Laziness In The News
The title of this blog post reminds me of yet another song that would be great, and easy to learn, and to add to my busking repertoire. "Lazing On A Sunny Afternoon," by The Kinks, would be good to play on a Sunday afternoon, at the Lilly Pad, right after playing "I'm Easy (like a Sunday morning)" by Lionel Ritchie.
The latter song is in Tanya Huang's arsenal, also.
If I wasn't so lazy, I would have made a list of about 100 songs that are easy to play; "3 chord-ers,' they might be called, and would have the list printed and laminated, perhaps in tiny font so all 100 fit on the front of a sheet; and I would have this rain-proof cheat sheet besides me at the Lilly Pad.
Just speaking of The Kinks, I once played "Lola," "Celluloid Heroes," and "You Really Got Me," by that middle of the pack British act, but would have to run through each for a few minutes, in order to recall the chords. If I had them listed on a sheet of 100 songs, that I periodically ran through to keep them fresh in my mind, then I would be able to play them, at the drop of a dime -in my tip basket, that is...
I didn't get to sleep until after daylight, and so, was not surprised when I woke up just a few hours later in a "what...where am I...who am I, what am I doing here, am I dreaming?" frame of mind.
The Saints game was going to kick off in a couple hours. There was time to make it to the stadium, set up and make ? $ playing for the fans; a lot of whom are in the "10%" subset of the economy (the 10% who are in possession of half of the money that exists in this country, an amount that is further split with 1% of them holding half of it) who can afford to take the family to a Saints game, and who can throw a busker the 5 dollars change after parking the family SUV for 45 dollars in the garage that I play next to.
I woke up again a bit after my usual 1:30 PM natural, unassisted wake up time; but, decided not to go play outside the stadium for a second straight week. Shaking off the cobwebs, by drinking a Rock Star "Zero" energy drink, taking my morning crap, smoking the roach that was laying on my coffee table from the night before, and then just daydreaming, while the game played on the radio in the next room, petting Harold, getting dressed, etc. took too long, to the point that I might have been swimming against a sea of exiting people by the time I got near the Superdome. I hate that; hurrying to set up and play for people before they get away, type of thing.
I decided to use my all day puss pass to embark in the other direction of the stadium, upon my morning routine.
The bus pass was stamped with 2:12 AM. "I guess I was out pretty late last night," I said to the trolley driver, while gazing the time on it. No smile, or other sign of the trolley driver's having even understood what I meant, was evident.
I had missed a trolley by 30 seconds, after I came out of Walgreen's on Canal Street, laden with a 5 pound bag of flour, a 4 pack of Monster "Zero" energy drinks, a jar of all-fruit spread, and a sleeve of cheese, which had been gotten as a substitute for any kind of oil to use in making pancakes. I wasn't going to pay the hefty, French Quarter location price of $5.39 for a 14 ounce jar of coconut oil, when it is half as much at Wal-Mart, and I wasn't going to use olive oil to make my pancakes; and so I thought that butter could be substituted for oil. The were out of butter, but had the little 69 cent things of cheese, which I figured would play the role of the oil in the pancake making process, but just wouldn't be able to be heated to the same temperature that the coconut oil can stand.
The result was that I was shouldering a relatively heavy backpack when I stepped outside to see the trolley just passing. The next one would be in another half hour; and it takes me about 29 minutes to walk home from there. I would be saving 10 minutes by toting the food, plus my guitar and gear the 2 and a half miles home. So, I sat there, waiting for the next one, for a half hour that seemed much longer. All I wanted to do was get home and eat pancakes and feed Harold the cat.
The Beautiful Young Latina
A young, Latina looking girl was sitting next to me. She had an i-phone of some sort, that she was in constant interaction with. She complained, at one point, that she had deleted an application that she otherwise would have already used to call for a cab.
"F*** this, the next one won't be here for 19 minutes?!? No way, I'm not waiting 19 minutes!, said the beautiful Latina looking girl in English so fluid and unaffected by any accent that I wondered if she even spoke Spanish at all.
This would be the best of both worlds, I thought -a girl with Latina beauty who wouldn't require you to learn Spanish. A guy could reveal things to her, from the depth of his soul, without having to Google things like: "I feel like there is a universal consciousness and that, our individual egos are like droplets in a vast sea of awareness."
"Can't you just pop bubbles on your phone for 19 minutes?" I asked.
"I just want to get home and sleep," she said.
"Yeah, and eat," I said.
"Oh, yeah, and eat!," she said.
She had an elaborate tattoo on her left calf, which was a rather short calf, in proportion to her height of about 4' 11". That, along with her expensive phone, and her lack of patience in general gave me the idea that she came from a fairly wealthy family.
