I woke up with $1.95
The Perils Of Society
I got out yesterday, and after updating this blog, got to the Visitor's Center spot, to see a fair amount of people. It was about 4pm. There were a couple of vendors, one weaving things out of palm fronds, the other selling jewelery. I had to go to the King Street Pawn Shop to replace a string which I had blown out the night before, playing Santana.
Talk Of Destruction
I was on my guard against being drawn into a long conversation with the pawn shop guy,
as, on other occasions, we had talked for an hour's length. He's on the clock, I'm procrastinating. We had talked about vynyl records vs. CDs and the comparitive sound qualities. He specialises in vynal records, and has the place packed with them. I always joke to him "Any Donny Osmond come in on vynyl?" Not a huge collectable, the Osmond discography. He does have a copy of "Going Coconuts" in "the warehouse," if anyone is interested. "Played only once, and not even all the way
through, eh?" I joked. I can arrange to have it shipped anywhere worldwide, just e-mail me...
Well, there was a documentary on a TV that someone had pawned and abandoned, and for the next hour (d'oh!) we talked about suitcase nuclear bombs and the Germans who were captured right here on Ponte Vedra Beach, foiling their attempts to sabotage the shipyards of Jacksonville, back in 1944, or so.
Reeled In
Then, I needed a beer, since any second there could occur a blast which would vaporize me, along with the Oldest Wooden Schoolhouse, and it was potentially my last beer. I decided to drink it down by the waterfront. There were a couple of guys fishing. One of them asked for a cigarette. I told him that I would trade one for a fish. Along with wishing that they had a cigarette, they were at that point, wishing that they had a fish. The conversation turned to music. I mentioned The Grateful Dead, and one of them begged me to play some. For the next hour (d' oh!) I played and he did also. He had an interesting style, but he hasn't had a guitar for the past year, and it showed.
"Band, Not Van."
Another guy came along on a bike, to caution the fishermen about the illegality of using "stone crabs" ("that's what we call 'em") as bait.
He told me that I should go to Savannah, Georgia to play on the riverwalk. He said that the original song that I played was just the kind of thing that was needed up there. "People who can write." "Your pretty good, too."
He then said what I thought was "Somebody will probably come along and put you in a van."
That kind of puzzled me, so I asked him if the police rounded up musicians that way.
"I said 'band,' not 'van.'
The Anti Carlos
Then, it was getting late, dark and cold. The Visitor's Center was barren. I went to the flute players spot, where Karrie was milling around, anticipating me and panhandling up a bottle of rum. Then Carlos, a spanish guy who I know from Jacksonville, showed up. He greeted me as an old friend, and then amused (mostly Karrie) and I for about (d' oh!) an hour. He had a radio tuned to Country music. We sipped rum and listened, as tourists walked by with their wallets safely tucked away. Then, determined to make something, I went to Eustus's spot, only to find Eustus on his spot. The place looked dead, and I inwardly wished that he wouldn't make anything, because I had frittered away my opportunities, choosing society over productivity, and had had my first "zero day" in a while...
I got out yesterday, and after updating this blog, got to the Visitor's Center spot, to see a fair amount of people. It was about 4pm. There were a couple of vendors, one weaving things out of palm fronds, the other selling jewelery. I had to go to the King Street Pawn Shop to replace a string which I had blown out the night before, playing Santana.
Talk Of Destruction
I was on my guard against being drawn into a long conversation with the pawn shop guy,
as, on other occasions, we had talked for an hour's length. He's on the clock, I'm procrastinating. We had talked about vynyl records vs. CDs and the comparitive sound qualities. He specialises in vynal records, and has the place packed with them. I always joke to him "Any Donny Osmond come in on vynyl?" Not a huge collectable, the Osmond discography. He does have a copy of "Going Coconuts" in "the warehouse," if anyone is interested. "Played only once, and not even all the way
through, eh?" I joked. I can arrange to have it shipped anywhere worldwide, just e-mail me...Well, there was a documentary on a TV that someone had pawned and abandoned, and for the next hour (d'oh!) we talked about suitcase nuclear bombs and the Germans who were captured right here on Ponte Vedra Beach, foiling their attempts to sabotage the shipyards of Jacksonville, back in 1944, or so.
Reeled In
Then, I needed a beer, since any second there could occur a blast which would vaporize me, along with the Oldest Wooden Schoolhouse, and it was potentially my last beer. I decided to drink it down by the waterfront. There were a couple of guys fishing. One of them asked for a cigarette. I told him that I would trade one for a fish. Along with wishing that they had a cigarette, they were at that point, wishing that they had a fish. The conversation turned to music. I mentioned The Grateful Dead, and one of them begged me to play some. For the next hour (d' oh!) I played and he did also. He had an interesting style, but he hasn't had a guitar for the past year, and it showed.
"Band, Not Van."
Another guy came along on a bike, to caution the fishermen about the illegality of using "stone crabs" ("that's what we call 'em") as bait.
He told me that I should go to Savannah, Georgia to play on the riverwalk. He said that the original song that I played was just the kind of thing that was needed up there. "People who can write." "Your pretty good, too."He then said what I thought was "Somebody will probably come along and put you in a van."
That kind of puzzled me, so I asked him if the police rounded up musicians that way.
"I said 'band,' not 'van.'
The Anti Carlos
Then, it was getting late, dark and cold. The Visitor's Center was barren. I went to the flute players spot, where Karrie was milling around, anticipating me and panhandling up a bottle of rum. Then Carlos, a spanish guy who I know from Jacksonville, showed up. He greeted me as an old friend, and then amused (mostly Karrie) and I for about (d' oh!) an hour. He had a radio tuned to Country music. We sipped rum and listened, as tourists walked by with their wallets safely tucked away. Then, determined to make something, I went to Eustus's spot, only to find Eustus on his spot. The place looked dead, and I inwardly wished that he wouldn't make anything, because I had frittered away my opportunities, choosing society over productivity, and had had my first "zero day" in a while...
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