Pink Flamingos
Harold's Pink Face
"In The Pink"
I was on my way down Canal Street on the yellow bike, headed towards the plasma place.
The sky was gray overhead and there was a fifty percent chance of rain, but I had not brought my black and white umbrella with me. I was leaving it up to God whether or not I would become drenched from head to toe as I endeavored to gain the 25 dollars in exchange for 690 milliliters of my blood plasma.
I was ignoring the lesson I had learned about always taking my umbrella, "just in case..." whenever there was a chance of rain, and the one about always making sure I had bus fare for both legs of the trip, just in case the money from the plasma donation somehow did not appear on the plastic card, or if it was going to take 3 hours for it to do so.
The plasma staff hold a certain power over their donors in that regard as, I would imagine most of their "customers" who are there to donate their vital fluids, to be used to manufacture lifesaving medications have more than a cursory interest in the 20 dollar "reward," or "bonus" or "crack money," or whatever they want to call it, and can probably be put in a whole world of mess should the staff "forget" to log their donation into the system. Something about being screwed out of money while in a light-headed, weak and famished state kind of compounds the grief.
The one time that I questioned the guy who weighed me, took my vital signs and a blood sample, and then went over his head after he had told me that I wasn't due to receive a bonus, telling me that that was only my third visit of the month, when I could remember at least four of them vividly and was only wondering if it was not my fifth or sixth, was the one time that I wound up having to call the 800 number on the back of the card the following Monday to learn that the money had been put on the thing, but had not been made "available" to spend off it.
Was that something that the guy that weighed me could have wrought upon me with a click of the mouse, after his supervisor had gone to him and asked him why he told the white guy -the one with the hat, not the other white guy that had been there that day- that he was not in line for a bonus, perhaps just to enjoy seeing the look of disappointment on the 138 pound guy's face?
I was fifty cents short of my bus fare back to New Orleans, and would have to rely upon the money being put on the card and upon my ability to quickly hit the "alternate payment" button on the thing at Wal-Mart, this, after having dodged the bullets of there already being two bikes on the rack when the bus arrived, the plasma place having had a power outage, my accidentally hitting "yes" on the question asking me if I have shared needles with a gay man in the Sudan within the past year, my blood protein level being too low or too high, or my weight having dropped too much since the last visit, or my setting some newly implemented kratom detector off, etc. Never mind there already being two bikes on the rack of the bus back to the city...
Then I got a text from Jacob telling me that he was already at the Uxi Duxi and would be there all the way through the 11 PM screening of the movie "Pink Flamingos," and would pay for my admission to view it, if I cared to turn the yellow bike around and go there to join him.
What a temptation that was. Included with the movie was a complementary kratom cocktail, a CBD cake (which retails for $7) and free kava dabs, meted out by Nathaniel, the manager.
I could do a shot of kratom and hang out conversing with Jacob about upcoming recording projects, and mingling with the arrivals for the screening.
But, instead, I loaded my bike onto the one vacant slot on the 114 full of black people and went across the river. I was glad to have ridden to a stop a half mile before the bulk of people got on, making it standing room only, because of the one open bike slot and an available seat.
There was a person standing up near me as the bus tottered along, and I found myself in a quandary as to whether or not to offer "her" my seat. She was a very "butch dyke" lesbian looking type, whom I initially thought was the only other white man on the bus, but who after a closer look was closer to a woman.
I stayed in my seat, rationalizing that she might respond with something like, what are you implying, that I'm of the weaker sex? I'll show you how weak I am! and then punched me in the face.
I made it back to the Uxi about ten minutes before 10 PM after having texted to Jacob as I sat on my bike in the quarter that I'd be there at 9:40 PM.
A few obvious Decadence Festival attendees walked past and I was reminded that I was taking the night off from busking, and trying to entertain the likes of them.
I say "the likes of them," because, at least in regard to tipping, they are all the same.
Oh, surely, there's got to be at least one guy that will throw you a buck? you might ask.
No, no there isn't.
I think that breaking away from the gaggle of a dozen or so that might sashay by in a pack, like geese do (?) to walk over to put a buck in the basket of a guy who is playing, and here is the kicker, is playing David Bowie or Culture Club songs, would be like singling himself out as one who is not of the fold. Nobody is tipping the street performers, I get it, he might think.
This is finally the year that I have learned the lesson that, you aren't missing out on anything taking a Saturday night off, -a Saturday night, are you kidding me? During a big festival that draws 20 thousand people!
Erin, one of the baristas at the Uxi Duxi became abjectly encouraging of me when I had mentioned playing naked at the Lilly Pad, but with some kind of paint on my body.
There is actual legal ground that I could stand upon, as, I believe that paint is considered a fabric in the French Quarter and thus comprises a garment.
