight. My pace slacked as I felt a wave of defeat wash over me. There striding in my direction were a few people dressed to the nines. Hesitantly I asked,

"You wouldn't be coming from the symphony by any chance, would you?"

One of the men nodded and my hopes were dashed in an instant. I had made a fatal error. I had allowed my greed to overcome my sense of prudence. Had I listened to my inner "Yogi" I would have heard the wisdom of truth.

"Stay and play, my son. One in the hand is better than a long shot at two."

Oh well, that's what life is I suppose, just a continual series of events from which we can either learn or continually be a slave to. I walked away a poorer but wiser man.

From Horses to Hobos

2011-02-27T21:58:00.000-08:00

Good morning class, I trust you all had a peaceful and relaxing break. Well I'd like to welcome you to Social Studies 501, How to become a Street Performer. Please check your class schedules and if you're in the wrong place, please exit to the rear. My name is Piper Bob and I will be your instructor throughout the next five to six minutes.

As you recall, last week we discussed the ins and outs of Street Performing and today we will be moving our attention to another aspect of the business, interacting with the various players in your new environment. There are many to be considered, all of which are precariously interacting with each other on a daily basis. It is essential to understand the subtle nuances of each element so as to facilitate a smooth interaction with them.

First we will consider the Horse Drawn Carriage, or Equine Levitosa de Carrage. This is a relatively old part of the Downtown social mix, but one of the most important. Please focus your attention to the picture at your right.

This fine specimen is a large Clydesdale known simply as "Bart" (please reference earlier post for exciting story of this animal) Bart was born in Scotland, as were most Clydesdales. He stands nearly Six feet tall at the back with legs the size of small tree trunks. As a Street performer, you will want this animal on your side. I like to visit Bart as often as occasion will allow. I stand in front of him and give his head a big hug. We are quite close friends, in fact, just last week I was playing my pipes in front of the Jeanne Wagner Theater, across from Squatters Pub and Bart came loping along. He stopped and listened for awhile. He loves the sound of the pipes. Knowing and playing for this animal helps foster a harmonious balance on the streets of Salt Lake City. Most of the time Bart has a driver by the name of Car, which is short for... uh.... something.

The gentle giant to our left is affectionately called "Mike", or "Big Mike" as I like to call him. What a beauty. The Driver and the Horse become one as they serve the community. To know the horse, you must know the driver. Carr is awesome and loves to care for us Street Performers, as do the other drivers. Terry is another great guy. He gave me a lift in his carriage just last night, course we only went half a block, but that's not the point. It's the fact that they care. The same can be said for Jeff, Dale, and all the other drivers. Whether it's chocolate hearts or just a friendly word, you can count on them to be there. Here are just some of the fine steeds you'll need to get acquanted with, Bart, Libbey (another Clydesdale), Smith and Wesson (Two bay belgians)... let's see. Oh yeah, there's Rex, and Hank, Bob(another of my favorites) and Ace. Those are just a few, but they truly make life enjoyable out on the mean streets.

Well That's all for this post. In our next session we will discuss the dangers of the hobos and transients. Society calls them homeless, but truth be told, there are only a few that truly fit that category. We'll learn the scams and the ways to interact with them so as to still be productive. Till next time this is Piper Bob saying, Goodbye and don't let your reed dry out.

When the Devil Comes Calling...

2011-02-26T12:47:00.000-08:00

This is the city, Salt Lake. The Lake of Salt, better known as the city by the mire. Over a half million people call this place home. Some find amusement in ordinary ways, the movies, shopping, Carving butter into Garth Brooks Statues. There are all sorts of activities to be had in the city of salt. Some get there kicks the hard way. Boredom leads to diversity, they find their fun in the bizarre. When they do that's where I come in. My name is bob, I wear a kilt.

I was working the night watch out of south central when the call came in. It was another strange concert. Thousands were descending on the Events Arena and time was wasting. The security detail sounded urgent as they explained the details of this nights extravaganza. I approached the main doorman,
"Sir. What's going on here?"
"Well, it was peaceful, really calm, ya know what I mean?"
"Uh huh."
"Well then they came."
"They?"
"Yeah, they call themselves the Linkin Park Band. A bunch of punks if ya ask me. Well, like I says, it was quite, now look at the place. I need you to do your thing, out there. Try and calm these hoodlums down!"

I wanted to help but I needed to know more.
"Just exactly how many hoodlums are we talking about, sir?"
"Heck, I don't know. Maybe twenty or thirty thousand."
"Hmmm, that is a lot of hoodlum activity. Ok sir, I'll get on it right away."

As I began to walk away the man spoke again,
"Hey, there's one more thing."
"Yes."
"Well, there may be some problems."
"Problems?"
"Yeah, you know. Wild child type guys. Can you handle it?"
"Yes sir. I wear a kilt."

With that I turned and walked to the corner to prepare for the evening onslaught. It started slowly, just a punk or two meandering by. Then it came, like a flood from a dam that burst. I was deluged in a sea of human punkitude. They were behaving though, I guess the Kilt was having it's way with the crowd. Most seemed to be in a trance as they dropped their bills into my holding box. The pipes were calming the masses. Just another day for the kilted warrior.

Then without warning, a pickup truck of belligerent miscreants pulled up in front of my post.

"Hey man! You're really good at blowing that thing..."

They then began to send volley after volley of the most foul verbiage known to man. I remained calm, after all I had the cure right on my shoulder. I don't need to take this crap! As quick as a flash I hoisted Llieam and blew life into his waiting void. Instantly, the foul tirade that filled the air was replaced with the gentle tones of the highlands. Unfortunately, these were no ordinary reprobates. They were the spawn of Satan. The Devil, it seems, is agitated by the Ceol Mor (Bagpipes) and sets all his minions in motion to extinguish their tones.

In a final futile attempt to silence my efforts these demons laid on the horn and offered their own foul music. It was blaring and discordant. But in the end, they fell as all before them have. In broken humility, the beaten hoods meekly departed at the turning green of the light. A wry smile crossed my lips, with my right hand I formed a hand gun and mocked them by shooting in the air at them.

"That's right! Now you know the power of the pipe. Don't mess with the kilt man!"