The News From Baton Rouge

I missed a day of blogging, because of the Sunday that fell last week.
The Scotlandville, Louisiana library branch is not open on Sunday, for everybodies information.
Saturday night, I busked at the convenience store, which is in fact The "Sunrise" Store (previously referred to in this blog as "The Sunrose Store" because; not to point fingers, but they need to practice their "I"s from the alphabet...theirs is too fat in my opinion -looks like an O.
I went there and played for about two hours, with an hour break in between, to read some of "The Confession", by John Grisham. Howard was meanwhile sleeping at a spot which he/we found, not far from there.
"I Had To Get This"
I made about 20 bucks, with a highlight being a stocky black guy in almost a Hawaiian shirt, who held his video camera on me during a song, and when his buddy came out of the store and approached him, he excused the delay by saying something like "I had to get this!"
He probably "had to" because, on such a successful night, on more than one level,  I was celebrating in between sets with some of the exotic brews, not found in New Orleans, like Shlitz "O.M.L" Malt Liquor (they had a lot of other kinds of "bull" in that city, but not O.M.L., go figure) and I got to feeling good and even gave a skinny, older black man a cigarette AND a dollar (-in quarters, somehow making me feel like I was still being chintcey [pronounced "chintcey"]) and eventually went into "the void" where all I had to do was imagine good music and it somehow made its way to my fingers. Being tipped helps...
I think some of the Greats, like Miles Davis, who warmed up for a lot of his performances by shooting up heroin, would say "I know what you mean, brother..."
I don't know if it's one of the "self delusional lies" (or whatever the AA book calls it in chapter whatever) that an alcoholic typically tells himself..."I do better, after I've had a few, it loosens me up..." but the proof is 99% of the time in the pudding -the pudding that I put back on my head when I'm done playing.
I think that I've reported seeing a 20 in the tip case and having no idea where it came from, at least a couple times in this blog....
I say that success was on more than one level, another being entwined around the fact that, at the Chevron on Scenic Highway in Baton Rouge, on this particular night, I saw only one white guy, myself not included.
That didn't dawn upon me until a pickup with a Georgia University plate on the front pulled up and a white guy got out, around 11:30.
As a busker, I actually do "segregate" my songs, but not on predictable lines. Aside from "My Girl," by some black group, I generally avoid playing anything that anybody could ever have called "colored" music when playing for black people.
It could be percieved as pandering, like breaking into "Danny Boy" because some Irishmen are approaching...give me a break, do you even have a clue as to how much great Irish music is out there? More than "Danny Boy" in case you didn't know...

What up, my nig?!?

And, you are going to sound "white" while trying to do it, so be very carefull. A Japanese girl singing the "brews" is cute. A white guy trying to do something from black culture, without really knowing what aspect of the song really resonates with them (It could be the "Hey, hey hey hey!" in "My Girl" -leave it out and you've ruined it and embarassed everybody...for example) is folly.
I segregate them into other intangibles, like the "swing" of them. If I can get myself feeling the groove of "Not Fade Away," by Buddy Holly for example, I find..(and did Saturday night) that it connects somehow with "every race and creed" -and Buddy Holly wasn't exactly ever confused with a black man, even when compared to Vanilla Ice.
This is a whole different topic for another day...
Still Stuck Inside Of East Baton Rouge
Howard and I are still in Baton Rouge. This is like, "day 4"
After having done pretty well Saturday night, evey dollar having been a blessing because the store could have easily refused to let me sit in front and play, Howard and I woke up on Sunday morning.
I decided that this would be a good day to try to start heading west, which we did, by first going south to a railyard which, I had it upon good information from an older black guy whom I ran into, was the place to hop a train out of.
We got there, after having suffered excruciatingly, waiting for the bus to come by on its Sunday schedule, which is a mere skeleton of the weekday one.
We didn't see any railyard workers, and I was a little leary of talking to them (after all, what did Howard and I NOT understand about "Private propery, no trespassing) even though the older black gentleman said that they would be helpful.
It turns out that we could have used some help.
Back To Go
I woke Howard, after the rumbling vibrations and horn of the train had failed to do so, and spirited him and myself onto the back of a grain car, on the first train of the evening which pulled up.
The train brought us only about a mile, into another yard, one which we were eventually kicked out of by the rail cops, before we moved another inch.
It was a gentle kick, though.
We had both fallen asleep, to be woken up a couple hours later, by a couple of flashlights held by a couple East Baton Rouge cops, and a couple of voices loudly instructing us to keep our hands in sight and to get off the car but to do it slowly.
I'm not sure how we were spotted initially, though Howard had been pretty visible to the guy that came along checking each cars brake lines, under a heap of blankets and with his feet practically hanging off the end of the car.
They were friendly looking cops, one a white guy in his mid thirties, who looked like you could go bowling with him, and the other, a younger black guy, who looked like you could go jogging with him.
I was allowed to retrieve my backpack "slowly!" from the cubby hole where I had stashed it, and in which I kind of crouched, trying to keep out of sight, before realizing that anyone would see Howard anyways.
They brought us to their vehicles, got our IDs and then two of the rail workers actually gave us a ride in the back of a pickup, outside the yard and then told us where to go to catch a train that would be there in about an hour.
We were there in time. The train came and stopped with a grain car right in front of us. We got on. The train pulled forward and then backed up, depositing the grain car that we were on, along with a few others on a side track. It then took off for Texas, leaving us sitting there
This morning, after we realised that there was no engine attached to us, we went to a nearby convenience store and got some provisions, which we consumed. "Do you like hard boiled eggs?" Howard asked me at one point, when I was peeling one. At least his mind is as sharp as ever....
I finally just walked onto the yard around noon and approached a couple of yard workers, who were as informative and helpfull as the older black gentleman had said that they would be.

12 Hours To Kill
They said that, a little after midnight tomorrow (Tuesday) morning, there will come a train which is the only one which will go across the Mississippi to points west.
This gave us 12 hours to kill. I decided to split my time between blogging and busking at the same convenience store for a few hours. Howard decided to follow me, falling further and further behind me as I walked.
I finally suggested that he take the bus. It's only 35 cents for senior citizens here. My fare is $1.75.
I told him that I was planning upon walking fast.
I stopped at a store for a while and then talked to some other train riders, who were flying signs on corners, and was actually able to pass along to them the information about which track was the one, and only one, that would take them west. This should have given Howard a head start.
I resumed walking towards this library. I couple of black guys in a pickup asked "Where you goin' guitar Willy?" They were on their way to the recycling place just down the street and gave me a ride there. Along the way, we passed Howard, who was walking slowly down the sidewalk in this direction. He must have taken the bus but gotten off way too early. Maybe the thousand acre Exxon Mobile refinery across the street from a certain bus stop looked like the library to him and he got off, I don't know.
I like the guy, but I think he might be almost ready for a nursing home but just has nobody to "intervene" to that end. 
I hope to make enough to get a gallon of juice and maybe a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread, stuff them in my bag and then take the bus back to the railyard.
Maybe Howard will tell me that he has had enough and that he is going to take a Greyhound back to his million dollar mansion in Colorado and that this homeless stuff wasn't as much fun as he thought that it would be...