-the high school yearbook "signature phrase" applied to my college roommate, Dave LeClair, back in '87 when he graduated from Gardner High School in Massachusetts.
He was starting college the year after he graduated. I was in my 7th year at the 2 year community college where we both went.
2 Dollar Wednesday
After having been 9 cents short, and denied a second half shot of kratom by Dom at the Uxi Duxi because of it, I left there a little earlier than normal, and was back at the apartment a little after 10 PM.
It had been kind of a reality check for me, as I rode away from the place.
I had left then, rather than subject myself to the possibility that Dom might append: "...and, if you're not going to buy a second half-shot, you can't hang around" to his "I'm not going to do that (let me bring him the 9 cents later)."
I knew that going out to busk on that 90 degree evening was my best option. Even though it would be a Wednesday night, during the officially dead season, I thought that I could be set up and playing at the Lilly Pad by 11 PM.
It was "slow" and "dead" with probably only 40 people having passed me the whole 2 hours that I played and made 2 dollars. It had been 11:30 PM when I got there -the hour and a half since I left the Uxi Duxi having evaporated in the sultry air.
Halfway through my set, the "a" string broke on my guitar. Of course it did; I was nine cents short of a half shot of kratom.
Before I had gotten there, I discovered that the Hotel Monteleone, where I usually pick the ashtrays on my way to the spot, had placed those kind of enclosed ashtrays with the little holes at the top -the "irretrievables" you might call them- by the benches where their employees take their breaks. Of course they had.
I got to the Quartermaster, where I usually grab a milk crate to sit on, and was informed by an employee there that the Coke guy was upset about his crates disappearing from there, of course he was, and could I please not take one of those to sit on, even though I return them every night? Of course I could. The guy was nice enough to produce a milk crate from inside the store: "Here, you can use this..."
I continued to play on the five string guitar, finding a couple of songs that I could manage without that string. One of them was my own "Her Thigh Said: Sublime" song, and the other was the playing of the "Ooooh, she makes me wonder" part of "Stairway To Heaven," by Led Zeppelin, over and over.
The second of the 2 dollars might have come through doing that.
When it rains, it pours, as far as the consequences of my mismanagement of money is concerned.
The spotlight above me with the cheap batteries in it was fading fast. Of course it was.
The universe was bringing itself to balance, after the night that I had run into Chrisina Friis, who had given me ten bucks, and then the barista at Uxi Duxi had given me a free half shot of kratom out of appreciation of my being there, saving her from having to be the sole guardian of all that kratom and the thousands of dollars worth of CBD and kava dabs, not to mention whatever had accumulated in the register, along with probably at least 50 bucks in the tip jar on the counter.
An armed bandit could make off like, well, a bandit, at that place. Considering that the vials, with price tags of $89.95 on some of them are the size of a thing of nose drops, a thief could walk out with a few thousand dollars worth in a plastic shopping bag.
It would take a 110 pound young lady, who is pretty also, to think of such things once she is alone with her thoughts, and the insecurities began to creep in, encircling her like a gay dancer to a pole -
The crystal ball itself goes for 300 dollars, but I digress.
Dom's habit of locking the place up, so he can run home to change his shirt or something, would mean that probably no suspicion would be aroused in customers who might show up to find the door locked. They might just go and run an errand or two, planning upon returning in a half hour, while Erin was being raped in the back room, and the precious oils were being bagged up.
These are just some of the not always obvious complications that could stem from an employee whose vanity is such that he just isn't feeling lavender enough to finish a shift wearing that color. And, of course, Erin's torment could be extended while they run more than a couple errands, due to the fact that Dom might have haphazardly set the "will be back at" clock so that you can't really tell which hour the little hand is on.
What's the big deal about setting the stupid little clock accurately, or running real quick to my apartment to change my shirt? The pretty boy might wonder.
But, it became part of the process of my "letting go of the whole matter" of Dom not forgiving me the 9 cents, to realize that I was leaving him alone at the place after I pedaled away and to console myself by thinking: Karma is a bitch, or words to that effect. What's the big deal about nine little cents?
How would anyone dare to rob the golden boy, though?!?
So, it's Thursday night, and I leave here in a few minutes trying to be at the Lilly Pad by 10:30. I don't want to try to think too much past that...
