It Was Hard

...to go out to busk when my laptop was in inoperable condition and I had to tell myself "for everything there is a season, and a purpose under heaven," and that, why take the next 3 hours (as it was about 9:30 PM) to reinstall Ubuntu, or whatever the fix was going to require, when I could be out making 18 dollars, as that was what my take was after an hour and 15 minutes of playing.
Why so short a gig, and why did I pack up while Bourbon Street was still teeming with tourists?

I had stopped at Bobby's to get some weed before going out.
I was wimping out in a sense, having learned the night before that I could play without smoking a joint first, even though it had been uncomfortable, and deciding to use that particular crutch to get me tuned up and going.

I had 10 dollars.

I was happy to have 10 dollars left of the 18 I had made the night before. I had been able to get a double shot of kratom for 6 bucks and a can of cat food. The last two cans of Bang energy drink (with creatine) on the shelf at Rouses Market on Carrollton Street were purchased off my food stamp card, reducing its balance to $8.51.

This, with 17 days left before I get any more (and yet the minds at the FDIC, or whatever they are called, deemed it proper to cut my benefits down by 65 bucks per month because I admitted that I played the guitar for toilet paper money).

But, I had 10 bucks.

Bobby would certainly sell me a 10 dollar half gram of his bud; but he had become pissed the last time (a couple weeks ago) I asked him to sell me a "nick," which is short for "nickel," which is a circumlocution of "5 dollars."

I had the notion of taking the night off from busking after spending all of my 10 dollars on weed.
Then I could be up all night in a haze, fixing the laptop.
And, then, I would have a bowl to light up the next night, when going out broke. But, I wouldn't have money for a shot of kratom, and, by not going into the French Quarter, wouldn't have all the tobacco I would find that I could roll up and smoke.

So, I decided that, if Bobby would only sell me a dime (see above circumlocution) I would be forced to go out to busk for kratom and cat food money. But, the prospect of that would been more appealing by having a bowl to smoke as I tuned up.

It was a Thursday night and kind of chilly at about 53 degrees.

If he would rescind his refusal, and sell me a nick, then I would kind of have my choice of whether to stay in and work on the computer or not, as I would have kratom and cat food money.

I decided that, this was one case where I needed to put the laptop on the back burner, tell myself that it would be waiting for me with all its problems whenever I got back from playing; and make this an exercise in taking my mind off of something that was a big problem but one that could be gotten to later; "in due time."

I got to Bourbon Street to see a great number of tourists out. There was a busker on every block of Royal Street, as I rode my bike down it, after picking the ashtray behind the Hotel Monteleone.

A guy who works in that hotel, and whom I had seen before and had conversations with but had never asked for a cigarette, gave me one, after asking me: "How's it going?"
I have told him about breaking all the butts open and then rolling up the loose tobacco in order to smoke for free and avoid germs, and this seemed to have satisfied him enough that I wasn't doing something nasty.
"Plus, the people who are staying here and paying $279 a night for a room have probably had all their shots and only involve themselves with escorts who have had all of theirs," I added.
 As I was picking the first ashtray, I was being picky.

I was looking for just American Spirit brand cigarettes whose tell tale gold band by the filter identifies them even if their business ends are so mashed into the sand that their labels are obscured.

"I'm being picky, only American Spirits," I said to one of the other employees who was sitting on the nearby bench smoking.

Before he could acknowledge me, though, a small guy rode up on a kid's bike who had gaudy necklaces around his neck and was wearing a gaudy watch and in the process of opening a wooden case full of gaudiness. He made a bee-line for the employee sitting on the bench, passing me by, most likely, because I was picking the ashtray, and saying:  "Ah, no money; no honey.."

I felt insulted and immediately wished I could have pulled out a wad of cash with one hand and a full pack of American Spirits in the other and said: "No. No money, no gun in my face," and nodded my head in the direction of The Unique Grocery.

Then, he would glean that the ashtray picking was only a ruse, designed to convey to the skeezers "ain't even got enough money on me for a pack of cigarettes," and that I was actually smart, as opposed to dumb enough to have gotten myself into a situation where I was picking ashtrays for something to smoke.

This was my ego trying to defend itself. As soon as I caught myself thinking that; I dis-identified myself with the thought and returned to a state of peace and bliss.

Humble, and subject yourself to the ridicule of those who will discount your worth as a human being based upon thinking that you ain't got even enough for a pack of cigarettes and you will live long(er) and prosper (more) in the French Quarter.

Plus, the guy was riding around on a bike trying to sell costume jewelry; so I suppose he has ego issues of his own to deal with. And that is probably his mechanical response to seeing anyone picking an ashtray; so I'm not letting it bother me; except enough to blog 200 words about the incident...

