One Dollar
I went out to busk last (Wednesday) night, arriving at the persistently annoying hour of 11:30 PM. So often do events conspire to delay my arrival at the Lilly Pad until this time that it had me shaking my head as I rode past the "Jesus clock," on St. Josephs Cathedral. Business as usual, after having tried, as usual, to get there earlier than that.
The streets were about as deserted as I have ever seen them in the French Quarter.
There weren't even any pedicabs in front of Lafitt's, when there are usually two or three. There weren't any tourists to deliver anywhere, even if there had been any.
I sat down and played, thinking that I might get a few bucks which would be better than nothing.
I had enough money for the bus fare to the plasma place where 25 dollars could be gotten.
I was basically out of food, both human and cat varieties.
My plan was to busk, then to stay up all morning until the time came to be spirited in the Sacred Heart Apartments official van, driven by Dorothy, to the food bank place that I am allowed to visit once per month, to get some food, which I would then eat, so as to have something in my stomach when I next went to the plasma place to sell my plasma for 25 bucks, before returning in time to meet Jacob at the Uxi Duxi, where he would be consuming the one shot of kratom that he is allotted for this week by Bob, his guardian.
This was a pretty ambitious schedule.
I made one dollar bill busking.
I knew something was up and sensed that the Southern Decadence Festival was officially underway after the first couple groups of people had walked past and ignored me in the aggressive ignoring kind of way that brought back memories of last year's festival.
I had commented last year about how conspicuous it is when a group of about a dozen people walk past with not one of them even turning his head towards me as natural curiosity would dictate.
"Yeah, these are here for the Decadence Festival," I thought.
Most normal people will at least glance at me, even if they have no money, with the more vocal of them perhaps saying words to the effect of: I wish I had some cash because you sound good," or something.
I am not going to waste my time trying to (further) psychoanalyze the gay men who come here for the festival.
I have been through this several times, and have, in past years, buckled under their passive aggression and fantasized about mowing the lot of them down with a vehicle driven at high speed down Bourbon Street, and of throwing a pipe bomb into the mass of them, leaving carnage and thongs in its aftermass.
The Buddha once said something about a guy who was so afraid of snakes that he has a heart attack upon seeing a stick, thinking that it was a snake. The Buddha's point was that the guy was seeing snakes where they weren't because of his fear.
But, I find that once I start doing the same, seeing in my case, gay men who are intentionally trying to inflict pain upon someone who appears to be straight to them, when they might just be sticks, then it is time for me to leave.
I had decided to do just that, but not before singing a few verses of "Fags Never Give Me No Money," a send up of the Beatles song of a similar name.
I did this and then looked to see the one and only dollar of the night in my basket.
Someone had tipped me that, despite the tone of the song. This really made me want to leave because I was then not sure if I wanted to go back to trying to entertain them in a positive way, or to continue in the "I hope you all die of H.I.V." vein.
Even Jesus lost his cool and overturned the tables of the money changers. I think he would be tweeting out: smh (shaking my head) over these guys today.
Inspiring
The above video, I found to be very inspiring.
The fact that I now have, on my laptop, as much if not more recording "technology" than Phil Spector had at his disposal, has made me want to record even more. I guess I have been taking for granted the awesome tool that the Audacity editor is.
I had never thought about layering track upon track of the same instrument, like he did, even though I have the ability.
And, I guess my guitar parts will sound better -"fuller," at least- if I have a dozen of them playing in unison, like a section of violins in an orchestra.
I went out to busk last (Wednesday) night, arriving at the persistently annoying hour of 11:30 PM. So often do events conspire to delay my arrival at the Lilly Pad until this time that it had me shaking my head as I rode past the "Jesus clock," on St. Josephs Cathedral. Business as usual, after having tried, as usual, to get there earlier than that.
The streets were about as deserted as I have ever seen them in the French Quarter.
There weren't even any pedicabs in front of Lafitt's, when there are usually two or three. There weren't any tourists to deliver anywhere, even if there had been any.
I sat down and played, thinking that I might get a few bucks which would be better than nothing.
