Happy Monday

10 Dollar Sunday?

I may have only made 10 bucks last night.

My all day pass expired at 2:12 AM, and so, as I rode the 10:40 PM trolley towards the Quarter, I felt like I had a window of opportunity, to make absolutely nothing my first couple hours, but then still be able to ride home for free.

I had forgotten to set the clock back at the apartment. My cellphone is stuck on the old time, too, and I can't find any menu or button to push in order to set it back. Will I be subtracting an hour from the time on my phone from now until it's time to spring ahead?

The Procrastination Table

Or, will I finally make a photocopy of my ID and my food stamp card, and mail it, along with the application for a new "smart" phone to the Assurance Wireless people, in order to get a new smartphone, which will allow me to start posting more photos and videos from my daily existence to this blog, making it more interesting?

Well, the good news is, that the thing has been done (the photocopying, at least).

I made up my mind that I was going to veer off from the GNC, on my way to the Uxi Duxi, and hit the library branch that is on Canal Street to make the copy that I've been procrastinating upon for at least 2 months.

All I had to do was make the photocopy and mail it, and I would have a new smartphone within a week, but the application has literally collected some dust on my table by my clock.

Next to it sits a kit that I'm supposed to use to send a fecal sample to the doctor that I saw about 6 months ago, now. All I have to do is use the supplied stick to stab one of my stools and then to smear it on the supplied paper, fold it up, and then use the supplied envelope to either mail it, or carry it, to the University Medical Center, so that they can all gather around and look at it.

Tests will be done upon it, which will be in lieu of my having some kind of more elaborate, but invasive procedure done upon me, one that would require me to not eat for the whole day beforehand, or to maybe swallow down some kind of dye and be anally penetrated by some instrument.
I had the motivation to complete the kit and send it right back to the doctor, who had introduced herself to me as my "provider," and informed me that I no longer had to go through the emergency room to receive medical care, but could now just make an appointment with her, right after my visit with her.

But, I was waiting for a better stool than the one that was due to arrive the next morning, which I thought was going to be atypical because, I think I had gone overboard in eating like a whole bag of dried dates, and it was right after I had found like a whole white Styrofoam container of some kind of Mexican dish that had meat and rice inside and was coated with thick melted cheese, something I don't normally eat..

Coming soon, my recital of "Carry Me Back To Old Virginny" a piece which is one of the best arrangements in Mel Bay's Grade 1 of his guitar method. This is one that, as a 15 year old who "went through" that particular method book, I'm sure I concluded "Yeah, I can play it..." before flipping the page, eager to get to the more difficult and challenging stuff in the books to come. If someone were taking this as a course at a music college, and had to give a recital as a final test, this piece would be a fine choice in order to demonstrate mastery of the material presented in the whole book. It is deceptively simple and easy.

The beauty is in the details. By carefully observing the note values and the "rests" one can see that it is important to let each note ring for its prescribed value, and, just as importantly to not let them ring outside those values. This song can be honed to a point where it would surprise people to know that it came out of a "Grade 1" book, intended for 8 year old students. Hopefully, I will post up my version of it within the week. My next step will be to memorize it, so I don't have to read it off the sheet music. This will transfer control of it to the other side of the brain and help me relate it to stuff I already know. There has always been disconnection between reading music and improvising it. The shape of the chord on the neck is one thing that isn't always evident by the notes written on the staff. By relating the tune to stuff I already know ("this is just like the three note chords that Bob Weir plays during the intro to Terrapin Station," for example) and being able to play it while walking around the apartment with the guitar strapped to my neck, rather than by being glued to the sheet music, the tune will be able to "breath" better. And, it's a catchy little ditty, by the way.

Alive And Scratchin'

That is the kind of food that, when I was drunk all the time, I would scarf down, thinking that, even if it gave me a stomach ache, I would be passed out somewhere with a high blood-alcohol level and wouldn't feel the pain.

