Someone at Sacred Heart had said something to me about not bothering to go to the Quarter to busk.
It was the Bayou Classic weekend, when two traditionally "black" colleges' football teams were to play against each other at the Superdome.
The French Quarter would be overrun by black people. Whites would avoid the whole scene, because of the tradition of violence on this day each year. This would make it even blacker.
"Good luck trying to get a tip out of them," I was reminded by a black guy who I see almost every night whom I saw while picking up a milk crate to sit on to play for black people who are notorious for not tipping.
I was actually half way to the Lilly Pad on the trolley before I recalled that it was indeed Bayou Classic weekend. Seeing cops on every corner and every intersection blockaded reminded me.
The barricades were just a precaution, to prevent automobiles that can be used as weapons, from entering the street, even though this act of terrorism isn't really a black thing. They prefer the intimacy of handguns. But, I may be stereotyping.
I set up and started to play just a few minutes after midnight.
It was a typical busking for African Americans scene for me. I wasn't making record amounts of money, but was pretty sure that I was outperforming other buskers, who might have been telling me "Good luck getting a dollar from any of these niggers," on my way there.
If I played my ass off, I would indeed see dollar bills trickling into my basket.
Videos were indeed taken by young African Americans of young African Americans rapping on top of what I was doing.
At one point, after I thought I had played well, there was a 5 dollar bill in the basket.
I scooped it out, along with a few of the ones, in between songs, determined to keep the amount in the basket at around 4 dollars, no more.
This precaution paid off, as indeed a couple of young blacks came along with one of them saying he wanted to shoot a video of me.
He began to do so, but, standing a bit too close to me, for me to not know that something was up. It was almost like he was trying to distract me and block my view of the other guy.
As I played to his phone that was less than 2 feet in front of my face, I saw his partner, who might have thought that he was hidden from my view, scooping money out of the basket.
I stopped playing.
"Huh, what?" he asked in mock surprise. "He got your money?"
He then started to deny that he knew the other guy.
"Yeah, he got my 4 dollars," I added, glad that I had been breaking the basket down, just as a precaution, during Bayou Classic weekend. The remaining 16 dollars out of the 20 that I had made in 2 hours, was safely in my back pocket. I was also testing his reaction to his learning that a whole 4 dollars was what was to show for their performance..
They were the prototypical piece of crap criminally mentally ill black kids, who probably had grandmothers telling them things like that white people had all the money they would ever need in this world due to the color of their skin, and that it was, in a sense, OK to steal from them. There is just a certain percentage of them who are irrevocably this way, and they may "ruin it" for the rest of African Americans, but they exist. All the busker can do is keep his basket under 5 dollars at all times, and hope that this raising of children as animals will stop at some point; maybe after welfare queens are no longer rewarded extra benefits with each uncivilized savage that she sires.
It had been an alright Bayou Classic for me, to that point. Angela the waitress from Lafitt's had just given me a full pack of cigarettes that someone had left behind -a 5 dollar value- right before the little punks had stolen from me, so it was easy to tell myself that I had been compensated for the loss, and I was able to keep playing without giving them much further thought.
As I think about going out to play tonight (Saturday) I guess I'll just be vigilant about keeping no more than 5 bucks in my basket. I might crunch up a few of the fake 100 dollar bills that Alex in California sent me a couple years ago now, to fluff up the basket and make it look like I had made a lot for the edification of those who throw tips after seeing that (a lot of) other people had.
It has been probably a year since anyone stole money out of my tip basket, with the exception of the one older black man who had performed a slight of hand feat in placing a couple one dollar bills in the basket while, in the same motion, snatching a fake 100 dollar bill that I had started the basket out with. He must have thought himself very clever, indeed.
I had half expected him to return, demanding his 2 dollars back, because I had "tricked him," (shame on me; when all he was trying to do was "feed his family").
It would take two traditionally black colleges' football teams playing against each other to be the occasion of the next robbery of tip money.
These 2 punks might have thought they were clever indeed, also.
They had been by earlier, as part of a larger group.
Some of the others in that group seemed impressed enough with my playing that they, along with throwing a couple dollars in the basket, had held a hand up to the 2, as if to say: "No, don't." at one point; over something.
I suppose it would have been OK, had I been playing "White Supremacist" Southern Rock and had been unable to keep my hatred of them from showing on my face, or had said something sarcastic like: "Sorry, I don't do any Tupac Shakur" -then it might have been "Go for it, man, take the whole basket"- but a few in the group, who might have initially intended to "goof on" me, for their own amusement, for some reason gained enough respect through hearing me, to ward off the 2 punks; who would later return without them to enact their lame, badly acted out, obvious thievery.
The phone that the first one was holding way too close to me was a piece of crap that wouldn't even be able to capture a video of any quality, I noticed; another of the things "wrong with this picture" about the whole scene.
What I do, at times like these is look at this picture of myself alongside, Sherrelle James, a cashier at the Save-A-Lot in Mobile, Alabama, whom I saw almost daily in my homeless comings and goings, and who bought me a capo for my guitar once, after I had happened to mention needing one to play a certain song, and it was a nice, intermediately priced one, not a cheap one.
Her wanting to have this picture taken with me, before I left (for the first time) for New Orleans in 2011 was out of a genuine feeling that she was going to miss me after I went.
This one black and white photo is proof against me indiscriminately hating all brown skinned people...
It was my fault for letting them get that close to my basket. It's always someone else' fault.
