Star Date: Saturday, June 16, 2018...
I went out and played last night, after having been frustrated by the clock, which seemed to have been racing incredibly fast.
Leaving the Uxi Duxi right as it closed at 8 PM, gave me the feeling that I might be at the Lilly Pad nice and early... 9:30 PM?
Try 11:15 PM.
I had 2 dollars and change, left from the 4 dollars that Bobby had given me the previous night, after I had politely declined the goat cheese, the pastrami and the hummus from him. He had been in one of his "Do you need anything; are you alright?" moods.
He would have given me a bud of weed, except: "I've got one little bud the size of a pea -enough for my tune-up bowl," I told him.
To: "Do you need money?" I answered "I just need to get a can of cat food for 70 cents, whereupon he gave me the 4 dollars.
This made me decide to stay in on that Thursday night, six days into a juice/water fast, and, after hitting the Family Dollar before it closed at 10 PM for said can of cat food, I returned home to do just that.
It occurred to me that 4 dollars just about amounts to a shot of kratom.
Bobby is the type of guy who, (in a well meaning way) will pry into my finances, asking me how much I made the previous night, for example, and then being able to figure out from listening to me talk, where the money probably went, and how much I most likely have left, etc.
He doesn't want me taking advantage of his generosity, like taking free buds of weed from him when I have a pocket full of money, type of thing, and I guess he likes to know that his help is indeed appreciated.
It bothered me when, after I first met him, he immediately asked me about the "voucher" that I get through the Catholic Social Services people. "How much is your rent every month?," he had asked.
I hesitated in answering him, after having had the experiences with people whom I let stay at my place, in exchange for what turned out to be nothing, once they found out that my rent was free to me. "If you aren't paying anything, then I ain't giving you shit!," seemed to be the sentiment. This is part of an institutionalized mentality that is prevalent among the "entitled" set.
At least Johnny B. had given me the promised amplifier, and had thrown in a Beatles "Complete Scores" book turning his inability to read music into a blessing for me. "I can't use this," he had said.
Louise Hellman, standing in my parlor and cussing me out, telling me that she deserved my apartment more than I did, because she too would be a veteran, had she not been kept out of the service due to varicose veins, I think it was, and that the government should have given her disabled veteran status based solely upon her willingness to have gone overseas to kill "women abusing camel jockeys," but, no, they had given it to "a stupid alcoholic" (who sealed the deal by leaving a soup bone simmering on the stove until it began to smoke, but not even enough to set off the detector) instead, someone to whom she wasn't going to give shit, comes to mind on that head.
Bobby probably figured correctly that, since I had fasted for six days, and had not gone out to play, that I was pretty much broke.
And, he also figured, kind of correctly, that it was probably the shot of kratom that I missed the most, of all the things that I couldn't buy -It certainly wasn't goat cheese- and, hence, the gift of 4 dollars.
I didn't think of it as a shot of kratom when it went into my hand, but only as food for Harold. Then, being able to take the night off, presented itself.
When I was on my way back from the dollar store with $3.30 left, was when it dawned upon me that I would only have to find a bit of change under the couch cushion to be able to go to the Uxi Duxi the next day, Friday.
Friday Afternoon
I wound up bagging up a handful of pennies, sending them through the machine at Rouses Market, and turning them into a paper dollar -much more spendable than zinc- and, while I was there, buying another grapefruit off my food stamp card. Fasting helps preserve the balance on a food stamp card, but, even with starving for one week out of a month, it doesn't last the whole of it.
It was after leaving the Uxi Duxi and hitting the Winn-Dixie for a wholesome drink of juice and veggies, forgetting to get the cat food, then going into Wal-Green's, where I discovered that they had gone up on price on it, then returning to the big market, saving almost 40 cents, but burning time, that I returned home and was shocked to see that it was already 9:30 PM.
Making coffee, changing a couple strings on the guitar, drying out some pot leaves that I had clipped off my houseplant on the stove, feeding Harold the food, picking out an outfit etc. all conspired to shock me once again when I saw that it was 10:30 PM on the clock in the lobby at Sacred Heart Apartments on my way out.
I played from 11:15 until almost 2 hours had passed and made 22 dollars, with a couple of five dollar bills having been my saving grace.
It was difficult to play, in a physical sense. It seemed like my strings were rusty and hard to slide over, and that I had to press extra hard to make chords sound, and that I was consciously thinking about things that I hadn't had to in the past.
It all added up to my feeling like I had worked really hard for the 22 dollars, and thinking that I am going to try to find a job somewhere. Or to make a concerted effort to find more songs that can be lazily strummed, like "American Pie," by Don McLean, for example.
 |
| A great way to break |
| a six day fast! |
I went out and played last night, after having been frustrated by the clock, which seemed to have been racing incredibly fast.
Leaving the Uxi Duxi right as it closed at 8 PM, gave me the feeling that I might be at the Lilly Pad nice and early... 9:30 PM?
Try 11:15 PM.
I had 2 dollars and change, left from the 4 dollars that Bobby had given me the previous night, after I had politely declined the goat cheese, the pastrami and the hummus from him. He had been in one of his "Do you need anything; are you alright?" moods.