But, they are things that I grab when they become available; especially when tourists offer them to me at the Lilly Pad, and more than once I have thanked myself later for having toted them in my backpack and then shoved them into my refrigerator when I got home, thinking as I did that, hey, if I run out of all other food then, it will keep me alive -alive with itchy eczema around the bridge of my nose, perhaps, but alive and scratchin' nonetheless.

So, I didn't want to give my new doctor one of those stools; she was a fairly attractive lady in her mid 30's and my vanity wouldn't allow me to.  An unhealthy looking stool would be a turn off to such a bright young woman, who might take it as a sign that I couldn't take care of myself by managing my diet. People judge others by their stools; it's just a fact of life...

Then, I went on the pancake binge, after having baked for the first time in my life a couple months ago. This turned into a minor obsession; as I explored and experimented with different flours and the effect of adding baking powder and eggs and oil and maybe honey in different proportions.

The Table Of Procrastination

I didn't want to send my provider one of those stools, as I didn't believe they would be representative, overall, of the diet that I would eventually settle into, after the baking fad had run its course, and I returned to normalcy. "Patient eating way too much flour!"

So, I keep flushing my stools down while the kit sits there, out of mind, on the table by the clock; right by the application for a new free smartphone with wireless capabilities.

"I Have So Much To Live For!"

Speaking of fecal matter, Travis Blain, the cheapskate roommate that I hosted for about 3 weeks was very persistent in encouraging me to send for the free phone, even asking me a couple times: "Did you make your photocopies?" For one reason or other ("It's Sunday, the library's closed" or, more likely, "I forgot") I never had.

It's as if he's so cheap that he derives vicarious pleasure from watching someone else get something for free; the way people in a restaurant might enjoy gazing around at the other tables, reveling in the satisfaction of others.

I noticed that most of the stuff that he left behind was stuff that I had, or might have, used.
After he returned to pick up some of it, he noticed that I had used his coffee mug. He frowned and told me that I could keep the thing, but I could tell that he was upset about "having to" part with it.
The same goes for the bars of soap that he left in the shower, as if the didn't want to risk the chance that I had used them, even though my own bars were sitting next to them.

Even his cat feeding dish, he left. I wonder if it is because Harold had eaten out of it.
He seemed upset and to be begrudgingly taking his coffee maker out of my kitchen, probably because he saw that I had used it.
The thing had something wrong with it; of course it did; when you went to pull the pot out, the basket of coffee grounds fell down. That's probably why it was in the dumpster that he got it for free from. Like his guitar amp, his guitar, and everything else that he has.

"I have so much to live for, now," I said out loud to the cashier at Family Dollar, after she had rung up the clip-on toilet bowl deodorizer that I bought. She actually smiled, which was nice to see in an African American girl; so many of them would just stare blankly at me after I had said something like that.

But, when it came to marijuana, he would pass a joint back and forth between he and another person without balking. He would walk a mile from the corner of Canal and Broad Ave to save 25 cents on a bus transfer, but would then spend 45 dollars on an eighth ounce of pot from Bobby, before walking all the way back, to save another quarter.


"Dude, I'm telling you...if you're missing some information or something, they'll call you on your own phone and ask for it; they'll walk you through it; they're trying to give you the new phone; that's how they make their money, I guess..." he had told me, when beseeching me to send for a free smartphone.

So,...

On my way here to the Uxi Duxi, I made the photocopies. After I had forgotten about it after leaving the GNC and had walked about 4 blocks past the library, before reversing direction.

The fecal sample, I will get around to.

The outstanding warrant that I've had in Jefferson Parish for about 4 years now, and which I would only have to go to the courthouse to get a court date for, then return on that day to get dismissed; to get dismissed, is also on the "table of procrastination" table by the clock. I suppose, in the back of my mind, I'm worried that I would somehow wind up in jail over the thing.