As he began to ply his skeeze on the employee, I rode off.
As I approached the corner of Iberville and Royal, I heard the strains of the "karaoke guy" a John Legend looking and sounding guy who was set up where Jay the Really loud singer usually sits.
Once at the corner, I was treated to the sound of both Jay the Really Loud Singer, who had begrudgingly, I assume, moved down to about 75 feet from the karaoke guy and who was parrying the formers sensitive and stirring: "I'm giving you all of me; you're giving me all of you"s with his "...the smell of death surrounds you"s and his "I hurt myself today"s.
"The battle of the bands!" I said to a couple of tourists, who naturally ignored me, lest I be trying to sell them costume jewelry or something...
Then it was further down the street right before the Supreme Court building I encountered a guy on a drumkit with a guy on an electric guitar. They broke into "Sir Duke," by Stevie Wonder with the guitarist playing the signature riff and the drummer putting a pretty snappy beat to it. It sounded better than I would have thought their "missing the bass" ensemble would. I didn't recognize them, though.
Right after the Supreme Court building, at the corner of Toulouse and Royal, was a guy playing, I forget what now, my attention was drawn to the girl skeezing across the street with a sign and a dog. Her, I did recognize. She's a professional, who has at least 6 years of experience to my knowledge.

She had one on the hook, a guy dressed like he had just come from hunting ducks, and was letting out some line, with her sad smile, giving him some play; reeling him in a bit more with petting of the dog's head, that has been trained to look sad, letting him tire out some before she tried to land him, careful not to snap her line. She was using 250 pound test nylon, I believe.

Then, at St. Louis and Royal, a spot that could be called Tanya Huang corner, was Niko, a black lady who resembles Tracy Chapman in both looks and sound, who gave me a peace sign.
Niko has been both cold to me and has given me peace signs. I think she is bi-polar.
Then there was the guy at the next corner, St. Peter's and Royal, which could be called Doreen's Jazz corner (though she has been absent for at least a year now -might have moved to Idaho- and I don't mean that facetiously because, for some reason she went there every summer to escape the heat. The last thing a clarinetist of her caliber needs is to suffer asthma-like symptoms due to a NOLA August, I guess. I think she has made friends and connections up there; and probably has a pretty good gig somewhere. How the potato farmers must dig authentic New Orleans Jazz played live is anyone's guess...

"I WAS BORN!!!!!!!"

The guy at Doreen's corner was a black guy whose claim to fame is that he's able to wail out a real show-stopping, freeze you in your tracks, first line to that Sam Cooke (I think it was) song: "I WAS BORN!!!! by the river, raised in a tent..."
He then manages to make it through the rest of the song, but then he becomes like the gales that still blow after a huge storm has passed -enough to rattle the windows, a bit but no longer a category 5.

But, his "I Was Born" is legendary. He takes a deep breath and lets it roar from the diaphragm and he's a great singer for those 3 seconds...

He was there with his full scale portable keyboard.

Then there was another rather large black guy, at Orleans and Royal, who plays an acoustic guitar and sings. He looks kind of like he came off a plantation; a straw hat type of look, for him. His repertoire seems to be all of the "safe bet to make at least a few bucks" stuff like "Sweet Caroline," by Neil Diamond.
Then a banjo guy across from the hotel that doubles as an ear ring store.

There was a couple sitting on Lilly's stoop. "Oh, are you going to play for me?!?" the young lady asked.
I hate breaking the not yet tuned guitar out and playing it, so I told her that I wanted to tune up first. I rolled the joint "There you go," said the guy who declined my offer of some of it.
It seemed like I should have just busted out some Bob Dylan to try to get a few bucks out of them because, as I tuned, the young lady began to request that I play some "Etta James," so she (the young lady) could "sing the blues."
Instead of telling her that I didn't know any Etta James songs (although, I would bet that if I saw her discography I would recognize a lot of them) I started playing a blues in the key of A (to match the D major harmonica around my neck) and she started to sing a song bluesy enough so that I could intuit when to go to the next chord and wound up playing a generic I-IV-I-V "12 bar" blues which she, I guess, sang one of the Etta James classics over, something about her man being no good.
They tipped me one dollar. That gave me enough money for kratom and cat food for the next day.
I wound up making 18 bucks, with a couple of 5 dollar tips included.
At midnight, after only having played an hour and 15 minutes; I had that nagging feeling that I had nothing more to say, musically, which comes from the one side of the brain that needs to be offset by my having a printed out and laminated sheet of "all the songs I do," so that the other side of the brain can pore over it at moments like that and I might get a second wind and make more than 18 dollars in 75 minutes.

I came here to the Uxi Duxi and installed a version of Linux 15 to run alongside the corrupted Ubuntu 16 which now resides in a separate partition.
Supposedly the operating system will still be able to access my music and photos etc that were stored by the now corrupt system.

But, I am going to hit the "publish" button on this, before I go experimenting with it; so I will have at least a blog post done before it crashes if it's going to.
I come back and add the photos later, should I succeed in accessing them...