He would have given me a bud of weed, except: "I've got one little bud the size of a pea -enough for my tune-up bowl," I told him.
To: "Do you need money?" I answered "I just need to get a can of cat food for 70 cents, whereupon he gave me the 4 dollars.
This made me decide to stay in on that Thursday night, six days into a juice/water fast, and, after hitting the Family Dollar before it closed at 10 PM for said can of cat food, I returned home to do just that.
It occurred to me that 4 dollars just about amounts to a shot of kratom.
Bobby is the type of guy who, (in a well meaning way) will pry into my finances, asking me how much I made the previous night, for example, and then being able to figure out from listening to me talk, where the money probably went, and how much I most likely have left, etc.
He doesn't want me taking advantage of his generosity, like taking free buds of weed from him when I have a pocket full of money, type of thing, and I guess he likes to know that his help is indeed appreciated.
It bothered me when, after I first met him, he immediately asked me about the "voucher" that I get through the Catholic Social Services people. "How much is your rent every month?," he had asked.
I hesitated in answering him, after having had the experiences with people whom I let stay at my place, in exchange for what turned out to be nothing, once they found out that my rent was free to me. "If you aren't paying anything, then I ain't giving you shit!," seemed to be the sentiment. This is part of an institutionalized mentality that is prevalent among the "entitled" set.
At least Johnny B. had given me the promised amplifier, and had thrown in a Beatles "Complete Scores" book turning his inability to read music into a blessing for me. "I can't use this," he had said.
Louise Hellman, standing in my parlor and cussing me out, telling me that she deserved my apartment more than I did, because she too would be a veteran, had she not been kept out of the service due to varicose veins, I think it was, and that the government should have given her disabled veteran status based solely upon her willingness to have gone overseas to kill "women abusing camel jockeys," but, no, they had given it to "a stupid alcoholic" (who sealed the deal by leaving a soup bone simmering on the stove until it began to smoke, but not even enough to set off the detector) instead, someone to whom she wasn't going to give shit, comes to mind on that head.
Bobby probably figured correctly that, since I had fasted for six days, and had not gone out to play, that I was pretty much broke.
And, he also figured, kind of correctly, that it was probably the shot of kratom that I missed the most, of all the things that I couldn't buy -It certainly wasn't goat cheese- and, hence, the gift of 4 dollars.
I didn't think of it as a shot of kratom when it went into my hand, but only as food for Harold. Then, being able to take the night off, presented itself.
When I was on my way back from the dollar store with $3.30 left, was when it dawned upon me that I would only have to find a bit of change under the couch cushion to be able to go to the Uxi Duxi the next day, Friday.
Friday Afternoon
I wound up bagging up a handful of pennies, sending them through the machine at Rouses Market, and turning them into a paper dollar -much more spendable than zinc- and, while I was there, buying another grapefruit off my food stamp card. Fasting helps preserve the balance on a food stamp card, but, even with starving for one week out of a month, it doesn't last the whole of it.
It was after leaving the Uxi Duxi and hitting the Winn-Dixie for a wholesome drink of juice and veggies, forgetting to get the cat food, then going into Wal-Green's, where I discovered that they had gone up on price on it, then returning to the big market, saving almost 40 cents, but burning time, that I returned home and was shocked to see that it was already 9:30 PM.
Making coffee, changing a couple strings on the guitar, drying out some pot leaves that I had clipped off my houseplant on the stove, feeding Harold the food, picking out an outfit etc. all conspired to shock me once again when I saw that it was 10:30 PM on the clock in the lobby at Sacred Heart Apartments on my way out.
I played from 11:15 until almost 2 hours had passed and made 22 dollars, with a couple of five dollar bills having been my saving grace.
It was difficult to play, in a physical sense. It seemed like my strings were rusty and hard to slide over, and that I had to press extra hard to make chords sound, and that I was consciously thinking about things that I hadn't had to in the past.
It all added up to my feeling like I had worked really hard for the 22 dollars, and thinking that I am going to try to find a job somewhere. Or to make a concerted effort to find more songs that can be lazily strummed, like "American Pie," by Don McLean, for example.
 |
| It could mean that I don't have to work |
| for 11 minutes if I don't want to.. |
My "amazing" songs, which keep a steady flow of money coming, had me sweating too much for the 12 bucks an hour that I averaged.
I thought about Tanya Huang, and how much easier the violin is to play, using only a hair of pressure on the strings to make the note sound.
But, also how freakish she is in her ability to go for 12 hours on a given day. She is playing pretty much all out, to "impress," and has no lazy equivalents to the McLean song in her set, either.
I am rethinking my previous desire to play with her. And I can understand why Dorise Blackmon used a nylon string guitar, twice as easy to play than a steel string.
I might have been feeling the six days without eating, also.
A new project for me will be to learn as much as I can of the Beatles early repertoire -the stuff they played before they "made it."
And Now, For Something Completely Different...
Bobby feels like I am playing Russian Roulette going out to busk, between the guys trying to grab my guitar and smash it and the ones trying to shoot me in the face with paint balls and the ones trying to take my spot.
He feels that the tourists don't recognize my worth on nights when I come home with 11 dollars or some pittance in my pocket.
