46 Bucks Friday, 35 Saturday...

I got off the Hotard bus at 7:45 in the evening.

First, to the sign spot.

There were "signs" of Sue, the Colombian lady, in the form of plastic bags hanging in the trees, containing tiny little shirts and slacks, in the colors favored by that person.

I had a nickel and a penny in my pocket.

I headed along Canal Street, which had become my habitual route, the last time I was here.

I got about 300 yards down that street when I saw the first cop, sitting in his car in front of a hotel. He didn't jump out of his car, draw his pistol and order me to lie face down on the ground or anything like that; he basically gave me little notice.

Then, I found more than half of an American Spirit cigarette, laying by the ashtray in front of the same hotel. I don't think I had seen more than two examples of that expensive brand in Baton Rouge.
By the time I got to The Unique Boutique, I had at least a dozen butts, ready to be broken open and re-rolled, so that filters that have been in some mysterious person's mouth could be avoided, making these "ducks" a healthy and inexpensive alternative to the smokes behind the counter at The Unique Boutique.
Credit Denied

I went into that store, where they call me "Acarlu" (which either means "guitarist" in Arabic, or is the name of a famous Arabic guitarist; like calling someone "Del Grecco") and approached Sam, the guy who acts like he owns the place, because he will walk down the line of people which may be a dozen deep, who are waiting for the register, and, seeing what they have in their hands, will qoute them a price -"Give me ten bucks"- and then pocket the money and send them on their way.

After answering the "Where have you been?" question all around, giving the staff an update on Acarlu, and ending with "Yeah, I just got off the bus a half hour ago; I've got six cents in my pocket!" I asked Sam if I could get one beer on credit, on my way to go out and play, and assured him that I would be back to pay for it later. He told me that "the owner" was there and that I would have to ask him.

"I thought you were the owner, Sam"

"No, I'm not," said Sam.

The "owner" must have been in the back room, or somewhere else out of sight.
The Sullen, Brooding, Shaven-Headed Black Guitarist
I headed down Royal Street, pausing briefly at the brooding, sullen black guy who plays a guitar, but who is prone to sit with the instrument in his lap, unable to bring himself to create music, due to some random emotional devastation brought upon him by a look, or a comment or insinuation made by someone. He seems to be a bit sensitive.
"I'm supposed to spread love and happiness through my music; but how can I do that, after what that guy just said to me; he has put me in a negative mood..."

The sullen, brooding, sensitive black guy was babysitting two chairs, in front of which sat one of the baskets that I recognized as belonging to Tanya and Dorise, the violin/guitar duo, whom I have posted about in this blog. A white van, just like the one that belongs to the young ladies was parked right behind the chairs.

"I'm holding this spot for Tanya and Dorise," said the sullen, brooding black man. "They are playing a gig, but will be back."

He stood to make more money holding that spot for them than he did busking; illustrating the class disparagement between female violinist and brooding, sullen black male guitarist on Royal Street.

"You're Back..."
I didn't dally long. I was soon at the corner where Rouses Market is and had heard the familiar strains of Doreen's clarinet two blocks before I had gotten there.

I stopped to listen.

Paul the guitarist mouthed the words "You're back!" to me in between tastefully comped jazz chords; we chatted a while, after the song ended, myself ending the conversation with "Well, I've got 6 cents in my pocket, I'd better get to work.

Approaching "my" spot on Bourbon Street, I saw swarms of people gliding to and fro past it.

I sat down, after setting up the red and white striped towel that I sit on -my stage- and putting the nickel and the penny in my case.

I started to play and instantly noticed that I was psyched up and had a lot of energy and was looking forward to the next few hours in a way that was absent from my sessions in Baton Rouge.

I felt the 6 cents working against me. I was playing "For No One," by The Beatles.

One man started to head towards my case, reaching into his back pocket, and actually gave pause after seeing the 6 cents in the case, it seemed. I switched to "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," by The Beatles.

Another guy sat on the stairs a few feet away, perhaps listening. Soon he was joined by two friends.

I put my nose to the grindstone and tried to play my best version of the song.

When I finished, they each threw a dollar on top of the six cents. I had "broken the ice," "gotten on the board," and several other figures of speech. Then, I saw Barnaby, the guy who lives in the condo across the street, and who said that he often sits in his living room with the window open and listens to me.

He greeted me warmly, we shook hands. I told him that no, I hadn't been in jail "...the next best thing, though, Baton Rouge"

We chatted for about a half hour, he offered to print me up business cards, he mixed me a tall gin and tonic and gave me a couple cigarettes, while I watched at least 50 people walk past the spot where my backpack and guitar sat on either side of my towel.

I told him about the Audacity program and my tribulations with it, and how I unwittingly posted my first ragged attempts at recording, when I was more worried about watching meters and waveforms than I was about performing, and how I had almost alienated some of my readers.

"Proove them wrong," said Barnaby.

I told him that, yes, my patience is being tried by the fact that my laptop has mysteriously lost its wireless capabilities, and become "disconnected," so that I can't post any new music to prove anything...readers might have to think that I suck for another week or so, until I can solve the problem.