It is not lost upon me, the fact that Lilly's block has become city police free through its ability to maintain order via the bouncer at the bar, combined with this Marco, a maintenance (excuse the pun) man who rents from Lilly under some arrangement. That has been enough to keep all the kings horses and all the kings men on the other end of Bourbon Street -the crazy end.
"That would be stupendous!!" cried Erin, at the mere suggestion of it.
She came into the Uxi Duxi in kind of a whirlwind of extolling her life's experiences that she hoped would qualify her as a fine barista in a kratom bar where every other employee is a gay man, or another lady that has been everywhere and seen it all, including the astral plane, and has a good business sense (Cloe) to boot.
But, she has blossomed as promised, and more, and now works a lot of hours at the Uxi Duxi, having turned out to be very popular with the ever growing clientele.
She had shown up for the screening of Pink Flamingos last night, but left after her friends decided to spend their ticket money on booze instead. I think she said she is 35.
"There's no one else doing it. I think the gay men would really enjoy seeing a guy playing naked but with some body paint on him!"
A Spiritual War
My battle with the Decadence Festival gay's started the first year that I got here. But, at the time I must have been busking at some spot where red blooded American males that weren't gay went.
"It isn't the fact that they aren't tipping," I told Erin.
I've learned how to make up my mind that a group of people who are walking past and don't tip might still need to hear a song. If I sing something, first of all, I never know how close one of them actually is to tipping -might even be thinking she will just park in the cheaper lot the next morning, or just get a plain cup of coffee with cream and sugar- and I can play a song, thinking only that they might like to hear it and think, "I like that song!" So that's not it.
It's the being ignored.
It's the insecurity that it breeds from gaining the sense that there is nothing irresistible about your music; almost like it can't stand on its own merit, and that it hadn't been through its sheer worth that tips have been going in the jar all this time; before the Decadence guys came along, that is. That's the kind of insecurity that leads to behavior like only wearing black shirts and a lucky hat, or turning into a skeezer behind some shtick.
Some Shtick
And, then I gave Erin an impromptu recreation of what I had resorted to last year which was to sing, "You're not even listening. You can't even hear me.. What am I singing; you don't know.
I could sing anything, I could be singing anything, I could be insulting you and you wouldn't even hear. All you're thinking about is dick, dick dick, yeah, dick, dick dick dick..." And, I sang some of the other lyrics that I recall making up, to make the point that, yeah, they pretty much ignored me. Why go back to that? There's meat in the refrigerator, and about ten plasmabucks left. I haven't bought weed in about five days.
This lead to the discussion about how, however, if they do stop en mass then, the performer would probably see ten dollar bills flying at him from every direction.
This theory is diluted by degrees according to how true Lilly's assertion is that "most of them are here to make money."
"How could they ignore that?" led to my conclusion that I had tried everything*, and am taking this years' festival off out of futility.
In past years, I had geared up for the festival, seeing it as a grand challenge, to boldly have tips thrown where no tips have gone before, type of thing. When the going gets tough, the tough sit down and work out the chords to a Barry Manillow song, type of other thing.
*Except, to play naked (wearing body paint, though).
Which brought Erin to gasp that she wished she could do that, with "that" being something that has a sense of novelty, I guess. She sees it as such a golden opportunity for a male who can play the guitar, that she seems somewhat envious.
"It would sure help my Youtube channel's traffic," I mused.
Harold Ill
Harold the cat began to have diarrhea about 4 days ago, now. A couple of nights ago, I came home to find his vomit in a few places. In fact, as I entered the apartment, he began to heave up vomit upon my bed.
This is probably from the Pavlovian response to my entering the apartment because most of the time I am bringing food with me.
Maybe he was trying to puke up the bad stuff to make room for whatever I was bringing.
He has a pinkish rash around his face and ears, most pronounced around his nose, and his eyes were leaking slightly. He is pretty lethargic, not wanting to chase a leather strap that I use for a toy around.
Last night, he ate none of the Fancy Feast food that I had brought back from Gretna, and wanted to go outside at my first prompting to do so.
Going back outside without having touched his food didn't seem like a great sign; don't cats go off to die in seclusion?
Better Today
Today, he ate a few bites of food. He didn't then want to go outside, but went to lie upon a windowsill from where he can watch "the outside."
Maybe that is part of their healing process. I know I almost never got sick when I had trees and birds and the rising sun to watch every morning...
Harold's Pink Face
"In The Pink"
I was on my way down Canal Street on the yellow bike, headed towards the plasma place.
The sky was gray overhead and there was a fifty percent chance of rain, but I had not brought my black and white umbrella with me. I was leaving it up to God whether or not I would become drenched from head to toe as I endeavored to gain the 25 dollars in exchange for 690 milliliters of my blood plasma.
I was ignoring the lesson I had learned about always taking my umbrella, "just in case..." whenever there was a chance of rain, and the one about always making sure I had bus fare for both legs of the trip, just in case the money from the plasma donation somehow did not appear on the plastic card, or if it was going to take 3 hours for it to do so.
