When The Going Gets Tough

I'll show them! I'll show them all!

I'm going to put an ass-kicking on them

they'll never forget!!!

The tough force themselves to go out on a Wednesday night to busk, even though it feels colder than the 49 degrees that it is and am I coming down with another cold or flu? is a worry.

I rode my bike to the Starbucks after having been asked to leave the Uxi Duxi, being 30 cents short of my usual shot of kratom.

I am there almost every day, have spent probably over 200 dollars in there since they opened; have recently started adding tips for the baristas to my purchases, even though it's only 50 cents (but an amount that adds up infinitely faster than zero) and was subjected to "Nobody Loves You When You're Down And Out," the Eric Clapton version playing in my head as I unlocked my bike, and had to struggle with anger; telling myself that rules are rules and that Nathaniel probably fears that the bar will turn into a place where people hang out but never spend money, and thus the rule.

It was a heaping load of everything that Eckhart Tolle talks about in the way of: Things are going to happen, and you are going to find yourself in circumstances that are going to test your ability to stay in the present moment, etc.

So, I had to push away thoughts of never going back to the Uxi Duxi again to "teach them a lesson," or of going back there and pulling out a wad of hundred dollar bills, because I didn't have them.

The whole evening felt out of kilter. I wondered if I had made a mistake by not having sat in my apartment with less than 3 dollars to my name and meditated; until the desire for anything that costs money went away.

Once at the Starbucks, the young black lady behind the counter took my order never making eye contact with me, after having practically flirted with the black guy before me; no big deal.

Then, as I did my blog post using their wireless there was an older drunk black guy who was a Snagglepuss laugher, sounding like he was getting ready to hock up some phlegm rather that reveling in mirth. He kept uttering barely intelligible phrases, seemingly about how he had been walking around telling people that he hadn't a dime to his name; and all the ten dollar bills that he had been given, as evidenced by all the ten dollars worth of whiskey that had turned him into an obnoxious Snagglepuss laugher in Starbucks.

He sat right next to me as I typed away. It would drive the person who wasn't in the present moment and seeing his connection to every living creature through the love of God, crazy. My connection was cutting in and out, maybe due to the florescent lighting in the place. I couldn't refrain from looking at the guy with a "Can't you see I'm trying to work here?" expression.

Then I felt ill at ease trying to record thoughts while trying not to identify with them at the same time; that turned it into a mind game which is exactly what I was supposed to be trying to transcend. And Snagglepuss seemed to derive endless amusement over my plight.

I dreaded going out to busk.

10 PM, and the closing of Starbucks, overtook me as if the clocks had been accelerated.

I stood on the corner, realizing that my only viable option was to proceed directly to the Lilly Pad, do not pass go, and that I would feel better once the first dollar went into my tip jar.

I went through the alley behind the Hotel Monteleone where I pick the ashtrays, feeling like I shouldn't be doing it, like I should have meditated away the desire for tobacco and that the few staff members of that hotel could sense this at a subconscious level.

There was a fat black lady, dressed as a house-keeper sitting on top of one of the ashtray things, for example. I had to dissociate myself from thoughts like: what a lazy lady, can't imagine how much work she accomplishes, yet she has a job when I would work three times as hard yet don't...and did she plant her ass on the ashtray when she saw me coming? Maybe snagglepuss laugher is in cahoots with her and had texted her that I was on my way. Or maybe she doesn't mind getting ashes on the butt of her black slacks; and if one of the cigarettes that she is sitting on is still lit, oh well...those are the risks you take when it is important to you to keep a white man from getting free tobacco...

No, those are the emotional risks you take when you are a white man picking ashtrays, I determined; able to maintain some peace of mind.

Then I rode by Jay the Really loud singer who was singing "Here I go, playing star again..." from the Bob Seger song which is one of the dozen or so that he does in constant rotation.

His voice has become thinner and weaker in the past year; I wondered if crystal methamphetamine does that to a singer.

Then I got to the Quartermaster to pick up a milk crate to sit on. They were out and I had to grab three of the other kind to stack together.

Then I looked in the window to see who was working.

It was Robert, reminding me that I was indeed getting an earlier start to busking having left Starbucks at 10 PM and rode the 9 blocks; instead of having left Uxi Duxi at almost the same time, but then stopped at the apartment and became delayed by a meowing cat, etc.

And, Robert was in the process of serving none other than Lilly and her older daughter Chantilly.

I walked in and all three of them chimed "Hi, Daniel!" in unison, with each party seeming impressed that the other knew my name. I felt officially like a fixture in the neighborhood.

I really didn't feel like playing, and the fact that I hadn't had any kratom or any weed and that I felt a chill and wondered if I was coming down with something were all factors.

The first dollar went into my basket within a couple minutes and other ones followed at a pretty steady rate. I thought I was playing horribly. The new strings, which are the cheapest strings available ($2.49 a pack) felt like the cheapest strings available, like I was going to cut my skin open while sliding from one fret to the next.

I made 13 bucks in an hour and a half; bought cat food and a small jar of instant coffee and was able to lay about 9 bucks on my coffee table.

I still had 30 cents short of a shot of kratom on my green American Express card.

But more importantly had weathered the storm; had not blown up and cussed Dom out over the 30 cents; had endured Snagglepuss laugher, and found it easy to go into a deep state of meditation when I got home.

I then understood the importance of being an instrument of peace in the daily walk through life; less crap to have to not identify with when trying to meditate later.

I hadn't eaten before going out to play, unless you consider the half and half and sugar I put in my coffee food, and I had the notion of doing a juice fast. I drank juice while boiling up some yellow corn grits, as per the instructions on the back of the 5 pound bag of it that I had gotten from the food bank 3 weeks prior.

It would be an experiment using corn as the substance being tested.
I was woken up at 2:30 PM having just about 8 hours of sleep in me by Ed from apartment 303. He wanted to see the bike that I had offered to him and Rose for 30 dollars as soon as I had gotten it back from Howard Westra's.

He came and looked at it; didn't try to haggle the price down, borrowed 50 cents for doing laundry, and informed me that he would take it; used my wrench to lower the seat to "Rose height," and informed me that I had 35 dollars coming from he and Rose on the 1st of next month.

Things had turned around pretty quickly from the mental anguish of the night before. I didn't even think of a cigarette first thing upon waking up. It was about the 3rd thing I thought of.

On the way to the Uxi Duxi I remembered to stop at the library and photocopy my food stamp card to send to the Assurance wireless people in order to get the smartphone on its way to me.

The Riddle Solved

The significance of the number 22 as it relates to the Uxi Duxi is that that is its value on the Scrabble board. I originally wondered if the guy that named the place was a Scrabble player but then realized that, apart from the X's the rest of the tiles are only worth one point each.

"No, it's a Sicilian curse," said Chloe today after I solved the riddle for her. "The guy that owns it is Sicilian and, in fact, one of his Sicilian relatives is buried in the cemetery across the street."

Max and the girl who sometimes wears equestrian boots.

I'm hoping I have the resolve to go out and play a second night without smoking weed first and that I play better than I thought I did last night. I hadn't been able to think of more than a couple songs to fit the D major harmonica, even though there are thousands in existence.

Harold is outside, but will be meowing for another can of food when I get back, so I will tap into the 4 dollars and change that is my net worth for one on the way back there.

The temperature has come up about 5 degrees from yesterday. At least this spring is acting like a normal one, dispelling fears of cataclysmic climate changes and the destruction of the planet, for now.