"I don't know what they might have told you over in Orleans Parish, but we're prosecuting these things; the judge has been giving 45 days to people caught trespassing in the rail yard...wait right there in that holding cell. First, give me your belt before you go in..." type of thing.

The irony is that I have more of a chance of winding up in jail if some cop checks my ID and sees that I have an "attachment" out of Jefferson Parish, which would give him the option of arresting me. If it is a rookie cop, then I might wind up wishing that I had taken a 20 minute bus ride over there to take care of the matter. Or, if I am in Jefferson Parish, say, watching football with Howard Westra and am identified, then it would be standard procedure to take me into custody.

Is it any wonder that I live with an almost constant tension in my upper chest and neck area?

I could be using a roll of toilet paper as a pillow as I lay on a concrete floor while hearing a bunch of black guys saying "Ya heard me??" every 7 seconds, as soon as tonight, should the cards fall that way. But, I'm a procrastinator...

All I have to do is send the courthouse a glob of my stool, and, er no wait a second..all I have to do is show up there, maybe on a day when I'm going to Howard Westra's to watch Thursday Night Football anyways, and set a court date; yet; it's been about 4 years already...

Another irony lies in the fact that, if I do set a court date, after 4 years, and then I don't show up for it, then a new charge of "failure to appear" would be tacked on to my attachment, and I would greatly increase my chance of using a roll of toilet paper for a pillow; as they would then see me as someone whom they couldn't just issue a "notice to appear" to and trust to show up.


On the procrastination table is also, getting a tuning machine fixed on my guitar. Right now I am just winding the string in the opposite of the intended direction of the machine, since it is stripped in the correct direction, and it has been working; but won't work forever. Any one of these nights, I may be at the Lilly Pad, poised to have a 175 dollar night, and the thing could mess up on me, causing me to quit for the night; and then run to Webb's Bywater Music "first thing in the morning" to have the guitar looked at.

The last time, Paul (Webb) sold me a used machine, out of his scrapheap of stripped guitars "upstairs" for 5 dollars. It didn't match the rest of them on that particular guitar, but it worked fine.

The laminated list of 100 busking songs that I could and should easily be able to play is on the procrastination table, too.

So is getting the tools to get into the abandoned rectory to use as a studio. But, the pawnshops where I want to look for them are in the Bywater, right by the music store, and not far from where Dorise Blackman lives.

I could kill three birds with one stone; getting the tools, getting the guitar fixed; and then popping in on Dorise to ask her if she would do me the favor of summarily cancelling Travis Blain's lease, and tossing him out of her apartment building and onto the street, along with his cat; because I hate the guy. That would make for a pretty productive day.

10 Dollar Sunday

After realizing that I had forgotten to turn my clock back an hour; I did so; and this put me right back on my schedule of arriving an hour and a half later than I wish to, at the Lilly Pad.

I played well, from about 11 PM, until 1 AM, but only made 10 dollars.

Treva the cashier at the Rouses Market on Royal Street told me that she has some more cat food that she can give me, for Harold Tuesday night, when she next works. This alone is sufficient to motivate me to go out and busk on a Tuesday night.

I really should make it a point to return to a schedule of appearing each and every night at the Lilly Pad, even if I only play for an hour on some of them. My recent approach has been to load up on the hours between Thursday and Sunday, and then be able to take a couple days off to accomplish things that are more valuable to me than the 10 dollars that I might be looking at for going out.

But, this hasn't been working out, because I have still been knocking off at the point that I don't feel like playing any more.

Unlike Tanya Huang, who might look at her watch at a certain time, rolling her eyes over how much longer she "has to" play, but then will continue on, until such a time that she has determined to play until, arrives.

Determined by herself, as her own boss, and enforced by herself, as her own boss.

Of course she doesn't smoke weed that will wear off at a certain point of the night, leaving her with a feeling of: "Well, that was a fun ride, but now it's over, and there's really not much else I can do out here, except go through the motions; and I don't feel like doing that; I just want to go home and eat a huge pancake slathered in butter and jam!"