49 Dollar Thursday*
My Latest Screenplay
Food Money Less Than 30 Hours Away
Act 1, Scene One
Scene: A busy corner on Royal Street in New Orleans, during Mardi Gras.
Actors:
Daniel, a 55 year old busker, carrying a guitar and backpack on his back.
Tourist Couple, a man in his late 50's, wearing a colorful shirt, printed with images of fish, with one button too many undone, to reveal a chest covered with gray hair, and a reasonably bulky gold chain. He is a big fish in a small pond, as the owner of a marina in the small port town where he and his wife come from. He has a good beer buzz.
His wife is making her first trip to New Orleans, and, as she stands at his side, her husband is pointing out attractions, and explaining things to her. This will be his second Mardi Gras.
They both bear the rough skin in areas that would be exposed to sunlight in a person who spends a lot of time outdoors, either at a marina, or in her case, lounging around a pool.
She would have some nice jewelry, perhaps earrings with a gemstone framed in gold; enough to denote that these were people who can afford to take a vacation.
There is a bemused kind of look about them, as if all the sights and sounds of Royal Street might be slightly overwhelming by contrast to the little fishing community where they are from.
Daniel the busker crosses the street and stands by them.
The man smiles towards the busker, with some directed at his wife, as if to communicate: See what kind of interesting people there are here in the French Quarter, dear?
Husband Tourist (to Daniel): "So, ya' play the guitar, eh?"
Daniel: "No, I use it as a toothpick"
[opens guitar case in earnest and quickly removes the instrument, then uses one of the loose string ends to pick at his teeth]
"I always did want to learn to play the thing; it's actually a pretty nice sounding guitar, but, no, I just keep it handy for my teeth."
Daniel walks on, leaving the couple standing there with bemused expressions.
Curtain closes; end Act 1
49 Dollar Thursday
* A second consecutive Thursday is marked by an asterisk, as the money I made last night was augmented by a 20 dollar bill that I found on the sidewalk, along Royal Street, not far from Cafe Beignet, on my way to the Lilly Pad. A couple of ladies had stepped over it, approaching from the opposite direction, right before I got to it. Unlike myself, though, they hadn't been scanning the ground for half smoked cigarette butts, and might not have seen it.
I, of course, immediately put my foot on top of the bill, then, knelt down acting like I was tying my shoe, in order to pick it up.
If a skeezer had seen me pick it up, he might have asked: "Hey, what that was; that you picked up?" and then responded to anything I might have described with: "That mine; I just just dropped that; for real man, I need that (whatever denomination I had told him), that's my only money to feed my kids with!" and then squared off, ready to fight.
I felt like I had been rewarded for having come out to busk, after I had vacillated upon it.
It was a Thursday night. I had sold my plasma earlier in the day; an ordeal which I had only shaven an hour off of the time it had taken to complete on Monday, and had gotten a balance of $23.57 put on my plasma debit card.
I needed to get 20 dollars cash back at Wal-Mart, just so I would have money to take the bus back.
I waited, along with a young black lady, at the mosquito infested bus stop, almost an hour, before the bus, which should have come an hour sooner, came.
The all day pass that I bought got stamped with: 6:55 PM.
I took it to the trolley on Canal Street, which took me to the bus on Carrollton, which dropped me off 2 blocks from the Uxi Duxi, where I downed a double shot of green bali kratom, as their last customer of the night. They locked the door behind me at 8 PM.
By the time I had walked back to the apartment, I was ready to grab my guitar and gear and go out to busk; something that I had half decided not to do, after having given 690 ml of plasma, but before doing my kratom shots.
That would have been a negative 49 dollar decision.
I played well.
At one point, I had a couple walk up, who were friendly, and then presented me with the most challenging request of all; to play some "gospel" music.
I dug up a song from 1988, the only time I have ever tried to set a psalm to music.
"I think this was from Psalm 158, but I paraphrased and moved words around so much to fit the rhythm and meter, that it's probably not recognizable."
It was a miracle; they liked the song, threw me 5 dollars, and plus, gave me a sticker that reads: "The Only Magic I Still Believe In Is Love," which they probably couldn't resist doing, having had it in their possession, after I had talked to them unprompted, on the very subject of magic, as it related to my having had "religious experiences," in the past.
Another 20 dollar tip came from a couple that came by, with the young lady having played my guitar and sang, while I played the harmonica along with her, with apparently, a splendid time had by all.
But, It was technically 29 dollars, divided by the 2 hours that I played; lest I feel a false sense of ability to make $24.50 per hour.
Fast-Forward To Now
It is Friday night, 7 PM.
