Friday, February 2, 2018

I Am Not My Thoughts

After leaving Starbucks on Canal Street with enough time to walk to the Lilly Pad and be set up and playing by 10 PM, I did so and was able to make 17 dollars, out of thin air, it seemed.
There were a good amount of tourists, with a good amount of them not tipping, probably the buskers whom I ran into who said that "these people" weren't, and myself, whom they weren't..
I was able to accept this and figured that it would be the rogue figure who would separate himself from the rest by throwing me a 10 spot or something.
I had been very nervous, as I walked to the spot; fearing that someone would be set up there, and that they would have a basket full of money and a strong desire to keep it flowing.
It's that second part that is critical. There was a time when this young traveling kid type was busking right by where I play and Lilly wound up running him off. This was necessary, as, I wasn't able to budge the guy, not by telling him that I had been playing there 4 years almost every night, and not by adding that there were certain tourists who came here yearly and who looked for me at that particular spot as part of their vacation ritual, which is about all a busker has as ammunition in arguing over a spot.
The un-cluttering operation proceeds
Ricky, the clarinetist had told me this on my second day in New Orleans, 6 and a half years ago. "People come here every year and expect to see me here, playing."
Why would a busker who is new in town and who can move around without jeopardizing such an arrangement, insist upon staying at a spot, depriving another busker of that kind of tip (the tourist who sees you "every year")?
Well, in the case of the young traveling kid type, it was the perhaps 50 dollars that had gone into his case in the perhaps hour that he had been playing there.
This necessitated the Lilly-ectomy...

Voybler A Harbinger Of Tip

There was a nice lady last night, who sat on the stoop next to me and who said a few times: "Oh, I wish I had some cash, I would so give you some!" as I played.
I need to come up with a snigglet for such a person.
A "voybler," perhaps, from the French word for "to view" as in voyeur(?) and the word meaning: and to have no tip money, "bler."

For some reason, I was fine with her presence there. She had walked up with a gentleman wearing a sweater, who had listened along with her for a while but had gone to join still others who had found the bar 50 feet up the street.
The lady was born in 1962, like myself. She doubted that I was indeed 55, which led to my lecture on stress free living, worshiping the sun, and having cut sucrose out of my diet entirely at the age of about 20.
Eventually, the rest of the group emerged from the bar to walk down the street, probably to see what had happened to their friend, who had been listening to me for a good half hour by then, and the lady was able to get them to throw me a couple fives and a single. That was about the highlight of busking Thursday night...
Tonight's Hurdle, The Temperature
Forecast to reach the limit for busking...
I need to go out on this Friday night, during the carnival season, like the lion needs to go out onto the Serengeti when the gazelle are migrating.
The temperature, though, is forecast to plummet to around 42 degrees during the night. This low would conceivably be reached just a bit before sunrise, but, with a mass of 42 degree air due to blow in, it could do so at midnight and then just hang over the city the rest of the morning.
So, I might just be bundling up in several layers and thermal long underwear and going out there, determined to get in at least 2 hours of playing.
The 17 bucks I made last night will make certain my arrival at Howard Westra's house for the Superbowl viewing, along with party.

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