Monday, April 28, 2014

33 Dollar Sunday

I'm at the library.
I read the Sunday paper until almost dawn. Then, I read some more of "Rose Madder," by Stephen King (about 30 pages left) until I was doing it by orange sunlight; but I still managed to sit up at about 1:30 p.m. and swill down some instant coffee and go.
The night before, I had eaten another huge tub of salad (field greens, spinach, lettuce, olive oil, vinegar, cajun mustard and a splash of strawberry jam as the "secret ingredient").
Before that, I had had a 33 dollar night.
I sat down before sundown, and was really just tuning up and had my case next to me but not open and with none of my own money to seed it.
I was playing alright, I thought, when a well dressed man approached and I could see his eyes scanning for a tip jar and him biting his lower lip a bit on the side in an expression which said: No tip jar?!" before he stuffed a folded up 10 dollar bill in between the zippers of the case.
After that start, I set up the sharks and everything, seeded them with 3 of my own dollars, and managed to get about 3 more, in the hour and a half leading up to when a lady sat and listened and cried at one point, and shot a video which she said that I could find on Facebook (she friended me right then and there), and then gave me 20 dollars.
It was only 10 p.m., the crowd was small (though anything can happen with my biggest [$170] tip coming on such a night when that tipper pretty much had the block to himself) and I decided to give myself the luxury of knocking of and getting an early start on my reading and then an earlier start to the day. *why, look how much I have written compared to yesterday*  I figured that I had gotten lucky in making 33 bucks in less than 2 hours and took it as a sign that the universe was giving me some time off to do other things.
I woke up with 40 bucks on me, 120 stashed, and about 40 in the "3%" jar-which-under-no-circumstances-will-or-can-ever-be-tapped-into.
Dear Readers
I am thinking of getting another laptop of some sort, so that I can put more into this blog, dear readers. I look at this blog like a Victorian house that needs a lot of sanding and painting, and I might even have to use a lathe to create replacements for the bannisters around the porch....
"Monsters," The Song
I puffed a little on a blunt; and was soon adding to an original of mine called: "Monsters." 
It is tentatively about the fraternity of Catholic high school "brothers in Christ," who were once my classmates, whose parents, like mine, ponied up the tuition in order to create "Christian Leaders" out of us. You get what you pay for...
I remember one day, looking around from a vantage point near the middle of the classroom (My last name beginning with the letter "M," I often found myself situated near the middle of the room, somewhere near Lisa Miller) I think it was Mrs. Cottingsworths* English class -she was rumored to have had a senior boy or two "crash at her place," on certain occasions, by the way.
My gaze fell upon Michael Sullivan, and especially his shiny brown leather shoes, not even broken in looking because he only wore them for school and most of that was sitting.
I looked at his sport coat, haircut, but mostly his posture.
We were having some kind of quiz and he was covering his answers with hands, forearms, torso, and had even unbuttoned and opened his jacket, to block out the view from that angle.
He had apparently done his homework; was confident in his answers; knew that some other weaker, less disciplined students had not done their homework, and Michael surely wasn't going to piss away that advantage by letting anyone cheat off of him.
Because college scholarships were at stake here.
To good schools. 
Kids that don't do their homework shouldn't get to go to those schools, period; and since Mike had done the work, why should he not get the spoils.
So, the song "Monsters," is tentatively about how my Christian brothers in cuddly sweater vests were already in competition with me; and were poised to to escalate matters to trying to chew me up and spit me out  in the real world, and would, after beating me in business; have my head stuffed and mounted on an office wall; with the others...
*Name changed to protect Mrs. Gorton.
The Cost Of A Charge
I am charging my mp3 player in the computer. The manual said to charge it for 6 hours when it is totally drained.
It came totally drained right out of Radio Shack.
The most charging/babysitting the thing that I have been able to stand has been about 2 hours. After 2 hours, I had written some lyrics, smoked a blunt, listened back to the recordings that I had made at the Lilly spot; and the Ghost of Opportunity Lost was telling me that, on such a beautiful 80 degree day with light dry breezes, there could very well be happy tourists walking past my spot.
I am thinking of getting some kind of power inverter, along with a plastic battery harness type thing, into which I could stuff like 8 AA batteries, and maybe be able to listen for hours off them.
The Usefulness Of The Mp3 Player
The small charges, which I have been able to administer to the thing, in between living life, have only been enough to power it through about an hour of recording, roosted upon my left thigh as I sit Indian style, but not enough to then, listen back while lying at my sleeping spot; trying to totally detach my ego from it and using it as a sound track for daydreams; or sometimes actually picturing myself  hearing what I am hearing somewhere, and it being someone else; and wondering if I would dig the music; if it were someone else
Then, there are the spontaneous lyrics which I might add to a song which I am writing/compiling, such as "Purple Heart," which I have a lot of lyrics for, and a few chord changes but with which I am not finished.
It is about Fred*, a disabled Veteran, whom I met as he was hobbling across San Jose Boulevard in Jacksonville, Florida., leaning on a cane, back in 2007.
He asked me for assistance in getting across (He was putting his life on the line; wearing that olive green camouflaged jacket; all in quest of a pint of vodka) "It's like they don't even see me!"
"They don't want me back there, no more. I'll have to go to this other store," continue the lyrics (hats off to Dr. Seuss).
He wanted to panhandle up a pint of the cheap stuff; 'Cause the VA clinic never seems to do help him ease his pain "...Hey, it's my medicine!"
But Fred has a Purple Heart in his backpack
With something torn up; which might once have been a snack pack.
A metal pin on his chest from the president; metal pins for the rest from a resident,
That's all Fred got;
And, oh yeah, Fred got shot..

Well, Fred proceeds in the song to get booted from the other parking lot because he was knocking upon drivers windows  "Can you help a disabled Vet?; I'm in pain, I need vodka, I've got pins in my legs, I don't get my check until next Wednesday..."
They don't want me over there, they don't like me over here
His face becomes like granite.
Where to they want me to do; go to another planet?!?

It should be a cool song, if I keep it simple, in tribute to the way Fred played the guitar. He was an excellent pianist, but played every song on the guitar using the same 3 chords.

to be cont

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