It Is 1928

I Grab 7 More Dollars On A Wednesday Night
New batteries in the spotlight; priceless...

The crayons are still a work in progress...

Military time, that is, making it about 7:30 PM on this Thursday night.
I suppose I need to keep going out to the Lilly Pad to grab the at least 7 or 8 bucks that has seemed to have been available there the past couple nights.
I am due for a 30 dollar night, I can feel it in my bones...

What a difference between doing that and making nothing at all. Harold the cat's appetite takes no nights off.

The Seven Dollar Wednesday

I set out around 9:50 PM, thinking that I could ride the yellow bike to the Lilly Pad and be playing my first note at 10:15 or at about the same time I had knocked off the night before, wanting nothing more than to sit somewhere with my eyes closed...

Then, I saw David The Water Jug Player, sitting with his water jug by the Hippie Gypsie store. I decided to stop, in case he had no weed and offer to smoke some of the bud that Bobby had given me on my way out of Sacred Heart.

David beat me to the punch by gushing: "Daniel, do you want to smoke?!?"

I told him that I would be alright waiting until I got to the Lilly Pad, but had only stopped to see if he needed any weed.

There is something that happens to me at the psychological level when I touch bases with David the Water Jug Player.

Part of it is in the broadcasting of the message: "See, he isn't racist, he has at least this one black friend," to the rest of the eyes and ears of the Canal and Royal Streets block. This really seems to cause them to back off from me in the sense of not asking me for some silly amount of money like 4 cents, just to test me, to see where my "heart" is, and if I would indeed confirm their suspicions of me as perhaps hating black people enough that I won't even give them 4 cents.

The other part actually has to do with my religious beliefs, and how it is really like revisiting my roots as a homeless street musician to hang out with him and gain, through osmosis, a refreshed perspective upon the matter of the tourists needing what we do as buskers, to complete their experience of coming to New Orleans, and of us being the closest thing to a religious experience that they might have while here, the Hustler Club notwithstanding...

So, I left David, after accepting his offer of a toke of whatever bud the fates had placed in his pouch, and then having re-stuffed his little pipe with what the same fates had deemed fit for the likes of Bobby in Building C, and passed it back to him, which caused him to say: "Oh, this is good, I can taste it!"
It was better than what he had been "smoking on;" I could taste that..

So, my good deed having been done, I proceeded to the Lilly Pad and was able to be set up and playing by about 10:30. I had fresh, bright batteries in my spotlight overhead.

'Tis The Season...

It was fun, and I made 7 dollars.

I hurried to the Rouses Market before they closed at 1 AM, having played the, typical as of late, one hour and ten minutes to make the seven bucks.

I bought Almond milk to go with the box of cereal I had at home.
Harold the cat seems to want to go back outside right after eating lately. This is trying of my love for it. But, if I leave him inside he will be constantly meowing to be petted and scratched, and even to have his ears cleaned, something he has come to enjoy.

Fueled By Almond Milk

Right now, if I were to drop everything and head for the Lilly Pad, I might pluck my first note by 9 PM. Not bad, starting at that time on a Thursday night where the outside temperatures have cooled into the very comfortable level that my phone describes as "83 in New Orleans."