Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Zero Dollars

28 Degrees
...and the winds came howling from the north, bringing coldness to all and causing the flags of the Government Center to stand horizontally and ripple and flutter with the sound of a thousand clipper ships, as I made my way to the Presbyterian church for my egg.
The clock inside the Government Center read 7:25, informing me that I would be right on time for my rendezvous with an egg-white and two cups of coffee.
I was greeted warmly by the church's volunteer egg givers, who hadn't seen me in days, and who expressed relief and comfort at receiving this proof that I was still alive. I told them that I had moved my sleeping spot, for a while, to where I could sleep later in the mornings (and had been doing so).
Afterwards, I came here, to the library, where I continued my reading of the book "Songwriters On Songwriting."  I perused the interviews of Carol King and Frank Zappa. Frank's was a little bit depressing and the first one which DIScouraged, rather than ENcouraged me to persue songwriting. The poor guy; he came across as being bitter over the fact that not enough people appreciate, or more to his point BUY his music. His advice to aspiring songwriters was to "get a Real Estate licence."
An Evening Of Dissipation
Then, I went to the Shell for an Earthquake High Gravity Lager. As I got to the fringe of the parking lot, I noticed a figure behind the store, cloaked in shadows, who was whistling and motioning me to join him. It turned out to be none other than Thomas. He asked me if I was enroute to get an Earthquake High Gravity Lager. I told "Yes, I am enroute to get an Earthquake High Gravity Lager." He then produced an open can of that very same product out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me. It was his second one. We shared the remains of that can of semi-vile liquid, went in "halves" on a four pack more of semi-vile liquid, then went into town.
The temperature was dropping. I didn't know how long I would be able to play for tips, before it became too cold to do so, and thus was in a hurry to start the venture. The thermometer on the bank read 45 degrees.
We got to the acoustically superior spot where I like to play. I had 3 bucks in my case for "seed" money. I didn't make any more.
The air was growing progressively colder. There were few people out. Out of the few people were two young women, who sat down beside Thomas and I.
Both of the girls seemed to be in their early twenties, both were "a little chunky" in build; one was white, one black.
The white one requested a Pink Floyd song. I played it to her satisfaction, wherupon she renumerated me not with cash, but by passing me a bottle of vodka, out of which I took a gulp.
Earthquake High Gravity Lager seemed suddenly less vile by comparison to the vodka, which the young lady confirmed to be "Aristocrat" brand, one of the vilest. I think the Grinch drank it.
It's funny how the more grandiose the name of a vodka, the more disgusting it is. I am very leary of any vodka which has the word "quality" printed on the label. There's a reason the makers feel it necessary to inform you, in bold print on the front of the bottle, that their cheap vodka is good. It is usually because they are some lying Russians, them.
The bottle then went to Thomas, who critiqued Aristocrat vodka by turning his head and vomiting onto the marble walk behind us. It would be "too much information" to describe the puddle of it as being tomato soup colored, so I won't include that detail. Please scratch it from your memory.
The four of us sat there a while longer.
The black girl attempted to play my guitar. Only a handful of people passed the four of us and our puddle of vomit in the next hour, so it was decided that I would take my three dollars and seek shelter from the now 41 degree air at The Garage, which was having their open mic night. Also motivating me was the fact that the Patriots game was to be on their TV.

Thomas and I bid our adieaus to the young ladies, then went to The Garage, where we stayed warm; I saw the Patriots defeat the Jets soundly, and I never got to play a note, as was the case the previous time I was there, when the stage was "hogged" in similar manner.
This morning I woke up at around 7:10, ate my egg-white, and now am at the library, where I have read an interview of P.F. Sloan, which was fascinating enough to make me want to google him and learn more about him. He did write "Eve Of Destruction," and "Secret Agent Man," afterall.

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