Well, Well, Well...

It is post titles like this one, that seem to garners me the most "hits" and "views" after a certain amount of time has passed.... More people are interested in, and searching for, "well, well, well," than they are for "I decide to refocus my music..." or what the title might otherwise be.
88 Observations

#88: My friend, Ben is due to arrive to spend a week here in New Orleans, visiting with me; and, I fear, expecting me to (drop everything and?) show him a good time. I can't find a picture of him. He had one on his Facebook showing him meeting Robin Trower, (one of the greats) but has taken it down.

#87: My apartment (shown) is about as clean as it has been in a while. When Travis Blaine first contacted me about crashing on my couch for the $20 per night, that I had advertised it for on Craig's List, I had gone through the place, attempting to do a "professional" cleaning of the place. There was oven cleaner involved, and even baking soda based deodorant sprinkled upon and then vacuumed out of the couch cushions and rugs.

I had even laundered all of my own sheets, blankets and pillow covers, because I know that a sensitive nose can pick up odors that an inhabitant may have become inured of. I probably shouldn't have to go as far before the arrival of my friend, Ben. We were cellmates for about a year, long ago, and have a pretty good sense of the cleanliness levels of each other.

I'm Like The Fish On The Dock

Still, a decade of being homeless may have lowered my standards in regards to, not so much cleanliness (as I was always a regular at the nearest laundromat, and usually had multiple options as far as which restrooms you could lock yourself in and take a full shower by holding 2-liter bottles of hot water over your head) but rather, "organization."

This would involve things like all of the objects that are holding my attention in some way, being visible and displayed in proportion to their present importance to me. From the vantage point of sitting on the couch; my whole life is represented in a panoramic view; with everything that I'm working on -even if it's a book that I've read a bit of and laid aside- within sight. This is, I guess, so I can sit up in the morning and gaze around and try to "center" myself.

A simple example would be, my cellphone having been placed right at the front edge of the coffee table that I am going to fall asleep in front of, should I be expecting a call. Otherwise, it might be further away and out of sight.

The photo above might look random and cluttered, but...

One thing that is good, I guess, is that there are no cigarettes and no lighter within arms length of me when I wake up. There is still a little twitch of my arm towards the table off of which I have plucked a cigarette to light up upon waking for years and years. It is like the twitching that fish do even after they are supposedly "dead after having sat on a dock for an hour in the sun.

I'm Losing Money As The Days Pass

#86: The Mardi Gras beads on the far left are a reminder to me that we have indeed entered the "carnival season," and in past years, I have been out at night making up to $212 a night playing at the Lilly Pad for maybe 5 hours on these same dates. The temperatures were 15 to 20 degrees warmer those years.

Tonight, Saturday, January 20th, I plan upon busking for the first time this year...I just don't know how I'm going to do it without a pack of cigarettes at my side; I may have to quit busking, should I find that too hard a task....

The Way People Age? (right)
I think people grow older looking, one bout with the flu, at a time. While you have the flu; you look 10 years older; then you recover from it but only get half of those years restored to your appearance.

#85: Then, there is the button-up blue and white checkered shirt which is hung from the tallest lamp holder.
This represents Tim, my caseworker, who has told me that it would be natural for someone of my status to start getting a disability check each month of at least 743 bucks, I think is the amount, but "not necessarily" that small, said Tim.
The shirt also reminds me of a program I heard this morning on NPR radio, in which a person being interviewed said something like: "All I see is 'help wanted' signs everywhere I look now," when asked about the economy in general in 2018 in Pennsylvania.
How the shirt relates to that is a reminder that, at least in the past, if I were to get a radically short haircut and then don a shirt such as that, it used to be pretty easy for me to get a job of some kind.

Left: Books left behind by Travis Blaine. Most of them are useless to me because they are pieces of a series, with the rest of the series missing. Start with part 5, and, if you like it, maybe go back and read the first one, type of thing...
I really hate his guts, which puts me at odds with the "Relections of the Christ Mind" type books I have been trying to read with an open mind, lately.

