The last time I busked was a week ago now, then I jammed at Jacob's house the night before Thanksgiving.
I wound up sleeping almost the entirety of that holiday, only realizing it upon waking up in the evening.
Right: I am trying to come up with a way to draw myself using only a couple lines, like people are drawn in comic strips. This would let me focus on the humor of the cartoon without getting bogged down with the illustration of it to the point where the joke stops being funny before I've drawn a few frames of it.
I used to make cartoons featuring some of my teachers in high school, and was able to memorize a method for drawing them -first the nose, then the eyes, type of thing- so that I could draw them quickly, in like in 10 seconds, so I could then slap the dialogue and the punch lines on them and have an instant cartoon, the biggest fault being that the characters were always staring straight ahead when they delivered their lines.
It has been almost too cold to go out and play, for most of the week since then, with the temperatures dipping below the range that I have discovered that I can play in, without having to switch to easier material, which is right around 47 degrees.
Most of those experiments took place in Jacksonville, Florida in the years 2007, and 2008.
That was when I would play in front of a Kangaroo store, with a large can of malt liquor not too far from me.
I was playing for alcohol and the alcohol was, I suppose making me numb enough so that I would go until the temperature hit 37 degrees which was the point where I couldn't grip the pick any longer.
I wound up feeling like a wimp for not having gone out when it had been in the upper 40's.
Then, the weekend came along and I was talked out of busking by the guy at the front security desk, who reminded me that the weekend was the one when the Bayou Classic football game was played each year between Grambling and Southern Universities.
These are two "all black" colleges, and every year, as the game is played, so is there a shooting somewhere in the French Quarter. It is usually them shooting at each other, but recently their aim has been off and a dozen bystanders were hit last year, for example.
Then it got even colder during the days after the Bayou Classic game.
I ran out of money to the point that I was giving Harold the cat "people" food, of which a lot went to waste. He ate salmon from a can, but not all of it.
At 4 AM this Wednesday morning, I had woken up after sleeping, I guess, eight hours. I went for a bike ride to find tobacco in certain spots and was glad that I had put my gloves on.
When I got back, I put the turkey in the oven that I had bought the night before
Thanksgiving and which was only then thawed after about five days in the refrigerator.
This was going to be another source of food for Harold the cat.
I was on my way to Bobby in building C's apartment to see if I could bum the money for the bus trip to the plasma place, when I was presented with a big envelope by the front desk lady.
It was a calendar, sent by the Lidgleys, of London.
It depicted scenes from Yorksdale, I think is the name of the place, described as "the land of sheep and tourists," by Alyne.
I remembered last year's calendar, and how broke at times I had been during the year while it hung on my wall, and how, only in October, the month of my birthday, did I find the twenty dollar bill that had been taped between the pages of that month.
At Bobby's apartment, before I could ask him for the bus fare, I looked ahead 10 months and was overjoyed to find a mint twenty dollar bill taped to it. That gave me 20 dollars and 11 cents.
I was soon on my bike headed towards the Family Dollar on Canal Street, where I broke the bill with the purchase of a can of cat food -something that Harold hadn't had in a couple days, and then proceeded to the plasma place, where I discovered that they had gotten brand new plasmapheresis machines.
That was nice, but the fact that they had gotten rid of the 32 old machines and replaced them with 19 fancy new ones and the resultant 2 hour wait just to be hooked up to one sucked.
I had spent the morning, while the turkey cooked, listening to the self help dialogue recordings from the "Awaken The Genius" book, and so I was nonplussed when I was made to wait to see the nurse so she could ascertain that the rash that was around the spot where they stick their needle that I had had the last time I was there was gone, and then when I was made to wait for her a second time after the information that I had been cleared by her to donate had not made it to the computer of the guy who checks blood pressure and other things.
I patiently waited, while the point seemed to be being driven home that I could do better with busking, even at the hours that I normally go to the plasma place, than I can by going there.
Sometimes it takes a ridiculous farce, like the experience of spending over 4 hours in pursuit of the 15 dollars (minus bus fare) that I would be coming back with to make me wake up and smell the coffee.
But, I had already decided that it was time for me to start to endure hardship in order to climb out of the financial hole that toothaches, rain, cold and paranoia induced by smoking strong pot had brought upon me, so I continued to the plasma place, the Lidgley's money notwithstanding.
