It was so nice to get back to the apartment after having watched the Patriots defeat the Falcons, 23-7 at Howard Westra's house.
Early Monday morning, it was, and myself with the resources (after the 88 dollar Saturday night) to take the rest of that day, as well as Tuesday, off to do anything other than busk.
Howard is pretty well, for a 67 year old Dutchman. He has recently gotten the results of a battery of medical tests performed on him at the Veterans Administration hospital. All of them "negative," he said.
He still experiences stiffness in his joints or muscles, making it hard for him to hoist his leg over his bicycle. He thinks this is due to hardening of the arteries.
He came up with a solution to the problem, which didn't require surgery; in the form of a "girls" bike, that he doesn't have to lift his leg over the seat to mount.
It wasn't as easy to arrive at that solution, as it might sound, given that he was raised by his Dutch father to be a man's man; and no sissy.
He told me once that the biggest division between he and his father was over the fact that he (Howard) was a conscientious objector who went to Canada instead of Vietnam, back in '67.
Or, if he didn't go there, he wrote an essay articulating his objection to the war and sent it to Lyndon Johnson, or something; I forgot what he told me exactly.
I'm reminded of the times when Howard and I were train hopping and we often had to walk great distances, often at a quick pace, in order to catch up to a train that may have stopped a distance away.
He never once complained or asked me to slow down; he just trudged along behind me, determined to keep up, even if he was short of breath and/or drooling a bit.
I think it was kind of mean of me and I felt bad, especially once I got to know him better, and realized that he probably would have dropped dead before crying uncle. It felt kind of like senior citizen abuse on my part.
But, I really did want to gauge whether or not the guy was going to hinder my progress; towards California or wherever; like, could he hoist himself up into an empty boxcar? What if the train was moving? etc.
But, he was a trooper, and 15 years my senior, to boot. His father didn't raise no sissy...
He hadn't gotten his pictures of Alaska back from Photomat as of Sunday, by the way...
11:48 PM, For Future Reference
.
I walked about a mile and a half to the bus stop where the 115 and 114 stop; both of them bound for Canal Street, on the other side of the bridge that it is illegal to walk across.
It was 11:48 PM when the 114 went right past me, but then pulled over about 100 yards up the road, to allow me to jog up to it and hop on.
I had been standing at the right spot; but wasn't jumping up and down and waving my arms over my head, I guess was the problem. It was also being driven by the same black driver who had left me stranded that one time who may have decided, after a hundred yards of thinking, to stop after recognizing me as such.
The Studio
I am psyched to record vocals somewhere that I can sing full volume. The apartment is just too musically claustrophobic.
At the Lilly Pad, I sing as loudly as I can, at times. There are usually enough extraneous noises in the area to make it seem like that is what is required in order to be heard from the other side of the street. In the "when life deals you lemons, make lemonade" category; when the trash truck stops in front of the bar, I use the opportunity to test out songs that I might have a notion to perform, but aren't sure I can hit the notes without my voice cracking. Amidst the din of the hydraulic hopper, I can try a few bars of "The House Of The Rising Sun" in order to determine whether or not I can sing it in The Animals vocal range, or if I had better Lou Reed my way through it.
The harmonica functions like a horn -an automotive horn- in the sense that it can attract attention. I can use it over a song that otherwise has vocals that don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of being audible from more than 50 feet away, such as "Something," by The Beatles, making it possible to do it and its ilk. If tourists think they recognize the song, and want to come closer to me to satisfy their curiosities, then I can jump to the lyrics. That might produce a "Oh, hell yeah; The Beatles!" out of them; along with a tip.
Oh, Yeah, The Studio
I am ready to try to find an inexpensive auger.
We used to use an auger to drill one inch diameter holes in the maple trees in the woods behind our house in Massachusetts, when the sap was running in spring.
I'm running the risk that the steel grate which covers the window of the door that I want to get through, extends the length of the door, to include the area that I want to squeeze my body through. I guess I can save the receipt from the purchase of the auger, then return it for a refund, should it not prove to be effective.
