A Wren In Need Is A Friend Indeed

Warning: 3,000+ word post!

It is Thursday morning and it is 48 degrees out at 9:06, as I sit here in the warmth of Pollmans Bakery, drinking my mornings tips in the form of a cup of coffee.

I sat and played last night for about 12 people, and got 3 dollars from a man, who said "I like that."

I was playing Sea Breeze.
This brings to about 4 dollars the amount which I have made from playing that first song in volume 1B of Mel Bay's "Mastering The Guitar" series.

Switching the pick to my thumb and forefinger is starting to pay dividends.

At first, I was playing worse, but I have caught up to and surpassed

myself, using the "new" technique.

I am reminded of when I was learning to play golf and had gotten fairly proficient at knocking golf balls a certain distance by swinging the club "like a baseball bat," which is kind of the "natural" intuitive way that people swing at things.

After I had gotten lessons from different sources and was instructed in the proper way to grip the club and to swing it not like a baseball bat but

rather by enacting such devices as keeping the left elbow locked,

rotating the hips etc., one is maximizing the skeletal systems ability

to function like a machine, with all of the fulcrums and levers inherent

in the joints of the body lined up so as to permit the attainment of the

fastest possible club-head speed in a controlled manner and to hit the

ball far and accurately, reducing scores and increasing earnings on the

PGA tour. That being said, after the first few "lessons," I wasn't even

able to hit the ball as well as I had been doing by whacking away at it

as if attacking brush with a machete.

But, soon, I was hitting the ball farther and straighter than my friends, who hadn't taken any lessons and who still swung at the ball as if it were a hockey puck, and who snickered at this strange little ballet that I was performing on the golf coarse ...who's he trying to be; Jack Nicklaus? Hee hee hee.... 

In thinking back upon my golf career, I think my undoing was that I was a non-conformist. I didn't want to hold my club exactly like everybody

else and swing exactly like everybody else; where in that would I be able to gain any edge over the other players? I felt like I needed to tilt the playing field in my favor by discovering some sort of unorthodox trick that nobody else was employing, much like the chess player who comes along every 50 years or so who uses a different opening move than "everybody else" and has great success with it; winning many tournaments, and even has the move named after him i.e. "Daniels Opening"; until the rest of the world comes up with an effective

counter-move, or all switch to using the opening themselves. 

This brings me full circle to the gripping of the pick between thumb and middle finger ala Eddie Van Halen. 

In my 16 year old mind, when I adopted the strategy, I was trying to use some sort of unorthodox trick to give myself an advantage over all the other guitarists who held the pick the same way that their great grandfathers did. 

34 years later, I have decided that the experiment was a failure, in general. I have been swinging the pick like a baseball bat while other players have been having more success holding it like everybody else, er, except Eddie Van Halen and few others.

I have already caught up to where I had been using the middle finger, and have discovered that picking the strings is a lot more like writing with a pen, drawing upon a lot of the same neuro-connections which have been cultivated since kindergarten. 

Playing a melody is now a lot more like signing my name in that sense, something that I can do quickly, accurately and repetitively (I learned that the first time I bought a car from a dealership...this just say's that if you kill

someone with the car, we're not liable; sign right here by the X...).

Up With The Birds

Canned Ham Eating Northern Mockingbird

I was up at around 7:30, with the birds. 

The birds, (which I have learned are omnivorous, were attacking the remnants of a can of "cooked ham" which I had bought for myself at Save-A-Lot last night. 

I was half expecting them to spit the stuff back out; I could only finish less than half of it myself. 

I should have been tipped off by the instructions on the back of the tin that this was a food marketed towards idiots... 
To eat the cooked ham warm: Take it out of the can and heat it up (to 160 degrees); to eat the cooked ham cold: Take it out of the can and just eat it (between two slices of bread). Duh! 

That should have been a blatant clue for me that the cooked ham was "for the

birds." 

The bird that was dining upon the cooked ham ("cold" recipe) was

the big one out of the nest which is above my head as I sleep. 

He usually eats until he is full but then remains perched by the food as if guarding it; until such a time that he (and his mate, the smaller bird

from the nest above my head) has room for more.

Those birds have become more comfortable with my presence and no

longer wait for me to leave in the morning before attacking the food

that I leave behind. 

There was an period when they would wait until such a time that they saw me putting on my sneakers and loading my backpack and then would become quite animated with squawking and flitting about between branches. My bird-talk is a bit rusty from dis-use but I think they were saying "He's getting ready to leave!!" 

But now, the two (who are monogamous lifetime mates) which have figured out that I'm probably not a bird eater, will eat the food which is a mere 8 feet from me, which is what they were doing this morning. 

