A couple of Sundays ago I dropped off my fiancée at the airport and returned just in time to find chocolatier Michael Recchiuti unloading drums from the back of a pickup.
“You’re, uh, the chocolate guy, right?” I asked.
“Yes! I’ve seen you in the neighborhood,” he said. I hoped that he recognized me despite my disheveled state, and not because of it. I introduced myself, and asked when the drill team would get going, and where they would march.
His guesses for time and location were both slightly off, but around one I walked out my front door into a fairly surreal scene: a crowd had formed nearly on my doorstep in preparation for the tiny parade, and a local baconatier was setting up to provide samples of their wares.
Drumming happened, and the group marched around, drawing interested onlookers and pausing for breakdancing. I’ll let the pictures speak several thousand words:
At the end, after the music stopped, the police showed up and arrested a woman who lived across the street for something unrelated.
“It’s not a party until the cops show up,” someone quipped.
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