Long, Beautiful Hair!

"Last night, I went to Cathedral Park, and I beheld the sky
and the firmament,
and the bums on the benches,
and I said that it was good."

The heavens proclaimed the greatness of the Lord, and the steeple on the church stood behind them; there; in front of them...
On the park bench next to me sat 2 of the friends that I have here in Mobile: Mike and Mike's friend.
We joked around a bit, none of us tried to bum off the other; a few things were offered freely to each other, without having been prompted by a request for said thing, cigarettes come to mind...
We sat and blew smoke containing poison gasses into the clear sky, and then it was time for me to go play. I was seriously thinking about doing the open mic at Fat Tuesday's. I later decided that there just weren't enough people there to bother.
Now I feel like a fool who lost an opportunity to demonstrate to the public that I sound even "better" plauing through the wonder of technology. As any karyoke singer knows.

The more you GIVE, the better we LIVE
The more you PAY, the better we PLAY
The more you DRINK, the better you THINK we Sound!!

-The guys who played brass insturments in Jackson Square one Sunday afternoon.
Bike Worked On Yesderday
I went so far as to push the bike about a mile up to a gas station.
It is a gas station where I have bought a few beers before, though I mainly go to the place across the street. This is what I had going for me, as I approached the garage to ask a mechaninc if I could hold onto a wrench for just long enough to loosen the tires on the Roadmaster, Mountainclimber, for that's what it is.
I got so far as to take a wrench from the begrudging hands of a red shirted worker there, who really didn't seem to understand my situation.
He first applied the wrench to the nut on the bike, to ascertain that it fit; then, taking hold of it, he actually asked me "Do you want to tighten it?"  It has a flat tire, why would I want to tighten it on there, red shirted guy?
He then had a second notion and, leaving the wrench dangling off of the bike, he said "You do it!"
I did it.
Then, I went in search of an object to act as a tire iron, rather than to push my luck with the guy by asking for a screwdriver.
Both tires are loosened, and the tube is out of the back one. The tube had a hole in it the size of the sun.
The whole mess is sitting behind one of the trolleys, leaning against a fence, where it hopefully will remain for a day or two, depending upon when I decide to go back to New Orleans.
It seems that the bike will go with me on the train and be hidden in the vast bushes of the rail yard in East New Orleans in whole, except for the back tire. That, I will carry with me onto the bus and into the French Quarter. There, it will become a prop as I play music to make enough money to take the tire to Wal-Mart on another ($1.50 ) bus, where I would purchase a tube and the cheapest excuse for a tire iron, fix the tire in the parking lot; pump up the tire in the parking lot, then take the tire and the wrench on yet another bus, back to where the rest of the bike is hidden in the rail yard, attach the tire and then ride the bike back to the Quarter, stopping only to purchase a galvanized titanium industrial strength lock, and a few feet of the kind of chain that they use to tether anchors to those hugest of ships.

I Miss Sue Blind

-myself, paraphraphrasing from a previous post, by reliving it through memory

I looked to my left and my right; I saw that, the train was creeping through one of the most expansive junkyards that I had ever seen. The smell of urine blew into the boxcar, assaulting my nose, as mile after mile of junk drifted across my vista. I looked at the diversity of stuff in this junkyard. Cars, refrigerators, lots of furniture; one pretty cushy looking couch, I recall and piles of assorted other scraps which looked like whole houses disassembled.
Then, as abruptly as the stench of urine on the air which blew into the boxcar when we first started slowing had hit me; the horrifying reality sunk into me like the heat from a hot potato...
This wasn't a junkyard, It was New Orleans, Louisianna!!

This morning, I walked past the Big Clock Spot, but did not sit down to play "Early Morning Singing Song"  from the Broadway play "Hair."
Instead, I went straight to Pollman's Bakery, the bakery which distinguishes itself from all others in town by accepting food stamps in exchange for coffee. Coffee is a food to the Niqueragran lady, Sylvia, who tends the register, and we homeless street musicans et. al. couldn't agree more with Sylvia, so are doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, and bear claws, and they have been endorsed by some of the local "most finests."
This morning, I got my caffeine fix as well as my Pat Conroy ("Beach Music") -on-caffeine fix; and this was good.
Now, how to get out of here!