Attire And A Tire

My mission is clear.
I must get to the Wal-Mart to get the Kevlar tire and the tube.
The thought of sailing through the French Quarter on a mountain bike (like some kind of god) is just too compelling an image to let go of.
I am still in Mobile, where I will play at Fat Tuesday's tonight, as a contributer to a Raegae Night, when I can hopefully conjure up some of the magic of a vynyl recording of Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Come," which I had as an 11 year old.
Having this album as an 11 year old required me winning it in a contest held by a Boston radio station, as, otherwise I probably would never have known that the album existed.
I think my parents (and thus I) only shopped at stores whose Record Departments only carried artists who were NOT Jimmy Cliff et. al.
Thus, at age 11, my innocence was shattered when arriving upon my doorstep were the top 15 rock albums of the summer of 1972. There was Jimmy smoking a splif on the inside jacket, there was David Bowie standing there naked; in sillhouette, but you could tell; on the inside jacket of Aladin Sane, there was the first albino my green eyes ever espied on the cover of Edgar Winter's "They Only Come Out At Night,"  it was a whole new world beyond Donny Osmond...
I wanted to do a song of mine called "Pat Rose," which I wrote back "in college." (I was technically "taking a semester off to work full time, so I can put aside some money so that, when I went back to school, I could do it a little more comfortably," at the time. Note: The "semester" has turned into forty semesters, and counting.
The song is about Pat Rose, a large black lady; (the color of fudge, who wouldn't budge...) She lived in "The Projects." We lived in The Projects.
The Projects in Amherst, Massachusetts at the time were pretty much equally and sybiotically divided between those young and hopeful college students, who somehow pay full rent, and go off to school every day, then return to their apartments and remain oblivious to the other half of the tenancy which had a good percentage of people, and the other half, who were having their apartments subsidised by various municipal agencies, for any variety of reasons, not the least prevalent of which being a "mental illness" of theirs...
Pat Rose got money every month, under certain special conditions.
One condition was that she would NOT get a lump sum at the beginning of the month, so that she wouldn't spend the entire amount on shoes; again.

Pat went and bought shoes to the tune of whatever money that she had gotten to "live on" that month.
"I like shoes. I really like shoes!" Pat told me.
She had a walk-in closet which contained several pair of shoes. I'm going to estimate at least 90 pair.
Her caseworker gave Pat money in weekly increments, so that she could spend no more than a quarter of her money at a time on shoes, at which point Pat would just wait for the next week's installment, rather than to make the trip to the office to ask her caseworker for more money.
That's what I remember most about Pat Rose, that, plus her emfatuation with Prince Charles, Lady Diana's prince, there..
She had a lot of pictures of (a veritable shrine to) him around her apartment.

She was a large black lady, big boned; weighed around 350, six foot six or more; had a lot of Jerry Curl or something in her hair; dredlocks...used to rock from side to side when she stood, sometimes; like the pendulum to some clock; making you aware of all the seconds that you are spending with Pat, I sometimes ruminated.
I said that I was wanting to do my Pat Rose song, however, this is because it is one of the few reagae songs that I have written. I'm not really sure how to approach the Pat Rose song, except for the melody..
That is the problem of the day. Is it a song, or not...?
The middle part has her standing in my apartment, staring in her hand at the bud that I so graciously gave her, rocking from side to side and singing the chorus "I don't even think this is a JOINT, Daniel"
And the problem of getting the tire.
I got some attire yesterday; a pair of long pants which are some kind of blend of nylon and something; and a shirt, which is kind of tourquoise. The pants are mauve colored, if mauve is like between brown and grey.
Last night, I could have hopped at least two trains. They were running them left and right. Maybe they had to catch up after Columbus Day. They were stopping right in front of me at my railroad track spot, open boxcars and everything.