I Ponder A Future With The Brown Hat

• A Hat Of A Different Color
• 10 Dollar Sunday
• Plasma Lab Monday

"I like your hat, by the way!" was the second complement of the night that I wore the brown hat for the first time in probably over a year.
"If I had a 70 dollar hat, I would wear it all the time and would never wear the 20 dollar one, because, when people see the 20 dollar hat on your head, they will never suppose that you have a 70 dollar hat at home, but will think you are a lower class person, and will tip accordingly," I can't actually remember who told me that, but, I guess it stands to reason that , well...

If  you walk into a church wearing kind of shabby clothes, it might invite the speculation by someone of "Those are his best clothes?"

"I hear what you said and, no, I have a fine suit at home."

"Well then, why don't you wear it to church, that's what your 'Sunday best' is for..."

So, some of my busking audience might think the black hat "must be" my best one.

The brown hat was a gift from Dorise and Tanya.

Within a couple days of Dorise having said: "We've got to get Daniel a hat," based upon the appearance of my hair, which hadn't been cut in 5 years, and had been hidden under one type of hat or other most of that time; one materialized.

I think I had lost my hat, and was trying to sport my hair in some way by tying a string around my head, with results that might have given me pause to improvise at least a bandana to hide it, had I not  been homeless and not in possession of a mirror. I have a photo from this time period, and looking at it now, it depicts what might as well be the "poster child" for men in need of hats.

I almost hold my "friends" at the time in retroactive contempt for none of them having said, at least, "Dude, you need a haircut," as friends.

I think I may have been subconsciously testing Tanya and Dorise's unconditional love for mankind, and their conviction that everything is just the way it should be, and so that is good. My hair was beautiful because it was my hair, type of thing.

Love Is Blind, And Can't Smell

I once walked up upon them and they had a smallish girl, who was playing violin along with Tanya, and she was wearing sort of like a tank top, which revealed unshaven armpits; and the body odor coming off of that girl was so strong that, when she started bowing the violin, I stepped back, afraid that that particular action was going to fan it and make it even worse.

Tanya was sitting there right by her, and Dorise was not far away, and they were acting like she didn't stink to high heaven. She exuded the odor of a girl who had stunk the day before and was now bathing bacteria in fresh sweat -bacteria which have mutated into more potent smelling strains of themselves, because they are the great great grandchildren of the funk of days past.

I looked back and forth between the pair with a "You've got to be kidding me!" attitude.

I wanted to approach the girl, and say something in a good nature, like: "Girl, you sure are working up a sweat!, sweating up a storm, aren't you?"

I get that she was probably from a European country where girls don't shave their armpits, and that she "had something to say" on the violin. And that some people are actually attracted by body odor; believing that it embodies the essence of a person, with all their pheromones being put on display, and that, at some primitive level, it is a key component of really getting to know a person, to be able to smell her fear, her hopes and dreams; honesty or lack of it, etc.

Plus, it might give a clue to where a person has been hanging around, and whether or not they have a cat.


Any jail that I ever stayed in for any period of time imparted its own unique odor to my armpits, the times I was sweaty after having sat in front of a judge for sentencing earlier that day, perhaps, and hadn't wanted to jump in the shower because maybe some pervert from the block was sitting and watching men shower. And, the whole block would wind up smelling the same way. If your cellmate needed a shower, then it would be that one particular, sometimes earthy, sometimes metallic, sometimes leathery, smell on him, too.

But, while Tanya smiled and conversed with the girl, without any trace of revulsion on her face, it dawned upon me (besides the fact that Tanya must have been holding her breath) that, the sky was now the limit upon how repulsive and/or disgusting I may actually be presenting myself as, to the world. I wouldn't have become any the wiser on the matter, through Tanya. Just because she gave me a friendly smile didn't mean that I warranted one. She would never tell me that I stink.

"The Chinese are very good at telling you what they think you want to hear" -Howard Westra

I slept under a wharf with rats, and had alcohol and tobacco on my breath most of the time, and so the experience with the girl playing the violin was a revelation of sorts.

Within a couple days of Dorise having said: "We need to get Daniel a hat," somehow they came in possession of the brown hat that I now wear, in the kind of uncanny way of someone having just given it to them, with words to the effect of: "Maybe you know someone who needs a hat..."

That was when believing in magic was in season; and believing that, if you are doing the work on this earth that you are supposed to be doing, everything will conspire in your favor; and that New Orleans reached out its invisible spiritual tentacles and brought you there. Most of the tenants that David the Water Jug Player holds, and his philosophical teachings fall in line with this almost unspoken religion that borrows from voodoo and Rastafarianism.