It was the Bayou Classic weekend, when two traditionally "black" colleges' football teams were to play against each other at the Superdome.
 |
| Not a good night for being creative with the GIMP editor... |
The French Quarter would be overrun by black people. Whites would avoid the whole scene, because of the tradition of violence on this day each year. This would make it even blacker.
"Good luck trying to get a tip out of them," I was reminded by a black guy who I see almost every night whom I saw while picking up a milk crate to sit on to play for black people who are notorious for not tipping.
I was actually half way to the Lilly Pad on the trolley before I recalled that it was indeed Bayou Classic weekend. Seeing cops on every corner and every intersection blockaded reminded me.
The barricades were just a precaution, to prevent automobiles that can be used as weapons, from entering the street, even though this act of terrorism isn't really a black thing. They prefer the intimacy of handguns. But, I may be stereotyping.
I set up and started to play just a few minutes after midnight.
It was a typical busking for African Americans scene for me. I wasn't making record amounts of money, but was pretty sure that I was outperforming other buskers, who might have been telling me "Good luck getting a dollar from any of these niggers," on my way there.
If I played my ass off, I would indeed see dollar bills trickling into my basket.
Videos were indeed taken by young African Americans of young African Americans rapping on top of what I was doing.
At one point, after I thought I had played well, there was a 5 dollar bill in the basket.
I scooped it out, along with a few of the ones, in between songs, determined to keep the amount in the basket at around 4 dollars, no more.
This precaution paid off, as indeed a couple of young blacks came along with one of them saying he wanted to shoot a video of me.
 |
| I found a "FJ" type headband, a 4 dollar value, on the ground... |
He began to do so, but, standing a bit too close to me, for me to not know that something was up. It was almost like he was trying to distract me and block my view of the other guy.
As I played to his phone that was less than 2 feet in front of my face, I saw his partner, who might have thought that he was hidden from my view, scooping money out of the basket.
I stopped playing.
"You're good; you can stop shooting the video, your partner already got my money," I said to the young black kid who was standing too close to be shooting a video without tipping me off that something was up.
"Huh, what?" he asked in mock surprise. "He got your money?"
He then started to deny that he knew the other guy.
"Yeah, he got my 4 dollars," I added, glad that I had been breaking the basket down, just as a precaution, during Bayou Classic weekend. The remaining 16 dollars out of the 20 that I had made in 2 hours, was safely in my back pocket. I was also testing his reaction to his learning that a whole 4 dollars was what was to show for their performance..
They were the prototypical piece of crap criminally mentally ill black kids, who probably had grandmothers telling them things like that white people had all the money they would ever need in this world due to the color of their skin, and that it was, in a sense, OK to steal from them. There is just a certain percentage of them who are irrevocably this way, and they may "ruin it" for the rest of African Americans, but they exist. All the busker can do is keep his basket under 5 dollars at all times, and hope that this raising of children as animals will stop at some point; maybe after welfare queens are no longer rewarded extra benefits with each uncivilized savage that she sires.
It had been an alright Bayou Classic for me, to that point. Angela the waitress from Lafitt's had just given me a full pack of cigarettes that someone had left behind -a 5 dollar value- right before the little punks had stolen from me, so it was easy to tell myself that I had been compensated for the loss, and I was able to keep playing without giving them much further thought.
As I think about going out to play tonight (Saturday) I guess I'll just be vigilant about keeping no more than 5 bucks in my basket. I might crunch up a few of the fake 100 dollar bills that Alex in California sent me a couple years ago now, to fluff up the basket and make it look like I had made a lot for the edification of those who throw tips after seeing that (a lot of) other people had.
It has been probably a year since anyone stole money out of my tip basket, with the exception of the one older black man who had performed a slight of hand feat in placing a couple one dollar bills in the basket while, in the same motion, snatching a fake 100 dollar bill that I had started the basket out with. He must have thought himself very clever, indeed.
I had half expected him to return, demanding his 2 dollars back, because I had "tricked him," (shame on me; when all he was trying to do was "feed his family").
It would take two traditionally black colleges' football teams playing against each other to be the occasion of the next robbery of tip money.
These 2 punks might have thought they were clever indeed, also.
They had been by earlier, as part of a larger group.
Some of the others in that group seemed impressed enough with my playing that they, along with throwing a couple dollars in the basket, had held a hand up to the 2, as if to say: "No, don't." at one point; over something.
I suppose it would have been OK, had I been playing "White Supremacist" Southern Rock and had been unable to keep my hatred of them from showing on my face, or had said something sarcastic like: "Sorry, I don't do any Tupac Shakur" -then it might have been "Go for it, man, take the whole basket"- but a few in the group, who might have initially intended to "goof on" me, for their own amusement, for some reason gained enough respect through hearing me, to ward off the 2 punks; who would later return without them to enact their lame, badly acted out, obvious thievery.
The phone that the first one was holding way too close to me was a piece of crap that wouldn't even be able to capture a video of any quality, I noticed; another of the things "wrong with this picture" about the whole scene.
What I do, at times like these is look at this picture of myself alongside, Sherrelle James, a cashier at the Save-A-Lot in Mobile, Alabama, whom I saw almost daily in my homeless comings and goings, and who bought me a capo for my guitar once, after I had happened to mention needing one to play a certain song, and it was a nice, intermediately priced one, not a cheap one.
Her wanting to have this picture taken with me, before I left (for the first time) for New Orleans in 2011 was out of a genuine feeling that she was going to miss me after I went.
This one black and white photo is proof against me indiscriminately hating all brown skinned people...
It was my fault for letting them get that close to my basket. It's always someone else' fault.
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