On August 8, the temperature in Central Park reached 88 degrees.  The triumvirate of begonias, ageratum and allium provided color.  Not a rose could be found behind the benches; instead the bush was littered with brown leaves and wilting tips.  In the shade of Strawberry Fields, the guitarist finished “Let It Be,” then immediately launched into a dark rendition of “Strawberry Fields.”

Colin, the cowboy, dressed in black, motioned to me as I walked past.  “I’m ready to call it a day,” he said.  “This is brutal.”

“Not for me today,” I said, looking toward the sun-drenched fountain.  “I’ll go play in the shade.”

There weren’t many people in the park.  I played to the sky and water, and to the towers of the San Remo on Central Park West.  The boat rental business just across the path, on the other side of a chain-link fence, looked slow.  One of the attendants, his back to me, danced a lazy hula.

I took a water break after 30 minutes, and another, 30 minutes later.  So far, except for the 2 singles I use to give people the right idea, priming the pump, so to speak, my uke case was empty.  While I sang out lyrics I’d sung 10,000 times before, I started to compose this blog in my head.  After 11 years of busking, nothing, nil, bupkis.  Then, literally at the 88^th minute of my 90 minute set, a woman, who had been taking pictures of her young teen daughter, plopped a fiver in my case and said, “Picture, please.”

“I have one requirement,” I said, reaching for a lei and draping it around her daughter’s neck.

“Requirement?” she said.  “Ok, we accept.”

After the picture was taken, I invited the girl, who was in New York from San Diego, to hula.  “Go ahead,” said mom.

“You go ahead,” said the girl, taking the camera and putting the lei on her mother.

So mom danced to “The Hukilau Song,” while daughter took the pictures.  “That’s worth some more money,” mom said.

The set over, I unfolded another 3 singles, for a total of — what else — $8.