Earn Up To $6, Making Music!

In the wake of the Labor Day Weekend, here it is Wednesday.

Some Kind Of Christian Group

Last night "ended" with Thomas and I, in the park (but it could have been by the ocean,) listening to some kind of group of young Christians, who were singing hymns, to the accompaniment of one of them, who played a Taylor guitar. Taylor guitars sell for at least a thousand dollars.

I initially thought that they were singing: "God we thank you for our parent's houses, the cars we've gotten as graduation gifts, and the fact that our only responsibility is the handling of a few college courses, and the fact that we can spend all the money that we make at our part-time jobs on Taylor guitars." (Isn't that how "Kumbaya" translates?)

Thomas and I sat on a nearby bench, sipping Budweiser Ice, and smoking Pall Mall cigarettes, while we listened.

To the credit of those youths, they shunned us not, nor looked at us askance, neither did they eschew us, and they were apparently not taken aback at our openly displayed sins of the flesh, perhaps believing the scripture which, paraphrased, states that it is not what goes into a man's mouth which causes him to be unclean, but rather, what comes out of a man's mouth. They gave us each a couple of sandwiches and some spring water, to put into our mouths.

We ultimately got buzzed enough off the beer to forsake not the gathering with them in a circle, where hands were held, and out of their mouths came prayers and supplications.

I bowed my head, and contemplated whether or not the young woman holding my left hand with her soft right hand, thought that I smelled homeless.

Thomas had my right hand, and "held his own," as the circle began producing a cacophony of simultaneously uttered prayers, which rose in volume and could probably have been heard all the way at the beer store.

Each individual voice was lost in the blend, and I could only pick out an occasional word, like "Jesus" or "Lord" from out of the fray.

I had never been in such a "church" before.

Thomas may have been, for, he was "right there" with the rest, adding to the decibels. I could only tell this because he was standing a foot away, and I could distinguish his voice in the din.

I was eventually moved to mutter something like "Lord, don't let the pretty girl next to me smell my armpits, please..." because I wanted to participate somehow, and nobody could hear me anyways...

Some Kind Of Water Testing?

Before being drawn there, by the sound of the Taylor, I had been on my playing spot, using the strings which aren't quite right, due to having been unduly stretched and un-stretched, as they were transplanted to three different guitars.

There were people walking by.

Most of them, though, were employees of a place near my spot. They seem to work around the clock. They do some kind of water testing, and are probably funded by BP, in order to do tests, and report upon the condition of the water in Mobile Bay. They may be getting kickbacks for saying that the water is fine, go ahead and eat the blue crabs, who knows.

They never tip me a cent. They pass by me constantly, carrying coolers full of what are popularly believed to be water samples from out there in the bay.

Sometimes, I try to penetrate their obliviousness towards me, by purposely including provokative lyrics in my songs.

I have succeeded on occasion. The one verse I sang about "kickbacks from BP," had a few of their ears perked...

Some Kind Of Unwritten Code?

The rest of the pedestrians were the bums from the park, who were on their missions of picking ashtrays, or trying to catch restaurant employees as they stepped out a back door for a cigarette, and beg food of them.

A homeless guy, who re-enters the park, carrying such a white-Styrofoam-contained prize, becomes the immediate center of attention, and is converged upon by the others, who, assuming that the food was gotten freely, think that the person with the food has no right to claim all of it for himself. Some kind of unwritten code of karma-based honor mandates that he share with everyone. I wonder why they go back to the park with it, unless it is a status symbol to them.

Some Kind Of Cheap Bastard ?

My tip hat is fodder for a debate in which this karma based issue is the center of the discussion. There are those who feel that everything in my hat was freely given, and is therefore subject to being divided up amongst the poor and unfortunate; those too poor to buy their next beer, and who "unfortunate"ly never spent hours practicing on an instrument, and are thus unable to partake of this bounty, which rains down freely upon me, as if heaven-sent.

This should spawn in me a desire to gather with them all in the spirit of generosity, which I have been imbued with by The Wealthy, and share; share!; -unless I'm some kind of cheap bastard.

I should at least be able to part with a dollar (for each one of them,) as a token of gratitude, is the summation of their argument.

The Other School Of Thought

A few, of the other school of thought, on "the other hand," have told me: "You play your butt off for that money; tell them all to go to hell!"