The plasma staff hold a certain power over their donors in that regard as, I would imagine most of their "customers" who are there to donate their vital fluids, to be used to manufacture lifesaving medications have more than a cursory interest in the 20 dollar "reward," or "bonus" or "crack money," or whatever they want to call it, and can probably be put in a whole world of mess should the staff "forget" to log their donation into the system. Something about being screwed out of money while in a light-headed, weak and famished state kind of compounds the grief.
The one time that I questioned the guy who weighed me, took my vital signs and a blood sample, and then went over his head after he had told me that I wasn't due to receive a bonus, telling me that that was only my third visit of the month, when I could remember at least four of them vividly and was only wondering if it was not my fifth or sixth, was the one time that I wound up having to call the 800 number on the back of the card the following Monday to learn that the money had been put on the thing, but had not been made "available" to spend off it.
Was that something that the guy that weighed me could have wrought upon me with a click of the mouse, after his supervisor had gone to him and asked him why he told the white guy -the one with the hat, not the other white guy that had been there that day- that he was not in line for a bonus, perhaps just to enjoy seeing the look of disappointment on the 138 pound guy's face?
I was fifty cents short of my bus fare back to New Orleans, and would have to rely upon the money being put on the card and upon my ability to quickly hit the "alternate payment" button on the thing at Wal-Mart, this, after having dodged the bullets of there already being two bikes on the rack when the bus arrived, the plasma place having had a power outage, my accidentally hitting "yes" on the question asking me if I have shared needles with a gay man in the Sudan within the past year, my blood protein level being too low or too high, or my weight having dropped too much since the last visit, or my setting some newly implemented kratom detector off, etc. Never mind there already being two bikes on the rack of the bus back to the city...
Then I got a text from Jacob telling me that he was already at the Uxi Duxi and would be there all the way through the 11 PM screening of the movie "Pink Flamingos," and would pay for my admission to view it, if I cared to turn the yellow bike around and go there to join him.
What a temptation that was. Included with the movie was a complementary kratom cocktail, a CBD cake (which retails for $7) and free kava dabs, meted out by Nathaniel, the manager.
I could do a shot of kratom and hang out conversing with Jacob about upcoming recording projects, and mingling with the arrivals for the screening.
But, instead, I loaded my bike onto the one vacant slot on the 114 full of black people and went across the river. I was glad to have ridden to a stop a half mile before the bulk of people got on, making it standing room only, because of the one open bike slot and an available seat.
There was a person standing up near me as the bus tottered along, and I found myself in a quandary as to whether or not to offer "her" my seat. She was a very "butch dyke" lesbian looking type, whom I initially thought was the only other white man on the bus, but who after a closer look was closer to a woman.
I stayed in my seat, rationalizing that she might respond with something like, what are you implying, that I'm of the weaker sex? I'll show you how weak I am! and then punched me in the face.
I made it back to the Uxi about ten minutes before 10 PM after having texted to Jacob as I sat on my bike in the quarter that I'd be there at 9:40 PM.
A few obvious Decadence Festival attendees walked past and I was reminded that I was taking the night off from busking, and trying to entertain the likes of them.
I say "the likes of them," because, at least in regard to tipping, they are all the same.
Oh, surely, there's got to be at least one guy that will throw you a buck? you might ask.
No, no there isn't.
I think that breaking away from the gaggle of a dozen or so that might sashay by in a pack, like geese do (?) to walk over to put a buck in the basket of a guy who is playing, and here is the kicker, is playing David Bowie or Culture Club songs, would be like singling himself out as one who is not of the fold. Nobody is tipping the street performers, I get it, he might think.
This is finally the year that I have learned the lesson that, you aren't missing out on anything taking a Saturday night off, -a Saturday night, are you kidding me? During a big festival that draws 20 thousand people!
Erin, one of the baristas at the Uxi Duxi became abjectly encouraging of me when I had mentioned playing naked at the Lilly Pad, but with some kind of paint on my body.
There is actual legal ground that I could stand upon, as, I believe that paint is considered a fabric in the French Quarter and thus comprises a garment.
 |
| Photo of Erin used by permission, to be kept on my phone in case cornered by gay men |
It is not lost upon me, the fact that Lilly's block has become city police free through its ability to maintain order via the bouncer at the bar, combined with this Marco, a maintenance (excuse the pun) man who rents from Lilly under some arrangement. That has been enough to keep all the kings horses and all the kings men on the other end of Bourbon Street -the crazy end.
"That would be stupendous!!" cried Erin, at the mere suggestion of it.
She came into the Uxi Duxi in kind of a whirlwind of extolling her life's experiences that she hoped would qualify her as a fine barista in a kratom bar where every other employee is a gay man, or another lady that has been everywhere and seen it all, including the astral plane, and has a good business sense (Cloe) to boot.
