Money Day Monday

The least I can do is give the guy
a "plug" to my upwards-of-two-dozen
readers...

30 Dollars Saved Is 30 Dollars Earned
I woke up with about 30 bucks, on this Monday morning.
I had played for a couple of hours last night on Decatur. If it weren't for the fact that I had woken up that morning with 40 bucks, and could start my case out with a few of my own dollars (plus some change, in order to send the message "It's alright to throw a quarter; I like quarters, I won't be offended and my clothes will be cleaner next time you see me...").
I walked past The Stash Box, which is run by a very cool guy. It is close enough to my spot, that I am pretty sure the guy has heard me play, as he sits out in front of the store. Managers sit out in front of their stores here, ostensibly to greet people, invite them in, drum up business and, oh yeah, to discourage people from running out of the place with unpaid for merchandise. Again, "This Is New Orleans..."
The guy commented on the condition of my guitar case. "Every time I see you, your case is in worse condition!"
"Yeah, my whole life is being held in place by bunjie cords, these days!"
This brought forth a chuckle and then he said: "I've got a case that I can give you. I don't play acoustic anymore, just electrics, so I don't need it. Wait until [so and so] comes back from break and I'll get it for you. Are you gonna be up their in your spot?" (He called it my spot; I felt "accepted")
I went to that spot and played for about a half hour before the guy came and laid a brand new gig bag next to my tattered remnant of a gig bag. Cool.
They are so anti-gutter punk in those businesses, that I felt a sense of pride in their implication that I am a "musician" and am welcome to play near their stores. (They haven't caught me peeing on their dumpster yet, though. My status may change. Stay tuned.).
I made about 6 bucks in an hour and a half, putting me at the top of the ranks of other musicians whom I compared notes with that night. The tourists just weren't tipping. I probably wouldn't have made the 6 bucks, had I not persisted in "smiling through the rain; laughing at the pain" as tourist after tourist walked by without acknowledging me. Knowing that I had money in my pocket, a new case, and that the business owners on Decatur like me (they really like me) was enough to keep me loose and flowing and not averse to playing my weirder stuff, like "My Favorite Mule."
The night before, I had played "Mule" and gotten some strange looks, but found a 10 dollar bill in my case when I looked in it, which wasn't there before I played My Favorite Mule.

When she stands up; you know you're
in for a treat. BTW, this picture is taken
from the National Geographic website. Yes,
no feature on New Orleans would be
comprehensive without including Doreen.

Tears From Heaven
Then, I drifted towards Royal Street and Rouse's Market.
I could hear Doreen's voice before I could even see her and her band.
She was "on fire" last night.
It was as if she and her family were facing eviction if they didn't make a certain amount of money, and that they had put their situation in the hands of the Lord and just "let it fly."
I have never heard Doreen play so well, and that is saying a lot. When her clarinet solos neared a climax, she stood up and aimed her notes for the sky. It brought tears to my eyes. Twice.
I put 50 cents in her tip jar. (Making her only the third other musician that I have tipped, along with Tonya and Dorise, and the artist known as "the girl with the shaved head who plays the mandolin.") She said "thank you, so much." I was the only one whom she broke the continuity of her playing to say "thank you" to during the half hour that I listened. It was like an unspoken communication between street musicians; priceless.
Her daughter of about 7 years old was playing the drums, and at no point did it ever sound like they were being hindered by having a little kid in the band. "She just follows along," said Doreen, after I complemented the little one on her playing.
That is about it for Money Day Monday.
I saved 30 bucks on a new case, and "splurged" by buying a pack of cigarettes and watching Sunday Night Football, squatting down behind the barricade which fronts a sports bar, sneaking a peek at the game and swilling down some Red Dog Lager.
Help On The Way
I should soon be getting the package that Alex has sent from California, containing "goodies" of interest to a homeless guy, like a can opener. I went up to the Rebuild Center, endured the stares of those there to be "rebuilt," stares fraught with envy (because I've spent years of my life honing my craft, and have an income), derision (because, even though people just "give" me money, I can't even help out a nigga with a dollar, not one out of the 20 who ask me every day), suspicion (I think he the police), ill intent (let me take that guitar from him; let him see how it feels to HAVE to panhandle, like us) etc., got to the mail line, which was so long that I surely would have missed out on this computer session if I waited for a package which might not even be in yet, and decided to try again tomorrow.
Play The Song About New Orleans
I now do 4 songs that mention New Orleans, though I didn't notice this at the time I added them; it was a subconscious thing.
"Tangled Up In Blue," -Bob Dylan (So, I drifted down to New Orleans, where I was lucky enough to be employed...)
House Of The Rising Sun (There is a house in New Orleans; they call "The Rising Sun...")
Big River -Johnny Cash, Grateful Dead (Now won't you bat it down by Baton Rouge, river queen roll along; take that woman down to New Orleans, New Orleans, Go on, I've had enough. Dump my blues down in the gulf. She loves you, big river, more than me)
Scenes From An Italian Restaurant -Billy Joel (I remember those days hanging out At the village green ; Engineer boots, leather jackets And tight blue jeans ; Drop a dime in the box play the Song about New Orleans; cold beer, hot nights, my sweet romantic teenage nights)
Sue
Don't ask me about Sue.
I brought her to the spot where I sleep at The Occupation site, after we hung out Saturday night together. We snuggled up and slept; her, myself, Kooky and the pidgeon.
Sunday night, I returned late to find her asleep at the same spot. Thinking that she was expecting me, I layed down next to her but, she pushed me away.
I moved about 50 feet apart from her and slept.
In the morning, she wasn't talking to me, as if insulted that I would move away from her, even though she had pushed me off.
Now, she is hanging out with the very same guys whom she cited as the reason that she didn't ever want to sleep at The Occupation again -the one's who were "messing with her head."
Sunday morning, I gave her some yogurt, some tuna for Kooky, and a can of soda, and a trendy shirt that I had found, which was brand new.
I asked her for some of her water to brush my teeth with. She told me that she needed it to drink, because she doesn't drink "sink water."
A little while later, after observing her mannerisms around the guys which she is once again hanging around with, and noticing that she was acting radically different around them than she does around me, and seeing her go with them into the pavillion to get food and then get into a shouting match with some other woman who had "no right to talk to me that way," I asked her for some of her hair conditioning gel.
She told me that it was "expensive stuff" (she found it in the trash somewhere), at which point, I said "Then give me back my tuna fish," whereupon she gave me back the bag with all the stuff I had given her, as if it was no big deal to her (acting like a prima donna, who has "plenty more where that came from").
Last night, I found the shirt thrown on the ground near where I sleep.
I have decided that I don't like Sue (Phillipina, if you're the clerk of courts) very much any more, and am prepared to tell her so much.
I have been doing a neuro-linguistic programming excersize where I picture her face and then switch my internal image to a splattering of vomit which I saw on the sidewalk on Canal street last night. I switch back and forth; back and forth.