I'm probably not going to have any weed to smoke, but I'm eventually going to have to stop relying upon it. It's almost a luxury I can't afford. Maybe if I ever achieve the status of Miles Davis, then I can perform on heroin every night, and the audience will just think I'm in a dreamy mood.
 |
| $300 a pop |
2 Dollar Wednesday
After having been 9 cents short, and denied a second half shot of kratom by Dom at the Uxi Duxi because of it, I left there a little earlier than normal, and was back at the apartment a little after 10 PM.
It had been kind of a reality check for me, as I rode away from the place.
I had left then, rather than subject myself to the possibility that Dom might append: "...and, if you're not going to buy a second half-shot, you can't hang around" to his "I'm not going to do that (let me bring him the 9 cents later)."
I knew that going out to busk on that 90 degree evening was my best option. Even though it would be a Wednesday night, during the officially dead season, I thought that I could be set up and playing at the Lilly Pad by 11 PM.
It was "slow" and "dead" with probably only 40 people having passed me the whole 2 hours that I played and made 2 dollars. It had been 11:30 PM when I got there -the hour and a half since I left the Uxi Duxi having evaporated in the sultry air.
Halfway through my set, the "a" string broke on my guitar. Of course it did; I was nine cents short of a half shot of kratom.
Before I had gotten there, I discovered that the Hotel Monteleone, where I usually pick the ashtrays on my way to the spot, had placed those kind of enclosed ashtrays with the little holes at the top -the "irretrievables" you might call them- by the benches where their employees take their breaks. Of course they had.
I got to the Quartermaster, where I usually grab a milk crate to sit on, and was informed by an employee there that the Coke guy was upset about his crates disappearing from there, of course he was, and could I please not take one of those to sit on, even though I return them every night? Of course I could. The guy was nice enough to produce a milk crate from inside the store: "Here, you can use this..."
I continued to play on the five string guitar, finding a couple of songs that I could manage without that string. One of them was my own "Her Thigh Said: Sublime" song, and the other was the playing of the "Ooooh, she makes me wonder" part of "Stairway To Heaven," by Led Zeppelin, over and over.
The second of the 2 dollars might have come through doing that.
When it rains, it pours, as far as the consequences of my mismanagement of money is concerned.
The spotlight above me with the cheap batteries in it was fading fast. Of course it was.
The universe was bringing itself to balance, after the night that I had run into Chrisina Friis, who had given me ten bucks, and then the barista at Uxi Duxi had given me a free half shot of kratom out of appreciation of my being there, saving her from having to be the sole guardian of all that kratom and the thousands of dollars worth of CBD and kava dabs, not to mention whatever had accumulated in the register, along with probably at least 50 bucks in the tip jar on the counter.
An armed bandit could make off like, well, a bandit, at that place. Considering that the vials, with price tags of $89.95 on some of them are the size of a thing of nose drops, a thief could walk out with a few thousand dollars worth in a plastic shopping bag.
It would take a 110 pound young lady, who is pretty also, to think of such things once she is alone with her thoughts, and the insecurities began to creep in, encircling her like a gay dancer to a pole -
The crystal ball itself goes for 300 dollars, but I digress.
Dom's habit of locking the place up, so he can run home to change his shirt or something, would mean that probably no suspicion would be aroused in customers who might show up to find the door locked. They might just go and run an errand or two, planning upon returning in a half hour, while Erin was being raped in the back room, and the precious oils were being bagged up.
These are just some of the not always obvious complications that could stem from an employee whose vanity is such that he just isn't feeling lavender enough to finish a shift wearing that color. And, of course, Erin's torment could be extended while they run more than a couple errands, due to the fact that Dom might have haphazardly set the "will be back at" clock so that you can't really tell which hour the little hand is on.
What's the big deal about setting the stupid little clock accurately, or running real quick to my apartment to change my shirt? The pretty boy might wonder.
But, it became part of the process of my "letting go of the whole matter" of Dom not forgiving me the 9 cents, to realize that I was leaving him alone at the place after I pedaled away and to console myself by thinking: Karma is a bitch, or words to that effect. What's the big deal about nine little cents?
How would anyone dare to rob the golden boy, though?!?
So, it's Thursday night, and I leave here in a few minutes trying to be at the Lilly Pad by 10:30. I don't want to try to think too much past that...
I'm probably not going to have any weed to smoke, but I'm eventually going to have to stop relying upon it. It's almost a luxury I can't afford. Maybe if I ever achieve the status of Miles Davis, then I can perform on heroin every night, and the audience will just think I'm in a dreamy mood.
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