I had also thrown out a little piece of extra sharp cheddar cheese, which they loved enough to leave the cooked ham alone for a minute. 

Then, a rival bird (probably from Howards holly bush) swooped down and landed a couple of feet from the food. 

The big bird immediately jumped to within 3 feet of me; turned towards the rival bird and squawked. I think the squawk meant "Don't make me sic him on you!!" 

Having the bird so close to me, I was encouraged to say something

to it like: "How ya doing today, big bird?" This is something that the big bird has become accustomed to, as I often talk to him, having "nobody" else around (Well, there IS Howard; but the birds seem to respond more intelligently most times...) and so, the big bird didn't flinch but, at the sound of my voice the rival birl bolted off into the sky. The big bird then resumed its perch by the cooked ham and cheese, squawking away as it did. I think THOSE squawks meant: "You heard him, He said: 'Get away from the food and DON'T come back!!'" 

It is 10:35 a.m. and 56 degrees. I will record my morning warmup and hopefully the fruits of the new style of picking will be evident to listeners of that. Daniels Busking Axiom #8 

I was at The Big Clock spot, after my encounter with

the big bird, at 8p.m. sharp. It was 47 degrees. 

This is only 4 degrees above the temperature at which I used to quit playing on winter nights after sundown. I had found that my level of playing dropped with each degree below 43. Under 40 degrees the pick might drop from my fingers as well. 

The coldest temperature that I ever busked in was 38 degrees in

Jacksonville in a January; when I needed money; and I just used my thumb

to strum ala Laura Marling, that time. 

The Early Bird Gets The Worm

People are prone to say things like "I don't know how you can stand it

out here; I'm freezing," as they drop tips in those climes intending them to add up to the cost of a motel room rather quickly; proving Daniels Busking Axiom #8: "For every hardship endured; every effort made and any pain suffered; there will be a reward." 

My reward was only about 2 dollars this morning, though, or the cost of the bottomless cup of coffee which is allowing me to sit here in warmth and peck away. The jackhammers put me out of business after only 30 minutes.

One Third Pecking Away

Now, it is 10:57. I have been blogging for 1 hour and 50 minutes so far..so THAT'S where all my time is going! 

I've never timed myself before... 

OK, I have just opened another terminal and run the BASH shell command "wc," (or word count) on this file and I have written 1479 words in that hour and 50 minutes; so let's see...That is 13.4 words per minute. 

I can type around 40 words per minute; so I am spending two thirds of my time thinking and one third, pecking away...

Two In The Bush

One of the workers at Save-A-Lot had said that he was going to give me an acoustic guitar which was his brothers and which his brother never played because he has switched to electric, ala Bob Dylan.

All he could tell my about the guitar was that it is blue. This had me

hoping that it was a Washburn or an Ovation. 

But that might be a mute point as, I was informed by him yesterday that the guitar could not be found, and that it may be at a certain grandmothers house. He said that he will continue to look for it and promised to give it to me when it is found.

This illustrates one of the more frustrating aspects of Mobile,

Alabama. 

People and events seem to conspire to keep me here "just a

little longer." 

I could imagine that their intent is to hold me here until they can save my soul, just as the Lord will forsake the entire flock in order to run off after one stray sheep. This is a very "religious" community; and it is to their credit that they don't seem to want to run me out of town or kick me out of their churches; they seem to want me to remain here until I see the light and "accept" Jesus.*

Sitting On Their Eggs

*With the "accept"ion of the Government Street Presbetarian Church, which has barred me from their "Coffee Club" each morning and refuses to give me any more hard-boiled eggs, grits, toast, fruit and coffee,

because I threatened to kill the guy who was handing out chips to everyone, but didn't give me a bag. I was having a bad morning. See "No More Eggs For Me"

from about 2 years ago.

Sowing Seeds

Yesterday, the guy in Cathedral Park who was spreading grass seed and I struck up a conversation about grass. He said that I was the first

person that he had ever heard to criticize "St. Augustine" grass (It's too

coarse and clumpy; you could almost twist your ankle walking across

it...). 

He got around to asking me about my living situation and then

told me that he was going to talk to some people at his church about

getting me some things like a new guitar case and maybe a warm jacket

and who knows what else. He said that I seemed too intelligent to be homeless. ...Intelligence is as intelligence does, buddy...

He took my picture so that he could show it to them and said "They'll be by" to pray with me and help me out. Let's just hope that his church is not the Government Street Presbyterian Church! And, also, how long do I remain in Mobile, waiting for "them" to show up???