rocket science: Iron & Wine ...and beer in the park

I had the loveliest weekend. The loveliest. Of course, anything that begins with Sigur Rós in the warm rain is off to a good start.

My banjo teacher keeps telling me I need to get out and play music with more people. Not to be shy about it. I don't think I am though. I mean, ordinarily I would be. I would be petrified. I would not even buy an instrument because what if I wasn't good at playing it?? But it's too late for all that.

I brought the banjulele and some Bohemian tarts fresh from the oven to Molly's party Saturday night. And, for a moment at least, my banjulele was playing with another beautiful cigar box ukulele. Kind of like connecting with other parents when you bring your kids to the park. The owner of the musical cigar box was a much, much better musician than I am, but I was flattered when he said music words to me anyway. He showed me diminished chords and how you can flip and slide them. He made his cigar box sound like Django Reinhart, and I was swept up in it.

Sunday was easy. I slipped into the shower and out to Golden Gate Park for Hardly Strictly. I sat a few hundred feet from Ralph Stanley and Earl Scruggs. We sipped wine from the bottle in the sun. And packed in close for an intimate moment with Sam Beam, with Iron and Wine. We opened a few beers and melted in with the crowd that spread up into the trees, just about as far as you could see.

We danced with Gogol Bordello and ran into everyone you might know even in the crowds. Thousands and thousands of people and you may as well have known them all. Hajera and I wandered over to Emmylou Harris and ate chocolate and perfect goldfish with Angela then found our way to a bar with margaritas and nachos and caught up.

It has become the time of year when darkness sneaks up on you. We sat at the bus stop singing with the banjulele to make the bus come faster. One of the fellows at the bus stop asked if we'd be busking, but taking money for music just wouldn't seem right after a free festival. We sang with the banjulele all the way home. On the bus, the man next to us joined in on Hallelujah. We knew people could hear us, but we were being quiet. Of course, we were in a drunken euphoria, but people seemed to enjoy us, to enjoy our quiet music. It was special. The kind of thing you'd like to do sober if you could quiet your objections. And maybe I will.