Mr. Clean

Most Recent Photo of Lincoln Believed to Exist!
Today, I labor under anxiety, because time is "short".
So, first things first: I did find a photo of Abraham Lincoln, behind the drywall in an abandoned house, which had been destryed by Hurricane Katrina, which I happened to be sleeping in, which experts have confirmed to be the most recent picture in existence of the late President. I will be auctioning it off soon, for money to buy strings and some basic hygeine items.
"I was kind of tearing out the drywall and looking behind it for just such a type of thing; or marijuana, when I came across it," said Daniel.
The library will close tomorrow and the next day, and the next day. I might just write short posts and use the "options" function to have them automatically publish on those days that the library is closed.
I am charging up my cell phone battery. I got into my pictures folder yesterday, on  a different computer than the two which had given me fits. I don't know if it was because the crappy cable was positioned just right, or if it had something to do with the machine. I took the opportunity to copy all of my pictures to a jump drive, which seems to be of a less quirky nature, so that I can continue to blog using photos to enhance the presentation.
I am also charging my mp3 player, and will soon check my e-mail to see if anyone heeded my general appeal to send songs as attachments. Out of 42 facebook friends and 30 or so blog readers, I am hoping for at least a Captain And Tenille song or two.
Mission Accomplished, All Clothes Washed
When I left the library at 2:30, I started to make the march down Rampart Street towards the laundromat where Jerry Lee Lewis recorded "Great Balls of Fire."
I had my big pack on my back, my smaller pack on my right shoulder and my guitar over my neck and hanging almost in front of me, where every step I took caused it to bump against my thigh. All I could to is walk to a steady cadence, so as to impart re-enforcing vibrations into the wood.
I was wondering why the stuff was so heavy. I thought that the damp clothes contributed, but the load was more heavy than what they alone would account for.
I kind of felt like a "sitting duck," in that, I would have a hard time "outrunning a nigga" burdened by all my stuff, but, as it was daylight, and I walked on the side of the street which is in the French Quarter Proper, where perpetrators are prosecuted to the maximum extent allowed by law for any crime, I wasn't worried.
Don't be deceived by today's USA Today article, which reported that New Orleans is one of few cities which is bucking the trend, nationwide, of having homicides in decline, and is having quite the opposite tendency. (I've been here almost 6 months and have only been murdered twice).
Since I had to get the larger washer, which cost $4.75, I decided to throw in my backpack, along with everything else except the shirt and pants that I had on. This gave me a chance to empty everything out and determine what was making the bags so heavy.

For your entertainment, as you read; a little music for
violin and guitar.
Grandpa Elliot (background) was in some movie where he played himself
and sang "Stand By Me," and played the harmonica.
It was a "blockbuster" movie, (not only that, a lot of people
saw it) and so he became famous. He still does pretty well,
because people love to be able to go back to their hometowns, play
that movie for their friends and say "We met that guy; it was so cool!"
About Tonya and Dorise (foreground) though, Grandpa was overheard to say:
"They're puttin' me out of business!"

I found an empty glass bottle, which once held sesame oil before it leaked out, soaking part of the inside of the bag.
I actually recall a day or so when I kept catching whiffs of what I thought was Thai food. But, I guess it wasn't Thai food, it was the sesame oil, which was dripping out of my backpack and running down the backs of my legs. But, I can't afford cologne right now, and I figured sesame oil was better than nothing, and was thinking that when I ran into Tonya, who is Chinese, and probably likes sesame oil. (I know I'm stereotyping violinists; sorry)
I had a zip lock bag containing two hot dogs, which had been in there for two days. I also found a very soggy book, which must have taken water the night that I played outside the Superdome and then bumped my head, causing me to forget that I had two hot dogs left.
I was able to wash everything, and lighten the bags by a few pounds by judiciously discarding things like soggy books. The book involved was "Writing The Memoir," by Judith Barrington, and my condolences go out to her and her family for having to have thrown it away, but, I had read all of it, except the last couple chapters, which deal with "libel" and "defamation of character;" subject matter which I doubt would be of any relevance to an incorrigible, like myself in that practice.
I didn't get out to play until it was 7:30 p.m., and I had a half hour to get to the music store to replace a string, the "g" string. I have broken 3 "g" strings this week. I have been playing a lot in the key of G, in anticipation of adding my "G" harmonica to the mix soon.
I ran into Doreen and her band. They were already breaking down. Their boxes were so full of money that they were using pitchforks to chuck it into the back of their SUV. "There's a lot of people out," her husband said to me. "Are you just going out?"
"Yes," I told them, and I could see the regret in their faces that I had missed out on the gold rush of the afternoon.
I told them that I had had to do laundry that day, because I just couldn't bear to wear the same clothes another day. I told them about the clean guy, who I had talked to, the night before.
We talked about the clean guy, and the spot that he played at a bit, and then I was off to get my string.
After stringing up, I sat on Decatur and played from about 8 p.m., until 9:30, and had about 10 single dollars thrown to me.
I got a 12 oz. Pabst Blue Ribbon, and then moved to my Bourbon Street spot, where I tried to play the best I could and focus upon the singing. I was wearing clean clothes.
A group from Mexico City came by and seemed to enjoy what I was playing, and then a guy and a girl stopped and listened for a while, and threw me a few bucks. Then, requested something, which I (luckily) knew, and threw another few bucks. Then, in between songs, the young lady asked me if I was on the street, and, after I said "yes," handed me 20 bucks, advising me not to buy liquor with it.
I didn't have to buy liquor, I told her, because someone had come by and given me a "Jameson and Coke," and I had a 22 oz. Kirian beer on deck. Kirian is a Japanese beer, and I couldn't help seeing the "syncronicity" in the fact that I am listening to a Japanese singer on my mp3 player, and I had jammed with "Butterfly," a Japanese blues singer.
Then, I played for about another hour, having to break my tip case down from several bills, to only a few, especially after a stray group of hoodlums came by and asked me for a dollar, which I refused them. I told them "This is like my whole paycheck," referring to the 15 or 20 bills, one of which was a five.
I had stashed the 20 from the young lady in my pocket, along with some other singles.
"There are people out here making a whole lot more than 20 bucks a day," I added, as kind of a white lie.
Yes, but their money is in their wallets, not right in front of the hoodlums faces, causing them to become like 4 year olds in a candy store, ready to throw a tantrum if they can't have a Snickers!
I made off with about 60 bucks for 3 hours of playing.