8 Followers, Not Including Howard

This blog now has 8 followers,
who will probably have their inboxes inundated with notifications persuant to my every cyber move.
I can understand people, who are stuck in their 9 to 5 jobs and taking home a regular paycheck to a real home, wanting to vicariously sit on a sidewalk and play "Imagine," by John Lennon, hoping that someone will come by and say "nice song," as they throw 5 bucks in their guitar case. It is a dream that few dare to pursue.
If you do, though, I have found that revising the song a little will help you out.
The chorus can be changed to:
You may say, John was a dreamer
But, according to him; he was not the only one
He hoped some day we would join him
But then some psycho shot him with a gun...
(I know that "shot him with a gun" may sound redundant, but I need to clarify that it wasn't a camera.)
What A Day

It was quite a day.
It started by me waking up for the final time (there had been at least a dozen others) next to Howard, as we slept on the marble patio under the overhang, outside the library. This library.
I had gone there, after playing last night on Decatur for a couple hours; a couple hours in which the city of New Orleans seemed to be saying, welcome back, Daniel, you need not think of ever leaving again, by fortifying me with about 11 bucks; during an hour in which I played my guitar with a "d" string in the "g" string slot.
Techincal Fact: In order to make that arrangement workd, I needed to tune the other 5 strings down as far as I could while keeping them close to their indiginous ranges, in order that I could tighten the alien string up from its indiginous range, so that it would meet the other strings "half way," sort of.
I had 5 flappy, twangy, dreamily disonance strings, and one tight one, praying for itself to snap just to end its misery, yet not snapping, like a soul in hell, because I just wouldn't do China Cat Sunflower, by the Grateful Dead and show it mercy...
That being said, Howard took to New Orleans like a fish to water, assuming that the water is in an aquarium which also hosts a lot of suckers, bottom feeders and sponges.
After going to the music store and learning that, out of the six guitar strings which they sold seperately, they were out of the one string which I was missing, I devised the above detailed arrangement, made the 11 bucks, and then got out of Decatur before I got another ticket for obstructing the sidewalk (you can't really obstruct it before 8 p.m., but, after that time, you actually swell up and assume such an imposing presence that you are suddenly obstructing things).
Charges Dismissed
I couldn't set my alarm on my cellphone, because the battery had gone dead, during the train ride.
Howard woke me up unintentionally, though, when he returned to the spot with his newspaper and his coffee, which he had gotten right down the street, at Brother's Market. How convenient it is for Howard to sleep outside the library and have his coffee and newspaper so close -almost makes you wonder why he would ever leave to head for California, following a street musician along the way, doesn't it?
I got to the courthouse. I made sure that they knew that I was there, and I explained why I was late the previous day, placing due blame upon the CSX railroad and their insensitivity to the schedules of their riders.
Basically, what happened was: The District Attorney, who is a blonde haired woman (though it lookes dyed) with the eyes of a master strategist; eyes which can register compassion one minute "We're just trying to help you put your life together by taking advantage of government sponsored programs, which are putting social workers to work..." to suspicion "You say that you are putting your life together with the help of government sponsored programs, but, why were you arrested last night for the same thing you've been arrested for 15 times before" said to me: "You would have been rocking (her word) if you stayed yesterday."
I told her that I hadn't gotten into town until afternoon, due to the unreliability of the CSX trains.
"I thought I saw you here yesterday morning."
 (She saw Sue, perhaps, and assumed that I was with her, because we were co defendants, and had been sitting together during previous proceedings).
To make a long story short, I finally got to talk to the head District Attorney, who, after tip toeing around the issue, being careful not to say certain things, finally said "I'm hoping you'll just leave the city, so I can dismiss this charge."
I told him that I planned upon leaving right after the B.C.S. national championship game, to be played at the Superdome.
He said "Try not to get arrested over the holidays," and then dismissed me, before dismissing my charges.
Almost Heaven
Then, I stopped at the Rebuild Center to check to see if I had any mail, because it is halfway between this library and the courthouse.
They give out mail at 1:30 p.m. I got there at 1:30 p.m.
The nun in charge of the mail, asked me if I was expecting anything. I said "Yes, a package from California," forgetting that Martin W., who said that he had sent something, later said that he was in West Virginia.
"Who is it from?," asked the nun, ever vigilant of scamming homeless people, who, hearing that one of their ilk was expecting a package, might hit the person over the head, steal his ID, and then do cosmetic plastic surgery upon themselves to make themselves resemble the picture on the ID, in order to steal the package.
I remembered Martin's name, and then instantly remembered West Virginia. "I'm sorry, West Virginia, not California...I'm confusing him with someone in California, I said."
Those were the magic words, and I was passed the box, which I opened, like a kid opening presents on Christmas. It wasn't Christmas, but I was like a kid.
It couldn't have been more timely. I was in a quandry over how to remedy the string situation on my guitar, given that the music store has every other string 'cept the one I need. There was some money; enough to get a full set, and head west knowing that when someone tells me that they will give me 5 bucks if I play "Hotel California," I won't have to say "I can't really play that one, 'cause I'm missing a string"
There was a jacket (the color of the scorched earth that I usually sleep upon), and cigarettes, as well as an mp3 player. The player has a "mic" jack, and I am motivated to use it to plug in a mic and record a song, thanking Martin W., and praising the people of West Virgina in general, as being "good people."
In general, the package was well thought out, and ministered to my immediate needs. I used one of the plastic ties to tie the jacket to my pack, and headed for the library, where I intended to shave with one of the razors (included).
San Francisco
It has been kind of interesting, the things that have conspired to point me in the direction of the bay area of California.
I have gone on a website a few times called "Sperling's Best Cities," and filled out their extensive questionairre which plied me for my opinions on everything from clean water to symphony orchestras, and, every time, the city at the top of the list, and hence the "best city" for me, has been San Francisco.
There is another intangible allure which the place holds for me: I have a secret death wish to slide off the continent and into the Pacific Ocean, during an earthquake and surrounded by homosexuals.
That, and the fact that the Grateful Dead got their start there, and I can imagine my music being there, like New Orleans Ragtime Jazz is here; lucrative.

Plus, being adopted as I was as an infant and being given only a threadbare profile of my biological father by the nuns at the Catholic Social Services place, in order to protect him from my finding him and hounding him for money and to borrow the car keys, I was nonetheless made privy to the information that he was too young to take on the responsibilities of fatherhood, and that he instead, took on the resposibilities of heading to San Francisco to pursue a career in music. If God wants certain information to be passed along, He will brook not even the reticence of nuns, and that little tidbit has kind of stuck with me...
As soon as I had left the Rebuild Center, with my pack replenished with stuff, I ran into a guy standing out in front of the place, who asked for a light and then, unprompted by me, began to explain to me that I should go to San Francisco, California. He painted a bright picture, resplendant with visions of free hotels and food stamps for the homeless, and medical marijuana by the wheelbarrel-full.
I'm starting to wonder if the mindset instilled within me by my grandparents, who "never accepted any charity," rather worked hard their whole lives, may not apply to this current age.
If the world's economy is going to collapse and the antichrist is going to take over by hacking into the main world bank computer, then deciding who can buy and sell and who can't, then maybe I should get myself on disability, and supplement it with street performance enhanced by medical marijuana. After all, there must be something wrong with me if I haven't worked in 5 years!
I ran into Howard, and when I told him of my plans to move out west, he said "OK," as if he will be with me, every step of the way. We will have to have a "little talk" sometime before January 9th, and the BCS Championship Game.