I had enough money for the bus fare to the plasma place where 25 dollars could be gotten.
I was basically out of food, both human and cat varieties.
My plan was to busk, then to stay up all morning until the time came to be spirited in the Sacred Heart Apartments official van, driven by Dorothy, to the food bank place that I am allowed to visit once per month, to get some food, which I would then eat, so as to have something in my stomach when I next went to the plasma place to sell my plasma for 25 bucks, before returning in time to meet Jacob at the Uxi Duxi, where he would be consuming the one shot of kratom that he is allotted for this week by Bob, his guardian.
This was a pretty ambitious schedule.
I made one dollar bill busking.
I knew something was up and sensed that the Southern Decadence Festival was officially underway after the first couple groups of people had walked past and ignored me in the aggressive ignoring kind of way that brought back memories of last year's festival.
I had commented last year about how conspicuous it is when a group of about a dozen people walk past with not one of them even turning his head towards me as natural curiosity would dictate.
"Yeah, these are here for the Decadence Festival," I thought.
Most normal people will at least glance at me, even if they have no money, with the more vocal of them perhaps saying words to the effect of: I wish I had some cash because you sound good," or something.
I am not going to waste my time trying to (further) psychoanalyze the gay men who come here for the festival.
I have been through this several times, and have, in past years, buckled under their passive aggression and fantasized about mowing the lot of them down with a vehicle driven at high speed down Bourbon Street, and of throwing a pipe bomb into the mass of them, leaving carnage and thongs in its aftermass.
The Buddha once said something about a guy who was so afraid of snakes that he has a heart attack upon seeing a stick, thinking that it was a snake. The Buddha's point was that the guy was seeing snakes where they weren't because of his fear.
But, I find that once I start doing the same, seeing in my case, gay men who are intentionally trying to inflict pain upon someone who appears to be straight to them, when they might just be sticks, then it is time for me to leave.
I had decided to do just that, but not before singing a few verses of "Fags Never Give Me No Money," a send up of the Beatles song of a similar name.
I did this and then looked to see the one and only dollar of the night in my basket.
 |
| To each, his own... |
Someone had tipped me that, despite the tone of the song. This really made me want to leave because I was then not sure if I wanted to go back to trying to entertain them in a positive way, or to continue in the "I hope you all die of H.I.V." vein.
Even Jesus lost his cool and overturned the tables of the money changers. I think he would be tweeting out: smh (shaking my head) over these guys today.
Inspiring
The above video, I found to be very inspiring.
The fact that I now have, on my laptop, as much if not more recording "technology" than Phil Spector had at his disposal, has made me want to record even more. I guess I have been taking for granted the awesome tool that the Audacity editor is.
I had never thought about layering track upon track of the same instrument, like he did, even though I have the ability.
And, I guess my guitar parts will sound better -"fuller," at least- if I have a dozen of them playing in unison, like a section of violins in an orchestra.
It's not that the gays are out to get you, it's that you didn't plan ahead. You could do odd jobs or wash dishes or be a bar-back, any sort of under the table work, during the slow times.
ReplyDeleteDifference is, Phil Spector had recording engineers and such to set up and run the equipment at his whim, he really didn't have to know shit. In fact much of what Phil did was basically throw shit at the wall to see if it would stick! His "wall of sound" was some of that sticky shit that could really only work with analogue recording techniques. And overtly tortured horn players.
ReplyDeleteImagine what it would be like to just sit down at a mic with your guitar and have other people else do all the technical work at the snap of your fingers, operate the console, set up mics and monitors, keep track of the recording details, etc...
As for busking ebbs.. fuck the clowns, the street doesn't define you, you define the street! keep street art alive!
It's far more important than making recordings IMO anyway.
Cheers, Daniel
A battery powered amp would help, and modern rechargeable batteries are great.
ReplyDeleteHe could get up the money quick by flying a sign on a highway ramp leading out of town, "GOING HOME To MASS." something like that; people will fork over plenty of money to people who are traveling".
Of some shifts washing dishes etc.
Record a CD and put a colorful cover on it, put your originals on it because Joe Tourist from Iowa will buy it just because it's "different".