It's the "I can't stay in on a Friday night," mindset thing, again.
At this point, I don't really feel like going out, but, I have just started sipping my kratom shots.
Bus pass, cat food, kratom, cigarettes, instant coffee, Raisin Bran? Going out to busk is the only answer to that question.
Hopefully the rumblings of the 9:12 PM trolley coming down the tracks will sound like a bugle calling revelry (not "taps") to me, when the time comes.
Another couple of good nights, and I can think about moving forward on several projects.
I had to dip into the 49 bucks, along with the 25 from the plasma place in order to catch up on things like coffee and water. I bought a box of Raisin Bran which was on sale for $2.29, and took care of the problem of buying some kind of sweetener. Sugar is cheap, but I'm really trying to go back to my avoidance of sucrose so as to not really want to be in possession of a 3 pound bag of it; honey was on sale but will still be less than 30 hours from now when my food stamp card will be charged.
The Raisin Bran solved the sweetener problem, and gave me some raisins in the deal, to boot. Raisin Bran pancakes, anyone? Don't knock 'em 'til you've tried 'em.
I'm still "trying" to get into the abandoned rectory to use as a vocal studio.
This will require setting aside, say, a Monday after I have had a good money weekend to take the whole day to hit the pawn shops in the Bywater. I need to get the auger to drill the holes, and the hacksaw blade to make the rectangular hole that I will squeeze through.
The same place will almost certainly have some kind of wires or alligator clips that I can use to hook up the woofer in a speaker box that I found in the dumpster at the apartments. Someone had thrown out the box, probably because it "doesn't work," but, it is the built in amplifier that is on the fritz. This, I might one day trouble-shoot, should I acquire a volt-ometer, a soldering iron (download the schematics for it from FreeSchematicsSoYouCanFixYourHomeElectronics.com)
If I run alligator clips from my existing amplifier, which currently drives a subwoofer that has become tattered by cat claws, to the speaker in the other box, I should realize quite an improvement in the bass range of my home stereo.
It is a better woofer than the one Harold tore up, which is a paper-cone type. This one is polypropylene, or whatever the plastic ones are called. So, I'm excited about that, when not feeling dour and full of despair.
My Latest Screenplay
Food Money Less Than 30 Hours Away
 |
| I try my hand at writing for the big screen... |
Scene: A busy corner on Royal Street in New Orleans, during Mardi Gras.
Actors:
Daniel, a 55 year old busker, carrying a guitar and backpack on his back.
Tourist Couple, a man in his late 50's, wearing a colorful shirt, printed with images of fish, with one button too many undone, to reveal a chest covered with gray hair, and a reasonably bulky gold chain. He is a big fish in a small pond, as the owner of a marina in the small port town where he and his wife come from. He has a good beer buzz.
His wife is making her first trip to New Orleans, and, as she stands at his side, her husband is pointing out attractions, and explaining things to her. This will be his second Mardi Gras.
They both bear the rough skin in areas that would be exposed to sunlight in a person who spends a lot of time outdoors, either at a marina, or in her case, lounging around a pool.
She would have some nice jewelry, perhaps earrings with a gemstone framed in gold; enough to denote that these were people who can afford to take a vacation.
There is a bemused kind of look about them, as if all the sights and sounds of Royal Street might be slightly overwhelming by contrast to the little fishing community where they are from.
Daniel the busker crosses the street and stands by them.
The man smiles towards the busker, with some directed at his wife, as if to communicate: See what kind of interesting people there are here in the French Quarter, dear?
Husband Tourist (to Daniel): "So, ya' play the guitar, eh?"
Daniel: "No, I use it as a toothpick"
[opens guitar case in earnest and quickly removes the instrument, then uses one of the loose string ends to pick at his teeth]
"I always did want to learn to play the thing; it's actually a pretty nice sounding guitar, but, no, I just keep it handy for my teeth."
Daniel walks on, leaving the couple standing there with bemused expressions.
Curtain closes; end Act 1
49 Dollar Thursday
* A second consecutive Thursday is marked by an asterisk, as the money I made last night was augmented by a 20 dollar bill that I found on the sidewalk, along Royal Street, not far from Cafe Beignet, on my way to the Lilly Pad. A couple of ladies had stepped over it, approaching from the opposite direction, right before I got to it. Unlike myself, though, they hadn't been scanning the ground for half smoked cigarette butts, and might not have seen it.
I, of course, immediately put my foot on top of the bill, then, knelt down acting like I was tying my shoe, in order to pick it up.
