Years ago, I fell hard for a street performing marionette puppeteer who set up shop at Sunset Junction atop a crate beside an old boom box blasting Edith Piaf. It only lasted a week or so - my peculiar obsession with all things James, (I think that was his name. He looked like a James, anyway) but even still, I think of him occasionally. Him with his dirty La Boheme(ian) suspenders and stale whiskey stench. His slender-wheeled bicycle,
soul sole-peeling shoes.
He was able to make his puppets smoke, kiss, dance, die and at the end of the show, we'd clap and throw dollars into his hat and he'd grimace, turn his back toward us and moments later, return, with a new show, a new dance, smoke, death... I was riveted. And completely turned on.
So there you go. Something I've never publicly admitted. I'm totally into marionettes and those who pull their strings.
"I will never be dirt free."
Sing it.
GGC
