Carl Sandburg's Culture Club

This was our third visit to the the Folk Music Festival at the Carl Sandburg house in Flat Rock, N.C. We always take Bo because dogs are welcome. This year it was about ten degrees cooler and we got there early enough for a spot in the shady section. We we all settled in nicely, Bo was splayed out under my feet blending into the wood chips when three "Flat Rock Honeys" sat down on the bench in front of us. Within seconds this wave of nauseating perfume swept over us. It was as if the First Wives Club sitting two feet away just came from the perfume counter at Nordstrums. We moved back a row and with the help of a slight breeze the alveolar concentration of perfume fell below anesthetic levels.

Bo was being his good self till from out of nowhere Carl Sandburg's cat shows up. Bo lunges on the lead like a tuna. The cat sat under a seat about ten feet away and that was close enough to put him in full cat mode. Being sensitive to the therapeutic milieu of the poetry reading I sit Bo on my lap to calm him down. The speaker then starts to play a selection from the Carl Sandburg American Songbook on his acoustic guitar. The song is a classical Spanish guitar arrangement in the genre of Esteban, minus the black leather outfit. At this time a big bumble bee starts to circle Bo's head and he starts to snap at it along with the melody like a pair of maracas. This starts the people behind us laughing.

We suffered through the poetry and classical guitar guy for an hour. We both felt like a pair of Cretans but Sandburg was a mediocre musician and his poetry escapes us. I tried to listen attentively and put myself in the zone, but it just wasn't there for me, dawg. It was too pitchey. The next artist was a blues singer that was great. I relate better to the blues, to guys like Robert Johnson and Mississippi John Hurt: songs like Farther Along and Saint James Infirmary.

People complimented Bo on what a good boy he is. We survived the chemical weapons attack from the Golden Girls. We left about noon before the Eco-Band came on. The last thing I need is someone singing to me about how I'm killing the planet.