October 12, 2004
MOJO RISING
Came upon a street performer on Royal Street while I was in New Orleans. It was a guitar player named Mike and his dog, Mojo.
Mojo was part chihuahua and part... whatever. His big act: dropping dollar bills into a hat.
Mojo had a major impediment: an incredibly lazy tongue that refused to sleep between the covers of his lips.
A side note: get a look at the shirt of the guy behind Mojo.
I worship irony in all its forms.
Another impediment: Mojo's acute canine attention deficit disorder. The dog couldn't focus on any one object for any longer than it took to sniff his butt.
Despite the sign's claim to the contrary, Mojo had no discernable skills.
Even the removable nameplate on the placard indicated that he was only temping his job.
The message was clear: Fuck up once, dog, and you can be replaced.
Actually, his replacement wasn't far away. Spike, an angry, bitter mongrel, stood nearby on a leash held by Mike's companion. Spike and Mojo don't like each other. Competition in the workplace on Royal Street only fuels their feud.
Mike had an interesting set of whiskers, too.
When I asked him about why he grew them, he said, "I needed a gimmick, something to stand out among all the others.''
We all do, Mike. We all do.
Hoping to boost his self-esteem, I offered Mojo a dollar to see his act.
He took two steps and dropped it. Spike offered to snatch it up. Only Mike's intervention stopped the interception.
So he gave it to Mojo again.
Again a turn, two steps and a drop.
This was pathetic.
Finally, Mike held the dollar bill directly over the hat. Mojo put his swollen tongue on the corner, lodged the dirty bill briefly between his lips and nonchalantly tossed it only as far as it had to go to topple less than an inch into the hat.
It wasn't nearly as fun as watching a horse jump off a diving board. But it was worth a buck for about two minutes of amusement and interesting conversation.
Perhaps as part of some canine victory dance, Mojo celebrated by scratching the crap out of my wife's legs and wrists.
We all have our little ceremonies, it seems. Posted by Jeff at October 12, 2004 11:19 PM | TrackBack
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