My old girlfriend Karrie, didn't speak much Spanish at all; even though she was of Mexican descent.
I always think it fascinating to hear some of these young people who sound just like every other kid, with perhaps even the local accent, while looking Asian as all hell. Some of these don't even have to scrunch up their faces so it looks like they are squinting when they speak, because they aren't forming any words that need to sound really nasal and Asian.
It is Sunday evening.
I must say that time is going by slowly, like a lazy river. I expected it to be almost closing time, here at the Uxi Duxi, as it seems to be the case very often that I get absorbed in writing and the time creeps up on me, but it is only 6:48 PM. Setting the clocks back an hour last night has worked out well.
With $16.80 on my green card and just about 10 dollars in cash; it would behoove me to go out and busk tonight, but I don't want to think about it yet.
I have brand new strings and the Suzuki "Harpmaster" harmonica has been stellar. I thought I had blown out one of the draw reeds a couple nights ago, but was able to open it and run warm water over it, which unstuck the reed.
But, the list of 100 songs that are well within my ability, and that I would only have to run through a couple times to make sure I can play, needs to be compiled, printed and laminated.
"Carefree Highway," by Gordon Lightfoot falls into this category. There is just that one part where he goes to an almost unexpected E major chord that I might flub up at the Lilly Pad, unless I had spent just 30 seconds reviewing how it fits it, for example.
I might as well capitalize upon all the songs that I learned the lyrics to, while I was growing up. I think I could sit down and write out most of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," from a 35 year old memory of it. I guess the legend, truly does, live on from the Chippewah on down to the big lake they call Gichee Gumee...
Why not work this song into my set list, especially since it is a nice long one that would keep me for a full 7 minutes, from having to play "Imagine," by John Lennon one more time.
I got the sense, last night, that making some minor mistakes might actually benefit me, by making it seem like I'm just out having fun, and am not too "serious." This is proof against the "If he's so good, why isn't he playing on tour with some band," argument.
And, it might suggest that it is difficult to play guitar and harmonica at the same time, and hence, I'm going to naturally hit some rough spots.
I made 15 bucks last night, after having gotten to the Lilly Pad just about as late as the couple nights before.
I told myself I would make it up by playing outside the Saints game and, once again, failed to make that happen
The title of this blog post reminds me of yet another song that would be great, and easy to learn, and to add to my busking repertoire. "Lazing On A Sunny Afternoon," by The Kinks, would be good to play on a Sunday afternoon, at the Lilly Pad, right after playing "I'm Easy (like a Sunday morning)" by Lionel Ritchie.
The latter song is in Tanya Huang's arsenal, also.
If I wasn't so lazy, I would have made a list of about 100 songs that are easy to play; "3 chord-ers,' they might be called, and would have the list printed and laminated, perhaps in tiny font so all 100 fit on the front of a sheet; and I would have this rain-proof cheat sheet besides me at the Lilly Pad.
Just speaking of The Kinks, I once played "Lola," "Celluloid Heroes," and "You Really Got Me," by that middle of the pack British act, but would have to run through each for a few minutes, in order to recall the chords. If I had them listed on a sheet of 100 songs, that I periodically ran through to keep them fresh in my mind, then I would be able to play them, at the drop of a dime -in my tip basket, that is...
I didn't get to sleep until after daylight, and so, was not surprised when I woke up just a few hours later in a "what...where am I...who am I, what am I doing here, am I dreaming?" frame of mind.
The Saints game was going to kick off in a couple hours. There was time to make it to the stadium, set up and make ? $ playing for the fans; a lot of whom are in the "10%" subset of the economy (the 10% who are in possession of half of the money that exists in this country, an amount that is further split with 1% of them holding half of it) who can afford to take the family to a Saints game, and who can throw a busker the 5 dollars change after parking the family SUV for 45 dollars in the garage that I play next to.
I woke up again a bit after my usual 1:30 PM natural, unassisted wake up time; but, decided not to go play outside the stadium for a second straight week. Shaking off the cobwebs, by drinking a Rock Star "Zero" energy drink, taking my morning crap, smoking the roach that was laying on my coffee table from the night before, and then just daydreaming, while the game played on the radio in the next room, petting Harold, getting dressed, etc. took too long, to the point that I might have been swimming against a sea of exiting people by the time I got near the Superdome. I hate that; hurrying to set up and play for people before they get away, type of thing.
I decided to use my all day puss pass to embark in the other direction of the stadium, upon my morning routine.
