I played for a good solid hour, hitting a sweet spot when about 22 dollars went into my jar; then showed up a "friend" of mine; who was drunk and being a jerk.
I have seen him around.
He once sat next to me and requested an original song; and then gushed encomiums upon me and the song; and has even pointed me out to others around the Quarter and said something to the effect of: "This guy writes awesome original songs...weird stuff; but great."
But then, I noticed that every time I encounter him; he asks me if I have any weed. He asks me if I will roll it up and smoke him up, at no cost to him.
He lives here; and certainly knows where to go and buy it.
Last night, he sat on Lilly's stoop next to me and began to rant, in a loud voice about something. I am still not sure what he was trying to yell, but I knew that I wasn't going to make any money with him sitting there spewing forth.
The 22 dollar stretch came to a grinding halt.\
Then, he wanted to play my guitar.
He had played it on one other occasion; and wasn't too impressive with his skill; and was dangerously close to bashing the strings with an errant strum; you're not really supposed to whack them with a closed fist; it stretches them, so they come back out of tune; or worse, it breaks them.
I have very new strings on the Takamine; and planned to record music using it; as soon as I got home; and I just preferred that he not play probably the very same song that I hadn't been impressed with the first time.
He kept reaching for the instrument; grabbing it by the neck once; and begging to be able to play it.
He owns a guitar, and actually brought it by the spot one time and played it. We didn't score any tips during that jam, I recall.
Then, he wanted a sip off of my wine.
The bottle had been sitting there next to me, but when I grabbed it, he said: "Oh, you got wine...what kind is that; can I see?"
He wanted me to hand him the bottle for his "inspection". I was sure that he was going to pop the cork; tip it up and drink off of it; unbidden. His frustration over not being able to play my guitar needed another outlet through which to vent itself, I guess.
I showed him the bottle and said: "See, Taylor cream sherry; nothing special; they sell this everywhere; I'm sure you've seen it before..."
I put the bottle back down next to me and began to play some; whereupon, he walked over and picked up the bottle, commented upon the brand name and type of wine; and then when I looked up, as he was saying "...not bad," and wiping his lips; I realized that he had just basically stolen from me.
"Did you just TAKE a sip off my bottle?!" I fumed.
His answer to that inquiry was to bend down and snatch up my pack of cigarettes; as if about to help himself to one of those.
I was able to snatch it back from his grasp.
"Get the f*** out of my hustle, dude, can you understand that?!?"
He apparently couldn't.
At that point, I started packing up my stuff; with him saying: "So, you're not gonna let me play your guitar?" as I was bagging it up.
I could have rung Lilly's bell and had her run him off, under threat of prosecution, but, I was almost ready to call it a night and split my time between making a decent little 22 dollars; and making a decent little CD in my "studio."
The Guy Turns "Leslie" On Me
Then, the guy (who already reminded me of Leslie Thompson, in that, if I were casting the part of the shopkeeper in a screen adaptation of "Needful Things," the Stephen King creation; I would cast either him, or Leslie Thompson with the same effect -there is something satanic about both of them) then the guy turned Leslie Thompson on me; referring to the one time that he paid for us to shoot 4 games of pool out of his own quarters; failing to mention the couple of times that I had just handed him a roach of pot; and then completing the vignette, by calling me stingy, greedy, a jerk, a retard, an idiot, etc.
The only thing he doesn't ask me for is money -just everything else I might have.
He talks about having jobs; having a truck; and playing piano at the Hotel Montdeleone. That is where Billy Joel jumped on the piano one night when he was playing in town and staying there.
Beware of people who say that they play the piano at the Hotel Montdeleone but who can hardly play 3 chords on a guitar -they may be pathological liars; or worse. I wonder why, when I walk with the guy nobo,,,
The time that we had shot pool, he was dry, but I was drinking.
He had actually commented that time, about the fact that he was sober and told me that, if I ever wanted to give up drinking; I could always meet him there, and we would shoot pool and drink soda, and he would support me in that way in my effort to stay sober.....
Now, he was so trashed as to be yelling gibberish to whomever it may concern...
I left, and caught the 12:50 AM streetcar, back to my place, where I recorded a track which I deleted this morning. I will re-do it tonight.
Tonight
It is a little after 5 PM, and I hope to replicate last evening and make at least 22 dollars.
I want to buy a percussion instrument; at least some wood blocks to use on "My Favorite Mule," to simulate the sound of hooves; and hopefully a tambourine.
A Gym
The Sacred Heart Apartments is in the process of installing an exercise room, complete with weights and treadmills, etc.
This comes as great news to someone who used to do heavy, physical labor every day and who now feels like a scarecrow when it comes to muscle tone (although my finger muscles are pretty toned in my forearms; and my walking muscles are those of a man 15 years younger).
Howard
Howard is actually on the "list" at Sacred Heart Apartments.
I was talking to the management about the fact that Howard had been denied admittance into the building on that night that we watched the Patriots/Colts game; despite the fact that he had his VA identification on him. They tossed his veteran ass out onto the street.
When I told Vallerie, the building manager, what my friends name was; she recalled it, and told me that he was on the list.
When I told her where Howard was staying, she nodded her head, as if to imply that she was familiar with that particular spot along the Mississippi River on the Algiers side, where many fish for, and catch, catfish almost 3 feet long; and where Howard has his tent.
"He's stuck in such a routine; that he never comes around here to try to sign up for a place; it will take one of you to go out there and drag him here....I can play you a song real quick; about that routine, if you'd like..."
Howards name is now inscribed upon a certain pad on the desk at the front entrance, and I have been assured that; should the two of us return late Sunday night, after watching the Patriots solidly trounce the Seattle Seahawks, that Howard would be let in.
After one night at my place, I think his sentiments will be: "Gee, I should have signed up a long time ago; I've got 14 years in the Air Force...."
Good on you for looking out for Howard. He sort of disappeared from your blog for quite a long time.
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