Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Hit By Three Hurricanes

I See London, I See France...
Darker Shading = More Traffic
Someone in France read 11 posts yesterday, according to my "stats," and I wonder if it might be related to my mentioning of Tanya and Dorise (they play in Paris every now and then).
I assume the United Kingdom traffic might be the Lidgleys, from London...
(And, yes; one person in Iraq checked in...)
I got a similar "bump" in traffic after posting about Lily, the banjo player; including a couple of pictures of her; one of my most popular pages of "all time," again, according to stats.
This makes me wonder if I should not just become a publicist for Tanya and Dorise or Lily, the banjo player instead of writing about myself!
Not So Fast...
Yesterday, I hit rock bottom again in a sense; and realised that I am hitting "rock bottom" more frequently; like the contractions of a woman in labor as she nears giving birth.
I woke up thinking that I was absolutely flat broke, and took this as an opportunity to continue on my juice fast/cleanse, something which always has the effect of cleansing the body of toxins; alleviating chronic aches and pains (my pinched nerve causing pain and weakness in my right shoulder, for example) and suppressing appetites for cigarettes and alcohol and eventually even food (at about day 6) and making it easy to focus upon less carnal matters and reduce anxiety in general.
This was fine with me, but as I sat there under the cedar trees, reading and thinking and gulping down apple-cranberry juice every hour or so, I had a thought occur to me:
Didn't I bury a coffee jar with a bunch of change in it, during Superbowl week?
I dug up the jar, containing $5.61 in assorted coins, which I had temporarily forgotten about.
As Bad As It Gets
I was soon going across the river on the ferry, driven by my symptoms of withdrawal from tobacco and alcohol.
Once on Canal Street, I was kind of surprised to see a good number of people.
I went to Uniques and got a Hurricane Lager, even though I had been "juicing it" for a day, and knew that it was probably going to hit me like it namesake.
The Guy Who Plays Guitar (but doesn't have one)
Random Picture
I walked onto Canal Street, where a guy whom I kind of recognized, seemed to kind of recognize me; and motioned me over.
He was friendly, told me that he himself played the guitar, even though his is under repair right now; one of the red flags that I have learned to notice ("the guy who plays guitar but doesn't have one") and he wanted a gulp off my beer. Of course, he wanted a gulp off my beer.
He wanted to hear me jam, and said "I might even be able to show you something on the guitar."
"Why don't you break it out right here; you might make some money," he said.
I started to recognize in him "The guy who sees the guitar on your back as some kind of opportunity for himself..." and remembered where I had seen him before: sitting next to a busker on
Royal Street, taking turns playing the guitar.
I told him that I was going to grab another beer, which might put me in the mood to play.
He asked me for a dollar.
I told him that I only had a little bit of change.
Since I had not even one whole Hurricane in me after he gulped down some of mine because "my throat is dry," I went off to Unique Boutique for another, and then left in a different direction than where he had been sitting.
I was toward the side of the Marriot, near Arbys and trying to sense if I wanted to play there, when the guy walked up. He followed me? 
He offered to find me a couple of milk crates to sit on.
At that point, I kind of rudely dismissed him and said that I was going to go and do "my own thing."
What bothered me most was the facade he was putting on that he was expending all this energy ostensibly because he wanted to hear me jam so much; when I knew that he was broke and his throat was dry.
I still felt a bit guilty as I walked kind of aimlessly through the Quarter after that.
I Get Too Drunk
There were some pretty raggedy gutter punks across from the Monteleone, where the clean people usually play. The expression on the doormans face might have expressed the entire establishments opinion of their sound.
I grabbed another beer on Decatur, which may have been one too many on a pretty much empty stomach.
Playing at my spot near there, with only change in my case for seed money; and watching gutter punk, after dog, after gutter punk, after dog walk past; harrassing the tourists so much that the tourists were probably reluctant to pull their wallets out in front of me; having already told a dozen "travelling kids" that they didn't have any money (We only carry plastic, sorry).
I played my best; but eventually started to get pissed off at myself for missing notes as too much alcohol seeped into my bloodstream; and I just got disgusted in general.
"Were You Just Leaving?"
"Never Mind Us; There's A Guy Blocking
The Sidewalk On Decatur Street!!"
I was packing up my stuff when the police car came to an abrupt stop not far from me and two officers got out, hurrying as if afraid that I was going to try to run.
It was not officer Adams this time, but two diffent ones, a white one and a black one.
"Let's see some ID," they said, without any preliminaries at all.
"Were you just leaving?" asked the white one, seeing my guitar already half in the case.
"Yes, I'm trying to leave here entirely. If I had made enough money for a bus ticket, I'd be on my way to Houston by now!"
I told them that I had lost my ID.
"I'm already in the system. I've been arrested before for obstructing the sidewalk!" I said, my dislike of New Orleans increasing by the second.
The black one went to the car to run my name and date of birth.
"Have you been going to all your courtdates?" asked the white one who stood by me as I continued to pack my stuff.
"Yes, I have one on March 7th."
The black one came back with news of the same two warrants that I had the last time.
"We're going to give you a break," said the white one. "You have two warrants," he added; perhaps to make me realize the magnitude of the break.
Maybe it was because I was packing up when they arrived; maybe it was because I expressed an intention to get out of here, and they could probably sense my discontentment with the place; and believ that I am trying to leave, that they let me go.
I walked the length of Decatur street back to the ferry, not relieved all to have been given a break, and very out of sorts, to say the least; cussing at strangers and not even thinking about trying to turn my luck around and make something of the evening; even after seeing that the casino was busy and my playing spot near there was vacant.
It was pretty apparent that the 3 Hurricane lagers on an empty stomach was a big part of what was ailing me; and so I guess I learned something there.
I woke up this morning penniless and trying in dread to remember everything that had happened the past night, hoping that I hadn't made too much of a jerk of myself....

No comments:

Post a Comment

Comments are like bottles that wash up with notes in them