The bus pass was stamped with 2:12 AM. "I guess I was out pretty late last night," I said to the trolley driver, while gazing the time on it. No smile, or other sign of the trolley driver's having even understood what I meant, was evident.
I had missed a trolley by 30 seconds, after I came out of Walgreen's on Canal Street, laden with a 5 pound bag of flour, a 4 pack of Monster "Zero" energy drinks, a jar of all-fruit spread, and a sleeve of cheese, which had been gotten as a substitute for any kind of oil to use in making pancakes. I wasn't going to pay the hefty, French Quarter location price of $5.39 for a 14 ounce jar of coconut oil, when it is half as much at Wal-Mart, and I wasn't going to use olive oil to make my pancakes; and so I thought that butter could be substituted for oil. The were out of butter, but had the little 69 cent things of cheese, which I figured would play the role of the oil in the pancake making process, but just wouldn't be able to be heated to the same temperature that the coconut oil can stand.
The result was that I was shouldering a relatively heavy backpack when I stepped outside to see the trolley just passing. The next one would be in another half hour; and it takes me about 29 minutes to walk home from there. I would be saving 10 minutes by toting the food, plus my guitar and gear the 2 and a half miles home. So, I sat there, waiting for the next one, for a half hour that seemed much longer. All I wanted to do was get home and eat pancakes and feed Harold the cat.
The Beautiful Young Latina
A young, Latina looking girl was sitting next to me. She had an i-phone of some sort, that she was in constant interaction with. She complained, at one point, that she had deleted an application that she otherwise would have already used to call for a cab.
"F*** this, the next one won't be here for 19 minutes?!? No way, I'm not waiting 19 minutes!, said the beautiful Latina looking girl in English so fluid and unaffected by any accent that I wondered if she even spoke Spanish at all.
This would be the best of both worlds, I thought -a girl with Latina beauty who wouldn't require you to learn Spanish. A guy could reveal things to her, from the depth of his soul, without having to Google things like: "I feel like there is a universal consciousness and that, our individual egos are like droplets in a vast sea of awareness."
"Can't you just pop bubbles on your phone for 19 minutes?" I asked.
"I just want to get home and sleep," she said.
"Yeah, and eat," I said.
"Oh, yeah, and eat!," she said.
She had an elaborate tattoo on her left calf, which was a rather short calf, in proportion to her height of about 4' 11". That, along with her expensive phone, and her lack of patience in general gave me the idea that she came from a fairly wealthy family.
My old girlfriend Karrie, didn't speak much Spanish at all; even though she was of Mexican descent.
I always think it fascinating to hear some of these young people who sound just like every other kid, with perhaps even the local accent, while looking Asian as all hell. Some of these don't even have to scrunch up their faces so it looks like they are squinting when they speak, because they aren't forming any words that need to sound really nasal and Asian.
It is Sunday evening.
I must say that time is going by slowly, like a lazy river. I expected it to be almost closing time, here at the Uxi Duxi, as it seems to be the case very often that I get absorbed in writing and the time creeps up on me, but it is only 6:48 PM. Setting the clocks back an hour last night has worked out well.
With $16.80 on my green card and just about 10 dollars in cash; it would behoove me to go out and busk tonight, but I don't want to think about it yet.
I have brand new strings and the Suzuki "Harpmaster" harmonica has been stellar. I thought I had blown out one of the draw reeds a couple nights ago, but was able to open it and run warm water over it, which unstuck the reed.
But, the list of 100 songs that are well within my ability, and that I would only have to run through a couple times to make sure I can play, needs to be compiled, printed and laminated.
"Carefree Highway," by Gordon Lightfoot falls into this category. There is just that one part where he goes to an almost unexpected E major chord that I might flub up at the Lilly Pad, unless I had spent just 30 seconds reviewing how it fits it, for example.
I might as well capitalize upon all the songs that I learned the lyrics to, while I was growing up. I think I could sit down and write out most of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," from a 35 year old memory of it. I guess the legend, truly does, live on from the Chippewah on down to the big lake they call Gichee Gumee...
Why not work this song into my set list, especially since it is a nice long one that would keep me for a full 7 minutes, from having to play "Imagine," by John Lennon one more time.
I got the sense, last night, that making some minor mistakes might actually benefit me, by making it seem like I'm just out having fun, and am not too "serious." This is proof against the "If he's so good, why isn't he playing on tour with some band," argument.
And, it might suggest that it is difficult to play guitar and harmonica at the same time, and hence, I'm going to naturally hit some rough spots.
I made 15 bucks last night, after having gotten to the Lilly Pad just about as late as the couple nights before.
I told myself I would make it up by playing outside the Saints game and, once again, failed to make that happen
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