I have a good mind to put aside the Jesus book, peruse the "Scientology" one that he left behind (bottom of stack), and then hunt him down and murder him. There would be a term in that book for that kind of resolution of conflicting thought, I imagine, after I've just glanced through it.

One reason I can refrain from killing him is because I believe he is "innocent" in the sense that he has no concept of how other people view him. He seems only interested in demonstrating what a smart boy he is and how interesting a person he is.

A Special Snowflake; I Like That Description

One of the great ironies is that, while he was staying with me and being totally insensitive to my feelings and needs he was reading a book by Wallace Stegner, -a book about what it means to be a responsible, loving, thoughtful, constituent of the human race. a literary critic said of it...
I guess Scientology or something else trumped that, and he decided to try to chintz out on me...

It's hard to kill him. He left behind a milk crate, for example.

When he has visited me at the Lilly Pad, he has seen me sitting on a milk crate and playing for my living. He might have been leaving the crate behind with the best of intentions kind of like a retarded kid who walks up to some adult and presents him/her with a dandelion that he has picked -you don't berate him, you just smile and feel sorry for him...

Of course the milk crate was something that cost him (nothing; like the packets of McDonald's sugar that he stocked my cabinets with....)

I couldn't murder him with a totally clear conscious. He will suffer enough as the realization dawns upon him that he has no friends and that nobody really likes him because he is a tedious pedant.

It doesn't seem likely that he will come crawling to me any time soon, needing a place to stay that he can try to worm his way through for free; but, you never know. Dorise could move to Seattle, leaving her rental property in other hands and, who knows. I will be ready for him "Twice bitten, three times, shy, Travis..."

"Yeah, I know, listen...If I give you 250 dollars tomorrow....."

But, that (above) is the stack of books that (Charlie the Tuna) Travis Blaine left behind. Does it show that he has good taste? Or that his head is in some other world?

The "Special Snowflake" culture was something that Alex from California (blog reader) mentioned in a comment about Travis Blaine.

I started to think about it.

Every snowflake is unique. This is the part that Travis believes about himself, and probably why his mother (whom he spoke with regularly on the phone when he was here) wouldn't let him out of the house, because, if something ever happened to him, he would be impossible to replace -he's that special.

I'll bet he still relives moments such as walking down an aisle to receive some coveted award, distinguishing him as the valedictorian of a class of 38 at some private school where kids are coddled and sheltered and taught to believe that they are special and unique.

But, how long would it be before their minds settle upon the other extreme of: If everybody is unique and special, then I guess I'm no more unique nor more special than any other kid?

In Travis' case, never.

If he were to go outside the house and someone were to melt him, then it would be some kind of crying shame.

#84: The blue towel under the shirt is a relic from the time that Louise the overeating* tarot card reader stayed with me. It is one of the things that she left behind when she left, and I can't help think that she left it behind for the same reason that Travis Blaine abandoned his coffee mug here upon noticing me drinking out of it once.

*she initially showed up carrying a breadbox sized packet of toilet paper.

These are the guests who have gone before you, Ben Lambie (photo unavailable).

Louise probably thought that I used the towel.

Who knows, maybe I knocked it down while pulling my own towel off the curtain rod while in the tub, and a corner of it had gotten moist -enough to make someone like Louise or Travis skittish enough to begrudgingly abandon one of their possessions.

It's perhaps worth noting on some kind of list of "red flags" that potential roommates may wave, that, on some level, them showing up with their own giant bottle of "hand sanitizer," a box of rubber gloves, and all kinds of bleach and ammonia based cleansers, is a bad sign.

I have always wondered if there is indeed still a malignant spirit that will reside with me until such a time that I get myself a nice towel and then expel Louise's from my dwelling. Maybe I should toss out Travis' coffee mug while I'm at it.

