The Pinkberry Spot

A Quick 8 Bucks

Last night, it was, once again almost 11 PM, before I went out to busk.

I had been at the Uxi Duxi until they closed at 8 PM, then found the Petco closed, 'cause it was Sunday, so went into Rouses Market next door to it and got Harold some food, and myself a dozen brown eggs, a gallon of water, and a pound of butter. I'm taking this weight gaining thing seriously.
I've been getting a creatine monohydrate drink from the GNC daily, to mix with my kratom shots. And, I've been working out with the chunk of concrete with a fence pole through it that I had found nearby the apartment and lugged inside, which probably weighs 58 pounds; if I had to guess...

I almost bought a pound of ground buffalo, but it was 11 bucks; and I remember thinking that it tasted "gamey," the last time I tried it.
I got back to the apartment and smoked a bowl with Travis, and then set up my microphone to capture myself just sitting on the couch and playing "informally." I was hoping to capture Travis talking over myself so that I could turn it into some kind of mix song later. He didn't disappoint.
He has the habit of talking about and artist all through the performance by that artist, whether it is on the radio or played live.
While I played a George Harrison song, he gave a talk about the Beatles post-Beatles stuff, stopping only when I was singing.
I decided, once on the trolley, to stay on until it got all the way to the casino and then set up in front of the Pinkberry place.

It is a louder spot, and one that I have played at before, usually when I was busking after 3 in the morning, since the casino never sleeps.
The harmonica was able to compete with the traffic noises and a good number of the people passing by threw me a buck, or some change.
One guy showed up; a "cheerleader," for lack of a better sniglett to describe his type, and profusely complemented my playing, stood nearby and applauded between songs; encouraged other tourists to tip; told me that he was going to check me out "every time I come here", and that he would tip me, but he was broke...
And, ultimately when seeing me packing up, produced a clock from somewhere, which he tried to sell me for a dollar. "This is worth 8 bucks, but I'm only trying to get a dollar for the bus," he said.
I probably should have bought the thing, which was about the size of an ashtray and had a black face with white hands. I had about 50 bucks, including the 8 dollars that I had made in about an hour. The clock would have made a good conversation piece, especially if the subject of guys that hang around and listen and wind up asking for money rather than tipping, came up.
It was probably worth 8 dollars.
"No, sorry, I didn't even make enough to get cigarettes," I told him. I had left only 3 dollars in my basket, putting the rest in my pocket, mostly so it wouldn't blow away on such a windy night as it was; so this was plausible. After I left, he sat down in the same spot to skeeze, I assume.