And, incidentally, I guess I'm running the risk of being arrested for breaking and entering, too.
I might put an ad on Craigs List in hopes of finding someone who has more "office space for rent" than he does renters, and who might have some bare room with no electricity that he wouldn't mind me holding a key to, as long as I keep leaving a ten dollar bill, but no trash, behind.
That would be the responsible law abiding way to go...
And, what am I going to do with an auger the other 364 days of the year? Ain't no maple syrup trees down here. Maybe I can start making rubber.
The Drawing
Some time Monday night, I grabbed a couple of pencils and a sheet from the drawing tablet that Alex In California sent me a little more than a year ago (I have this nagging feeling that I forgot to thank him for it) and made the sketch shown above and below. I had just grabbed a dark one (that turned out to be purple) and a lighter one (that turned out to be green) and an even lighter (orange) one to use on the thing.
The top example, I ran through the GIMP editor's "desaturate" filter to render it in black and white, the way it would have come out had I just grabbed a black pencil.
Not necessarily would it have, though, because I would have been forced to use variable pressure on the thing for contrast, and would have had to find my sharpener, which I've misplaced, to put a fine tip on it, for detailing. Of course, fine detail should be the least of my concerns, I'm lucky if the thing comes out resembling a human face...
I learned through the exercise, that lighter colors can be used in place of different degrees of pressure on the pencil. Rather than easing up on the lighter areas, I can just switch to the lighter colored pencils and draw with regular pressure.
.
I guess I could call the drawing: "Rose, At Ten" since the orange wound up coloring some of the hair, and since, I may have been subconsciously rendering Rose in pencil on paper. I consciously didn't put all my cash on my AMEX card, sensing that an opportunity to profit from the lending trade may present itself, if Rose and Ed's monthly pattern plays out. Usually on the 24th or 25th of each month she calls, wanting to borrow between 30 and 50 bucks, offering to pay me back double.
I have, on the more recent loans, reduced their interest rate to a less exorbitant 50%.
 |
| Leisure time to sit and draw; and not feel like I'm shirking responsibilities... |
Howard is pretty well, for a 67 year old Dutchman. He has recently gotten the results of a battery of medical tests performed on him at the Veterans Administration hospital. All of them "negative," he said.
He still experiences stiffness in his joints or muscles, making it hard for him to hoist his leg over his bicycle. He thinks this is due to hardening of the arteries.
He came up with a solution to the problem, which didn't require surgery; in the form of a "girls" bike, that he doesn't have to lift his leg over the seat to mount.
It wasn't as easy to arrive at that solution, as it might sound, given that he was raised by his Dutch father to be a man's man; and no sissy.
He told me once that the biggest division between he and his father was over the fact that he (Howard) was a conscientious objector who went to Canada instead of Vietnam, back in '67.
Or, if he didn't go there, he wrote an essay articulating his objection to the war and sent it to Lyndon Johnson, or something; I forgot what he told me exactly.
"Whatever, sissy." -L.B.J.Considering the big picture, his dad had concluded that, no, it wasn't because Howard was a coward that he didn't go to fight. I guess the lad had demonstrated ample chutzpah throughout the rest of his life, to warrant that assessment.
It would have been a disgrace,
had lack of courage been his case,
but on moral grounds, he was able to save face.
Let's not, though, stir the pot, he might have thought,
by riding a girl's bike past him.
For that, the old guy might have thought he ought to surely lambaste him.
I'm reminded of the times when Howard and I were train hopping and we often had to walk great distances, often at a quick pace, in order to catch up to a train that may have stopped a distance away.
He never once complained or asked me to slow down; he just trudged along behind me, determined to keep up, even if he was short of breath and/or drooling a bit.
I think it was kind of mean of me and I felt bad, especially once I got to know him better, and realized that he probably would have dropped dead before crying uncle. It felt kind of like senior citizen abuse on my part.