Things like that (and any other kind of voodu) only have an effect in exponential proportion to how much you believe in them.

I just can remember going out on cold nights just to make enough money to get drunk and pissed off at the world because that was all I made; and then returning to an apartment that had been heated to tropical levels which were forcing Louise to spoon and gulp down the ice cream that she was sitting on my couch eating, while she watched a movie and the steamy fragrance of a fresh hot shower (which may have proceeded until such a time that the hot water heater began to run out) wafting in from the other room.

"I put a hoodoo on you so you'd make a lot of money; how'd you do?!?"

"I had one of the worst nights of my life, money-wise, Louise."

"Do you mind if I turn to heater down, it really hits you after you've walked 2 miles because you didn't even make enough to take the trolley home, hoodoos notwithstanding...?"

"Sure, even though you're not paying for it so why should you care?"

"Oh, I got you a can opener. The one you had broke when I was trying to open a bunch of stuff to cook on your stove, like my beef stew, so I ran down to the Family Dollar and got you a new one (remember that when you're asking for any rent money from me).

And, I bought a bunch of paper plates and plastic utensils...so (my germ-o-phobic self won't have to use the same dishes as you) I won't be making any extra dishes for you..."

Add "brings own paper plates" to list of red flags for potential roommates.

#83: Behind the towel is a pile of jackets, sweatshirts and the gig bag for my guitar; in a pile.
This is another habit of mine. Upon coming home, I will put my backpack down on the couch, preparing to go through it, taking out whatever food I might have bought or been given, and hopefully emptying one of the pockets of all the money that I had stuffed in it throughout the course of the night, so as to keep the tip jar below 10 dollars at all times, etc.

Usually, Harold the cat, who I probably let in with me, will be meowing for the food that is hopefully in the same backpack, and so everything winds up in the pile of black in front of the couch, from where it is convenient for me to grab on my way out the next night.

But, I suppose, to a guest, this could make me look like a slob.

There is some veracity to that, which lies in the fact that; if I were to sweep and mop my floor every day like a good and neat person, the pile of shirts and sweatshirts and guitar bags would be in the way; so there is a "slob" tie-in there...

Johnny B. turned out to be the best guest yet...

#82: Is Ben going to sleep on the couch, or on the bed in the other room? I must admit that, when I sleep on the couch, I very often wake up with my back bent as such an angle that it is stiff and painful just to straighten out and sit up on the thing. I think I should offer Ben the bed...

#81: That is, if he decides to stay at my place in lieu of getting a motel room.

The huge cockroach carcasses splattered on the walls might have something to say about that if I keep procrastinating in cleaning the place up for Ben's visit which is only about 24 days away....

#80: My Music. Something is happening to my psyche as an artist. Some of it is a result of the fevered state that I have passed through in the past couple of weeks, after I contracted the flu and as I suffered through it.

The bottles of aspiring warn to see a doctor if the fever "persists" for too long.

I procrastinated in doing that.

I saw the documentary about David Bowie a couple times while I was sick. It left quite an impression upon me.

Just like some life changing things that I went through in my 20's kind of allowed me to see through the veil of materialism and I knew that I was never going to waste much energy in the pursuit of wealth for the rest of my life (this was due to either major biochemical alterations to the molecules of my brain induced by LSD, or, seeing the light and becoming a born again Christian, depending upon one's perspective) this was almost a similar revelation.

The "message" that I got from watching the documentary was basically that "it all just fades away." So much old film of a youthful David Bowie at the height of fame and fortune, interspersed with stuff shot like 2 days before he died.

The 15 second encapsulation of his whole career played on NPR radio the day he died kind of laid a framework for me: "...Bowie, whose biggest hits included... was 69 years old. Now, we take you to "All Things Considered..."

"Hey, Macarana!!"