That was when I saw Dorise as some sort of priestess, who could exercise powers in order to make hats materialize, could teach music by example (the example of a woman making $2,000 in a single day of busking is a good example of a good example) and who could place charms upon other musicians by letting them sit in with her and her minion, after which, the musician would leave on cloud nine, having become a better musician through the interaction and would have a blessed and charmed night.

So, I underwent a period when I had half a mind to believe that, like Frosty the Snowman, the placing of this hat which had mysteriously been given to Dorise out of the blue upon my head, gave me the ability to dance about, and to not melt...

"Hey, Daniel!!" she had yelled, while standing behind a van with its back doors open to reveal all of their equipment.

"We've been looking for you all day!," she added, for it was rare for a day to go by, when my path to and from the wharf took me past their playing spot, without them having seen me at least once.

Evincing surprise at the timing of event herself, she gushed: "Here you go. A guy just gave us this hat last night. It's you! As soon as we saw it we thought of you!"

It is the hat that I had fought a skeezer over, in the alley next to the Popeye's Chicken on Canal Street.

The skeezer had come along and started to berate me with: "What the hell are you looking at?!?" and went on to inform me that he didn't like me, and that I had a "bad vibe," etc.

He got right in front of me and even, at one point, gave me a mild slap to the side of the face, as he ranted.

But, after he knocked the brown hat off my head, and I looked at it, envisioning Dorise laying there on the sidewalk, next to a rather large puddle, which I don't doubt the skeezer had intentions of kicking her into; I found that I had sufficient motivation to exclaim: "You knocked my hat off my head?!?" and then to stand up and do my best to knock that skeezer, who was 20 years younger, but even skinnier, than I, out.

I got him up against a car, flailing my fists at his head, and aiming my knee for his "Charlie horse" region. When he stopped fighting back, I picked the hat up off the sidewalk, placed it back on my head, and then sat back down where I had been.

I blogged about that, maybe 3 years ago, now (see: "I Fight A Skeezer" from 2014). The funny thing was that, I saw him again later that evening, and he told me: "Man, if you ever come at me again like that, I'll kill you." ...not with your bare hands you won't...

But, that is some of the history of the brown hat.

And, maybe, I am entertaining some musings about playing with Tanya Huang, and the hat is kind of a connection to that.

Last (Sunday) night, it was clear that the Voodoo Fest had run its course, and there was that "you just missed everything" vibe permeating the place; the same one you get when you come around a corner to see workers sweeping up confetti and the debris from a parade.

I felt like I should have stayed out and milked Saturday night for all it was worth. The DJ with the sound system surely would have departed by 1 AM or so at the latest. Then I could have played from then until 3 AM, but that is just water under the bridge now.

An Ace In The Hole

I went over the bridge to sell plasma earlier today.

I'm finishing this post outside the Uxi Duxi, having gotten there at about 7 PM.

I left the apartment at 1 PM.

Trolleys, waiting, buses, walking, the machine not reading my thumbprint when I tried to log in at the plasma place, being drained of my plasma, more walking, more waiting, the 114 bus driver telling me I couldn't bring my Rock Star "zero" energy drink on the bus with me, waiting for the next bus, more waiting, another trolley, more walking, and I was back at the apartment at 6 PM. I had spent 5 hours getting 15 dollars.

Disgusted, I just went about my routine, stopping for a creatine monohydrate drink at GNC, and then continuing to the Uxi Duxi for a double shot of Green Borneo kratom, out of my plasma money.
I hooked Harold the Cat up with a couple cans of his favorite wet food, and one can of his highly favored "salmon florentine" by Fancy Feast.

He gave a few half heart-ed meows when I came out of the apartment at about 6:10 PM to embark upon my routine.

I hadn't smoked any weed all day; having chosen not to make myself artificially joyful for the plasma run. I took a few puffs, before going out.

Then, when I had gone about a block in the direction of the trolley stop, with the trolley within sight and headed that way, I remembered that I had put my all day bus pass in the book that I had been reading while being drained of plasma, as a bookmark. I had stuffed my laptop and AC plug into my pack, but had not brought the book.

As the pot started to "mellow me out," I had to make a decision.

If I were to go back to the apartment to get the pass, I would miss the trolley that was right down the tracks,  and would have to wait 20 minutes for the next one. It takes me 25 minutes to walk to the Uxi Duxi.