But, she has blossomed as promised, and more, and now works a lot of hours at the Uxi Duxi, having turned out to be very popular with the ever growing clientele.
She had shown up for the screening of Pink Flamingos last night, but left after her friends decided to spend their ticket money on booze instead. I think she said she is 35.
"There's no one else doing it. I think the gay men would really enjoy seeing a guy playing naked but with some body paint on him!"
A Spiritual War
My battle with the Decadence Festival gay's started the first year that I got here. But, at the time I must have been busking at some spot where red blooded American males that weren't gay went.
I've learned how to make up my mind that a group of people who are walking past and don't tip might still need to hear a song. If I sing something, first of all, I never know how close one of them actually is to tipping -might even be thinking she will just park in the cheaper lot the next morning, or just get a plain cup of coffee with cream and sugar- and I can play a song, thinking only that they might like to hear it and think, "I like that song!" So that's not it.
It's the being ignored.
It's the insecurity that it breeds from gaining the sense that there is nothing irresistible about your music; almost like it can't stand on its own merit, and that it hadn't been through its sheer worth that tips have been going in the jar all this time; before the Decadence guys came along, that is. That's the kind of insecurity that leads to behavior like only wearing black shirts and a lucky hat, or turning into a skeezer behind some shtick.
Some Shtick
And, then I gave Erin an impromptu recreation of what I had resorted to last year which was to sing, "You're not even listening. You can't even hear me.. What am I singing; you don't know.
I could sing anything, I could be singing anything, I could be insulting you and you wouldn't even hear. All you're thinking about is dick, dick dick, yeah, dick, dick dick dick..." And, I sang some of the other lyrics that I recall making up, to make the point that, yeah, they pretty much ignored me. Why go back to that? There's meat in the refrigerator, and about ten plasmabucks left. I haven't bought weed in about five days.
"When the going gets tough, the tough sit down and work out the chords to a Barry Manillow song."I mention the "gaggle of geese mentality" and how none of them want to break away from the pack to throw a dollar, because that would be breaking away, being perhaps not as gay as everybody else.
This lead to the discussion about how, however, if they do stop en mass then, the performer would probably see ten dollar bills flying at him from every direction.
This theory is diluted by degrees according to how true Lilly's assertion is that "most of them are here to make money."
"How could they ignore that?" led to my conclusion that I had tried everything*, and am taking this years' festival off out of futility.
In past years, I had geared up for the festival, seeing it as a grand challenge, to boldly have tips thrown where no tips have gone before, type of thing. When the going gets tough, the tough sit down and work out the chords to a Barry Manillow song, type of other thing.
*Except, to play naked (wearing body paint, though).
Which brought Erin to gasp that she wished she could do that, with "that" being something that has a sense of novelty, I guess. She sees it as such a golden opportunity for a male who can play the guitar, that she seems somewhat envious.
"It would sure help my Youtube channel's traffic," I mused.
Harold Ill
This is probably from the Pavlovian response to my entering the apartment because most of the time I am bringing food with me.
Maybe he was trying to puke up the bad stuff to make room for whatever I was bringing.
He has a pinkish rash around his face and ears, most pronounced around his nose, and his eyes were leaking slightly. He is pretty lethargic, not wanting to chase a leather strap that I use for a toy around.
Last night, he ate none of the Fancy Feast food that I had brought back from Gretna, and wanted to go outside at my first prompting to do so.
 |
| Where are you going, Harold? |
Going back outside without having touched his food didn't seem like a great sign; don't cats go off to die in seclusion?
Better Today
Today, he ate a few bites of food. He didn't then want to go outside, but went to lie upon a windowsill from where he can watch "the outside."
Maybe that is part of their healing process. I know I almost never got sick when I had trees and birds and the rising sun to watch every morning...
Just popping over from Reddit ... if it feels slow there maybe it's because it's slow there.
ReplyDeletehttps://www.reddit.com/r/NewOrleans/comments/9c8mmu/is_it_just_me_or_is_this_decadence_seem_a_bit/
OK some ideas...
ReplyDelete(1) Embrace the gay. Dress in a Speedo and paint, play songs by Queen, etc. Trouble is, you hate the gay and that's OK, plus it will only result in no tips, tips but with unwanted attention, or comments about being "over the hill" - gays are not kind about age.
(2) Find out where the gays aren't this weekend, and go there. Then you can be yourself, play your yee-haw Go Trump music, and get tips from the good ol' boys. ideas include bars, trashy drive-ins, or places where the good ol' boys "cruise" in their trucks. Just don't look at anyone's sisterwife too closely!
(3) Plan ahead and use this weekend for something else. Maybe you can pick up some work in one of the restaurants, or check out Labor Ready or something.