But, I really did want to gauge whether or not the guy was going to hinder my progress; towards California or wherever; like, could he hoist himself up into an empty boxcar? What if the train was moving? etc.
But, he was a trooper, and 15 years my senior, to boot. His father didn't raise no sissy...
He hadn't gotten his pictures of Alaska back from Photomat as of Sunday, by the way...
11:48 PM, For Future Reference
.
I walked about a mile and a half to the bus stop where the 115 and 114 stop; both of them bound for Canal Street, on the other side of the bridge that it is illegal to walk across.
It was 11:48 PM when the 114 went right past me, but then pulled over about 100 yards up the road, to allow me to jog up to it and hop on.
I had been standing at the right spot; but wasn't jumping up and down and waving my arms over my head, I guess was the problem. It was also being driven by the same black driver who had left me stranded that one time who may have decided, after a hundred yards of thinking, to stop after recognizing me as such.
The Studio
I am psyched to record vocals somewhere that I can sing full volume. The apartment is just too musically claustrophobic.
At the Lilly Pad, I sing as loudly as I can, at times. There are usually enough extraneous noises in the area to make it seem like that is what is required in order to be heard from the other side of the street. In the "when life deals you lemons, make lemonade" category; when the trash truck stops in front of the bar, I use the opportunity to test out songs that I might have a notion to perform, but aren't sure I can hit the notes without my voice cracking. Amidst the din of the hydraulic hopper, I can try a few bars of "The House Of The Rising Sun" in order to determine whether or not I can sing it in The Animals vocal range, or if I had better Lou Reed my way through it.
The harmonica functions like a horn -an automotive horn- in the sense that it can attract attention. I can use it over a song that otherwise has vocals that don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of being audible from more than 50 feet away, such as "Something," by The Beatles, making it possible to do it and its ilk. If tourists think they recognize the song, and want to come closer to me to satisfy their curiosities, then I can jump to the lyrics. That might produce a "Oh, hell yeah; The Beatles!" out of them; along with a tip.
 |
| Better stick with me, Daniel... |
Oh, Yeah, The Studio
I am ready to try to find an inexpensive auger.
 |
| 5 bucks @ Pawnshop? |
I'm running the risk that the steel grate which covers the window of the door that I want to get through, extends the length of the door, to include the area that I want to squeeze my body through. I guess I can save the receipt from the purchase of the auger, then return it for a refund, should it not prove to be effective.
And, incidentally, I guess I'm running the risk of being arrested for breaking and entering, too.
I might put an ad on Craigs List in hopes of finding someone who has more "office space for rent" than he does renters, and who might have some bare room with no electricity that he wouldn't mind me holding a key to, as long as I keep leaving a ten dollar bill, but no trash, behind.
That would be the responsible law abiding way to go...
And, what am I going to do with an auger the other 364 days of the year? Ain't no maple syrup trees down here. Maybe I can start making rubber.
The Drawing
Some time Monday night, I grabbed a couple of pencils and a sheet from the drawing tablet that Alex In California sent me a little more than a year ago (I have this nagging feeling that I forgot to thank him for it) and made the sketch shown above and below. I had just grabbed a dark one (that turned out to be purple) and a lighter one (that turned out to be green) and an even lighter (orange) one to use on the thing.
The top example, I ran through the GIMP editor's "desaturate" filter to render it in black and white, the way it would have come out had I just grabbed a black pencil.
Not necessarily would it have, though, because I would have been forced to use variable pressure on the thing for contrast, and would have had to find my sharpener, which I've misplaced, to put a fine tip on it, for detailing. Of course, fine detail should be the least of my concerns, I'm lucky if the thing comes out resembling a human face...
I learned through the exercise, that lighter colors can be used in place of different degrees of pressure on the pencil. Rather than easing up on the lighter areas, I can just switch to the lighter colored pencils and draw with regular pressure.
.
 |
| Rose At Ten |
I have, on the more recent loans, reduced their interest rate to a less exorbitant 50%.
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