There is a Ubuntu Linux book at this very library, which has a DVD installation disk included. It is, I think a slightly more recent version than the one that is on my laptop (11.4, or something).
community/WifiDocs/WirelessTroubleShootingGuide

The thought crossed my mind to totally reinstall Linux on the laptop, but I don't want to do anything rash...
Maybe, if the laptop is older than the version of Linux, I would be opening a can of worms and possibly overpower the machine by asking it to run software designed for faster processors, or perhaps 64-bit processing, which is something which is pretty much over my head...
I think patience is going to be a virtue, and I should try to troubleshoot what I have before upgrading...though, I'm pretty sure that the re-installation leaves untouched such things as users personal directories, so that I wouldn't lose any Audacity projects, or documents or other music...
More research is needed before diving into anything. Online help groups, Frequently Asked Questions boards and the guy at Radio Shack might be more prudent to use, before popping that DVD in and clicking on "upgrade," although a quick and easy elixer, if it should be such; is very tempting.
It was 10 p.m. when Barnaby said "Get over there and make some money, there are people out!"
Although 10 p.m. was the time that I had agreed to stop playing at, about 3 months ago; the last time I spoke to the guy whose bedroom window is right behind my head, I went across the street, sat down, and in between sips of the gin and tonic, made 38 more dollars, to go with the $3.06 in the case.
Purple Boas, Purple Rain
A group of young ladies, who were all wearing purple boas around their necks came by and stopped. They were playing some kind of "scavenger hunt" game, where they had to walk around the quarter obtaining things, one of which was a picture of one of them as a street performer.
They told me that they would give me 10 bucks if they could get a picture of one of the girls sitting in my spot, pretending to be busking. They gave me 11 bucks.
Then, a guy came and listened and asked me if I knew any Simon and Garfunkle songs, whereupon, I played Mrs. Robinson, ending by telling him "That's one of theirs that doesn't have a lot of two part harmony." He agreed.
Then, I played him "The Ballad of Richard Corey," one of theirs that he didn't recognize, but after which he said "good job" and threw me a few bucks.
Then, a couple of young guys came by and asked me if I knew Purple Rain, by Prince. I played "When Doves Cry," by Prince, after saying "How 'bout this one?".
Then, one of them held his phone to my ear so that I could hear Bruce Springsteen doing an unplugged version of "Born To Run." He said that his friend was a big fan of The Boss, and as I figured out the chords and began to strum along with Bruce, through the miracle of modern cell phone technology, a 20 dollar bill went into my case. That brought the evening to the 11 p.m. mark. 41 dollars and 6 cents were all mine.
I knocked off at that time, being one hour over the agreed upon quitting time, and lamenting that there was still a swarm of people that seemed to be just getting started at that point.
I walked down to Sydneys (open 'til midnight on Fridays and Saturdays) and got the first Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA that I had had in two months.
I then walked with it, towards Frenchman Street and a certain Rasta Farian guy who carries the best medicinal herbs in the city. The 20 dollar bill and I parted ways after I saw him sitting in the same spot, as if he hadn't moved in two months.
"I've been in New York, I just got back," he said; which explained why he didn't know that I had been away for a couple months.
I sat on Decatur Street, trying to recoup some of the 20 bucks, but gave up after a half hour without financial gain. I thought I was playing well, but that could have been the medicinal herbs talking.
I started to walk back to the sleeping spot, which took me across Bourbon Street, where I decided to give it another shot; further down the road from the condo, and under a similar lamp post.
A group of three young black kids came by. Two girls and a guy.
One girl was shooting a video on her phone and kind of interviewing me. I played along and dropped a few anecdotes in between little snippets of music to go along with the anecdotes, and, eventually wound up freestyling chords while they all gathered around the phone and sang into it. The two girls harmonized while the guy rapped, and they actually sounded very good. We did probably about 7 or 8 minutes of music that way, after which I asked them (probably in vain) to put it on U-Tube, so that I could check it out.
They seemed very pleased with the outcome, the girl saying that the guitar was "tight."
"That was interesting, I'll bet there aren't many people who rap over late 60's psychedelic folk music," I said.
"That's what that was?!?" asked one of the girls.
"Yeah, that's my specialty, I've been studying that kind of music since I was a teenager. You've got one of the best guitarists in the world backing you up on that song," I added. -the things that you can get away with saying when you have the trappings of Bourbon Street surrounding you, to back up your claim-
They threw me 5 bucks, and that brought the evening to a close.
The 46 bucks that I made (in about an hour and a half) made me feel that I had done better than I had been doing in Baton Rouge, where I made 35 bucks (in about three hours) one Friday, followed by 14 bucks the next day...
In New Orleans fashion, I spent 31 of the 46 bucks, but that had a lot to do with catching up on things that I had totally run out of, and 10% of it went towards a gift of french fries for...
Sue, The Cambodian? Lady
Arriving back at the sleeping spot, after having taken the circuitous, but safest route, I espied none other than Sue, the Colombian lady, laying by the statue of Simon Bolivar, having been flushed out of the bushes by the presence of Howard, who had already layed down on his cardboard by the time she had arrived.
She waved and I went over and joined her.
Soon, we were cuddling and she was telling me that she had thought that I was far away, "by now."
I ran to Brothers Market and back with some of the seasoned french fries that Sue likes, after she said that she was hungry.
At one point, she asked me why I referred to her as a Colombian lady, then claimed to be a Cambodian lady, in actuality. I think that she fabricates, at times.