If a skeezer had seen me pick it up, he might have asked: "Hey, what that was; that you picked up?" and then responded to anything I might have described with: "That mine; I just just dropped that; for real man, I need that (whatever denomination I had told him), that's my only money to feed my kids with!" and then squared off, ready to fight.
I felt like I had been rewarded for having come out to busk, after I had vacillated upon it.
It was a Thursday night. I had sold my plasma earlier in the day; an ordeal which I had only shaven an hour off of the time it had taken to complete on Monday, and had gotten a balance of $23.57 put on my plasma debit card.
I needed to get 20 dollars cash back at Wal-Mart, just so I would have money to take the bus back.
I waited, along with a young black lady, at the mosquito infested bus stop, almost an hour, before the bus, which should have come an hour sooner, came.
The all day pass that I bought got stamped with: 6:55 PM.
I took it to the trolley on Canal Street, which took me to the bus on Carrollton, which dropped me off 2 blocks from the Uxi Duxi, where I downed a double shot of green bali kratom, as their last customer of the night. They locked the door behind me at 8 PM.
By the time I had walked back to the apartment, I was ready to grab my guitar and gear and go out to busk; something that I had half decided not to do, after having given 690 ml of plasma, but before doing my kratom shots.
That would have been a negative 49 dollar decision.
I played well.
At one point, I had a couple walk up, who were friendly, and then presented me with the most challenging request of all; to play some "gospel" music.
I dug up a song from 1988, the only time I have ever tried to set a psalm to music.
"I think this was from Psalm 158, but I paraphrased and moved words around so much to fit the rhythm and meter, that it's probably not recognizable."
It was a miracle; they liked the song, threw me 5 dollars, and plus, gave me a sticker that reads: "The Only Magic I Still Believe In Is Love," which they probably couldn't resist doing, having had it in their possession, after I had talked to them unprompted, on the very subject of magic, as it related to my having had "religious experiences," in the past.
Another 20 dollar tip came from a couple that came by, with the young lady having played my guitar and sang, while I played the harmonica along with her, with apparently, a splendid time had by all.
But, It was technically 29 dollars, divided by the 2 hours that I played; lest I feel a false sense of ability to make $24.50 per hour.
Fast-Forward To Now
It is Friday night, 7 PM.
It's the "I can't stay in on a Friday night," mindset thing, again.
At this point, I don't really feel like going out, but, I have just started sipping my kratom shots.
Bus pass, cat food, kratom, cigarettes, instant coffee, Raisin Bran? Going out to busk is the only answer to that question.
 |
| Someone must have told the Uxi staff that I died, as |
| this is what greeted me at the spot where I normally sit |
Hopefully the rumblings of the 9:12 PM trolley coming down the tracks will sound like a bugle calling revelry (not "taps") to me, when the time comes.
Another couple of good nights, and I can think about moving forward on several projects.
I had to dip into the 49 bucks, along with the 25 from the plasma place in order to catch up on things like coffee and water. I bought a box of Raisin Bran which was on sale for $2.29, and took care of the problem of buying some kind of sweetener. Sugar is cheap, but I'm really trying to go back to my avoidance of sucrose so as to not really want to be in possession of a 3 pound bag of it; honey was on sale but will still be less than 30 hours from now when my food stamp card will be charged.
The Raisin Bran solved the sweetener problem, and gave me some raisins in the deal, to boot. Raisin Bran pancakes, anyone? Don't knock 'em 'til you've tried 'em.
I'm still "trying" to get into the abandoned rectory to use as a vocal studio.
This will require setting aside, say, a Monday after I have had a good money weekend to take the whole day to hit the pawn shops in the Bywater. I need to get the auger to drill the holes, and the hacksaw blade to make the rectangular hole that I will squeeze through.
The same place will almost certainly have some kind of wires or alligator clips that I can use to hook up the woofer in a speaker box that I found in the dumpster at the apartments. Someone had thrown out the box, probably because it "doesn't work," but, it is the built in amplifier that is on the fritz. This, I might one day trouble-shoot, should I acquire a volt-ometer, a soldering iron (download the schematics for it from FreeSchematicsSoYouCanFixYourHomeElectronics.com)
If I run alligator clips from my existing amplifier, which currently drives a subwoofer that has become tattered by cat claws, to the speaker in the other box, I should realize quite an improvement in the bass range of my home stereo.
It is a better woofer than the one Harold tore up, which is a paper-cone type. This one is polypropylene, or whatever the plastic ones are called. So, I'm excited about that, when not feeling dour and full of despair.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments, to me are like deflated helium balloons with notes tied to them, found on my back porch in the morning...