#79: That forced me to face one of the realities that any "artist" must. I guess I would have to say that, in the back of my mind, at least, I had been struggling for fortune and fame, trying to make it big, become famous and have my music played by people all over the world.

But, what happens is, you start to realize things like, with the death of your whole generation "50 years from now," will come the death of your fame.

You picture one of your contemporaries taking his last breath in a hostel somewhere; tubes up his nose, etc; and as the morphine drips into him, his gaze becomes distant, and he say's "What was that Daniel McKenna song, his big hit...oh, darn, I can't think of it; but he was a good songwriter, yup.." and then slips into a coma...

The late singer of the band The Cranberries, O' Riordan, died at the age of 46.
I have already had about 10 more years to have become a multi-million selling musician, and be called "The voice of a generation," than she has.
Her funeral is to be attended by "about 200 family and friends," the report I read said; and therein is the most glaring sign of her success in life, in my opinion.
I'll take 200 family and friends over multiple millions of people who can't quite recall the name of my song on their death beds, and their accurate conclusions that: "I guess it doesn't really matter anyways," as they slip off..

You think of how hard you would have to work or what stroke of luck you might need to achieve even a fraction of the fame and fortune of David Bowie (whose life was distilled to 15 seconds on FM 89.9).

You would have to be able to sell out arenas world-wide; 85% of the people in the whole world would recognize at least one of your songs. "Hey, Macarana!!"

#78: That was depressing to a degree, but I had already started to realize that our society has given so many people their 15 minutes of fame that on any given day, a list of 1,000 people (whose birthday it is, or who died) could be compiled and, maybe with a note of explanation, they would all be recognizable to the "average" person. One thousand people; every day; yes sir.

Do you remember the girl who was the lead singer for the group called The Cranberries? Well, she died last week.

Did you just say to yourself: "Oh, sure, everybody knows The Cranberries!?!"
1,000 people every single day...from Charles Manson to Keith Jackson; fame has become very popular in this world...
#77: So, If you're not doing it for the fame; then that leaves doing it because you "have something to say," and that is where I am left right now. I have adjusted my sextant; found the North Star, and am currently contemplating making my CD mostly an album of "music for people being humanely put to sleep in hospices around the world, through the agency of their family and friends and insurance company."

"music for people being humanely put to sleep in hospices around the world, through the agency of their family and friends and insurance company."

I will borrow a bit from the Pink Floyd "Comfortably Numb" vibe, but have also been influenced lately by David Bowie's last music as well as the "atmosphere creating" tendencies of the band "Radiohead."

That just seems to be on my mind lately and about the only thing I really have "to say" musically.
Singing about riding around with a girl at my side when I was 25 years old with the stereo cranking can be a really tedious thought for a 55 year old. Given how much truth he has become aware of since then...

I can see why Paul Simon said that the music business is "for someone younger who wants it more..."

There just seems to be so much that music is "not."

Sure, it's a way to show off your technical prowess; but that could just make you Mr. "A Million Notes That Say Nothing."

And, sure, it's a way to entertain people; but that could make you feel like you are a servant and some potentate is clapping his hands once and demanding "Music!!"of you; whether you feel like playing, or not.

#76: Hopefully, these are just the ruminations of a guy who hasn't recovered fully from the flu, nor regained his swagger....

#75: There aren't 88 of these.

So, there is the black hat that hasn't been worn all year.
Behind it the chunk of cement with a fence post through it that I intended to use as a weight for exercising; that hasn't been lifted all year.

Still Expanding Environment

There are the books I'm in the middle of reading; the Snowball microphone, waiting to capture songs for the dying; and the radio speaker in the window from which emanates National Public Radio, until it starts to repeat material, then I get up and shut it off. The lamp illuminates the 300 piece puzzle that I just finished; next is a 500 piece one.

I am trying to totally fill my little world and the space around me before expanding it. The apartment was way too big when I got it, for a guy who had been living on a 5 X 8 foot piece of cardboard under a wharf....