Lane, who is working his last day here at the Uxi Duxi, suggested the above website to me.
It is 25 dollars per month to join The freelance writer's den (lower case intentional, I guess) and it comes with a money back guarantee.
Lane has a college degree in "Professional Writing," and is leaving the Uxi Duxi to make "4 times as much" doing some kind of writing in a corporate setting. He described it as basically proof-reading stuff before it becomes published as a manual.
Busking has just been too hard work lately.
That's funny about getting a book full of music because the guy can't read music. Long ago I gave a book of Charlie Parker's solos "The Charlie Parker Omnibook" I think it was called, to Leroy, for basically the same reason. "Consider yourself 'tipped up'!!" Leroy said. In other words, I never owed him a tip again (although I still drop the odd dollar in when I see him).
ReplyDeleteReading music, for me, is hard. I'm kind of glad I'm gravitating toward drums because it seems to be a bit simpler. The snare's on C in the staff, the toms and bass occupy various lower positions, and cymbal stuff is little x's above the staff. Instead of having to be able to hear notes in my head and sing it to myself before playing it, I can just figure out the rhythms. "Oh, it goes, 'boom, boom' cha-cha-cha'" I can think to myself.
That music I was playing with Bossa Blue last night, hell, I don't even know what the guy was singing about (in Portuguese) and sure as hell didn't know the songs, except a bit of slight familiarity with a few due to having heard them months ago, but I was able to "swim along" OK and even catch the places where everyone doing percussion kind of speed up/intensify a little and then go "PAH!" and there's a halt, then the music starts up again.
I feel pretty bad about not being able to read music well at all and not being able to hear some guy go "blang" on the guitar and think, like you, "Oh, that's a bladda bladda chord" but but apparently Buddy Rich, the best ever, could not read music either.
BTW that "Writer's Workshop" thing reminds me of the envelope-stamping scam I sent off for information about when I was in high school. Remember those? Send an SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope) and they'd send you an information packet, where they'd tell you, at length, about all the money you could make addressing envelopes, once you sent off $29.95 (in 1978 dollars!) for the first batch of supplies.
ReplyDeleteThe Beatles book has a staff for Ringo, too, with places for stuff like open high hat, tambourine, etc. Pretty cool if you ever want to record a Beatles song and have it as true to the original as possible...
ReplyDeleteI just heard a piece that had Buddy Rich on it. I was as much impressed by the piano playing of Nat King Cole on it; I knew the guy could sing, but...I guess you had to have actual talent in the fifties; no way to Sonny Bono your way onto the radio then, LOL!
The writer's den might give me what I am lacking, which would be some kind of time-table to work with; apparently they give you some time-tested procedures to follow and have some kind of accountability in the form of a "Thursday Checklist," where you verify that you have indeed sent x amount of e-mails and queried x amount of editors, etc.
It has to, like everything else, boil down to how good a writer you are. The couple hours a day that I spend writing this blog has probably instilled the necessary discipline in me, but my efforts have not been focused upon the pecuniary aspect of writing -unless you take into account boxes of art supplies that a reader might have sent me after seeing the blog lol-
But, I have never tried to sell a piece of writing in my life, and it's one of those things where, I might just not be knocking on "the right doors", by not knocking on any...
My childhood friend, David, sent his $29.95 off -he was already counting the money he was going to make and planning upon buying a canoe- and, I'm trying to remember exactly why it turned out to be a bunch of B.S.
I think they were going to send him the equivalent of 3 pallets full of envelopes and materials and they just didn't have the room for all that, or they wanted him to send even more money to "get things started" I'll have to ask him about that if I see him in Massachusetts soon...
I think the way the envelope-stuffing thing went was, indeed they'd send you a ton of stuff and, I guess, a list of addresses or you were to come up with those on your own (all your neighbors etc.) and you'd get paid per head for people who responded and sent money in for some bullshit or another.
ReplyDeleteThose ads were in the back of every comic book and things like The National Lampoon. I was a proud reader of the Lampoon from about age 13 on, due to a guy in the neighborhood, Rex Luard, a bit of a dirty old man, giving me a few issues. I didn't even care about the titties that much; I was into comics especially the subversive kind and the Lampoon was a step more "grown up" than MAD. Mom even bought me a few of the compilations, bound into these sort of large softcover books, I believe one was making fun of the Bicentennial and there was one called "Sloppy Seconds". It took me a while to figure out what "sloppy seconds" might be alluding to.
Rex Luard was pretty cool. He gave me an old Ka-Bar knife whose leather handle had rotted off, so I made a new one out of wood and went around with this thing. A kid with a huge 'ol US Marines knife, complete with lead butt on the end of the bar I put the new handle around, and blood groove. Yay. And I'd gotten a big silver peso coin somewhere and I swapped it to Rex for my first surf board. Some surfer had stayed with him and left it and probably wasn't coming back. We had a pet duck, named, of course, duck-duck and when duck-duck hit puberty he became a bit of a terror. So we gave him to Rex and Rex re-named him Rodan because duck-duck would get up onto a roof and dive down on people. I believe he was eaten, eventually.