I started walking back towards the apartment. It seemed like, since I had taken those steps toward it, and away from the Uxi Duxi, I might as well keep going back to get the pass. But, then I thought that I could beat the next trolley to the Uxi Duxi on foot, and that time was the real issue, not convenience; so I started walking towards the Uxi Duxi.

"I just might have to quit smoking pot; for real..."

But, then I thought about what I was going to do after leaving that "hippie bar." I would have to walk all the way back; when I had a perfectly good pass that I had paid 3 dollars for between pages 118 and 119 of "Crossing To Safety," by Wallace Stegner, at the apartment. And, what if, while at the Uxi Duxi, the need arises for me to take a trolley somewhere, like to Harrah's Casino to watch Monday Night Football. Who knows what kind of hare the kratom might let out of the cage.

I reversed direction, towards the apartment.

But, then I thought about the time involved; 20 more minutes waiting for the trolley, and then a 15 minute walk that I'm going to have to make anyways; to the Uxi Duxi. The next trolley would get me there about 8 minutes later than if I walked the whole way...

I reversed direction again; wondering if anyone was watching me vacillate; and thinking very gravely: "I just might have to quit smoking pot; for real..."

"Pot's Messing With Me"

Given that "everyone is different," I have a theory that there are "alpha" pot smokers, and "beta" ones.

The alpha smokers develop a sharp, tactically adept mind after smoking and are able to be manipulative and conniving, when they are baked.

The betas become like smoke in the wind; wishy washy, non committal and aimless. They become malleable to the alpha smokers will, and may just use marijuana in social settings precisely for the advantage that they gain over the betas.

"Hmm hmm hmm, I'm gonna try to shoot the moon

and not give him squat...peck, peck, peck; hee hee hee"

For example, when  Travis Blain had offered me a hundred dollars to keep a good deal of his stuff in storage at my place, we were passing a bowl of weed back and forth between us.

Sure enough, I began to connect with my divinity within and feel guilty, as the weed "mellowed me out," about demanding that much money, just for baring with a pile of stuff in the corner of a room, that wasn't costing me anything, except as being an eyesore.

I began to look at things in a more spiritual light, and could feel the presence of The Lord, with phrases such as "If your brother should ask you for your shirt, offer him your coat also," "treat your neighbor as you would wish to be treated yourself," etc. pecking at my conscious like wrens at a feeder.

Then, in my THC fog, I uttered the paraphrase of: "Aw, shucks, I can't ask you for that much money...buddy...pal...ol' chum..." which seemed to have opened a window, through which Travis caught glimpse of daylight, and inspired hope, and intensified his longing to feel the rays of the totally-free-of-charge sun falling upon him.

I can remember the glow on his face as he thanked me "from the heart," for my generosity; and I actually felt like there was a degree of love between us, at that point. Agape, eros, storge or philia love, I'm not sure; that's all Greek to me.

But, in retrospect, Travis Blain could have been playing me for a beta smoke; and taking my generosity as a sign of weakness. ...yeah, I'm skating through this situation...let me just stand pat and let him do all the talking  for a while, for a change...I think he might just be about to offer me his coat...type of thing.

"Here you go, bud; want another hit?"

10 Dollar Sunday

Sunday night, I only made about 10 bucks. I had a couple people come and hang out who complemented my stuff, and threw a few bucks each.

I was doing my song "Pot's Messing With Me," as, it was appropriate under the circumstances, and, with lines like: "Pot's messing with me; making me forget the chords," it has a built in fail-safe; should I forget the chords.

But, it is Monday night, 10 PM. Busking would have to be done with the goal of making perhaps another 15 dollars. It's the festival hangover, when a lot of employees get the night off, after having busted their asses through the weekend.

I've got cat food, cigarettes, some pot, and can now make flax-seed pancakes, having splurged 3 dollars upon myself, about the same as what I spent on cat food.

I'm God, I can do this...

Harold the cat might be an incarnation of Krishna.

I got him on the same day that I had found a brand new copy of the Bhagavad Gita, sitting in an abandoned shopping cart. The cover of the book may have been created using the fir of whatever kind of cat Harold is, as a background pattern; the colors match so well.

On the night that I got shot just under my right eye by a paintball, I thought that bad luck was running in a streak, after I came home and was unable to summon Harold by rattling my keys. "Have I lost my cat, too?" I wondered.

He showed up the next night. He had been in a fight with another cat, it looked like, and his right eye had been gashed, all the way through the lid.

His ear problems mirrored my own, also, and I was alternately putting drops in my own ears, and cleaning his out with Q-tips and olive oil, for a while; until our ear problems resolved themselves pretty much simultaneously..

Krishna has taken the form of a cat and come to live with me, that's all.