I had felt like a wimp after not having gone out to busk during the Bayou Classic.
Even now, as I step outside for a cigarette, where it is about 44 degrees out, I can't help thinking: Imagine going out to busk in this cold? As in, imagine it, but don't do it.
I can stuff my face with turkey over the next day to give me the blood protein sufficient to get the 45 dollars from the place on Friday, and I can busk if and when the temperature rises to the promised 74 degrees of the coming weekend.
I might be alright. I paid Jacob back ten bucks of the money I owe him, and Harold the cat has a can of food.
Right: I am trying to come up with a way to draw myself using only a couple lines, like people are drawn in comic strips. This would let me focus on the humor of the cartoon without getting bogged down with the illustration of it to the point where the joke stops being funny before I've drawn a few frames of it.
I used to make cartoons featuring some of my teachers in high school, and was able to memorize a method for drawing them -first the nose, then the eyes, type of thing- so that I could draw them quickly, in like in 10 seconds, so I could then slap the dialogue and the punch lines on them and have an instant cartoon, the biggest fault being that the characters were always staring straight ahead when they delivered their lines.
It has been almost too cold to go out and play, for most of the week since then, with the temperatures dipping below the range that I have discovered that I can play in, without having to switch to easier material, which is right around 47 degrees.
Most of those experiments took place in Jacksonville, Florida in the years 2007, and 2008.
That was when I would play in front of a Kangaroo store, with a large can of malt liquor not too far from me.
I was playing for alcohol and the alcohol was, I suppose making me numb enough so that I would go until the temperature hit 37 degrees which was the point where I couldn't grip the pick any longer.
I wound up feeling like a wimp for not having gone out when it had been in the upper 40's.
Then, the weekend came along and I was talked out of busking by the guy at the front security desk, who reminded me that the weekend was the one when the Bayou Classic football game was played each year between Grambling and Southern Universities.
These are two "all black" colleges, and every year, as the game is played, so is there a shooting somewhere in the French Quarter. It is usually them shooting at each other, but recently their aim has been off and a dozen bystanders were hit last year, for example.
Then it got even colder during the days after the Bayou Classic game.
I ran out of money to the point that I was giving Harold the cat "people" food, of which a lot went to waste. He ate salmon from a can, but not all of it.
At 4 AM this Wednesday morning, I had woken up after sleeping, I guess, eight hours. I went for a bike ride to find tobacco in certain spots and was glad that I had put my gloves on.
When I got back, I put the turkey in the oven that I had bought the night before
Thanksgiving and which was only then thawed after about five days in the refrigerator.
This was going to be another source of food for Harold the cat.
I was on my way to Bobby in building C's apartment to see if I could bum the money for the bus trip to the plasma place, when I was presented with a big envelope by the front desk lady.
It was a calendar, sent by the Lidgleys, of London.
It depicted scenes from Yorksdale, I think is the name of the place, described as "the land of sheep and tourists," by Alyne.
I remembered last year's calendar, and how broke at times I had been during the year while it hung on my wall, and how, only in October, the month of my birthday, did I find the twenty dollar bill that had been taped between the pages of that month.
At Bobby's apartment, before I could ask him for the bus fare, I looked ahead 10 months and was overjoyed to find a mint twenty dollar bill taped to it. That gave me 20 dollars and 11 cents.
I was soon on my bike headed towards the Family Dollar on Canal Street, where I broke the bill with the purchase of a can of cat food -something that Harold hadn't had in a couple days, and then proceeded to the plasma place, where I discovered that they had gotten brand new plasmapheresis machines.
That was nice, but the fact that they had gotten rid of the 32 old machines and replaced them with 19 fancy new ones and the resultant 2 hour wait just to be hooked up to one sucked.
I had spent the morning, while the turkey cooked, listening to the self help dialogue recordings from the "Awaken The Genius" book, and so I was nonplussed when I was made to wait to see the nurse so she could ascertain that the rash that was around the spot where they stick their needle that I had had the last time I was there was gone, and then when I was made to wait for her a second time after the information that I had been cleared by her to donate had not made it to the computer of the guy who checks blood pressure and other things.
I patiently waited, while the point seemed to be being driven home that I could do better with busking, even at the hours that I normally go to the plasma place, than I can by going there.
Sometimes it takes a ridiculous farce, like the experience of spending over 4 hours in pursuit of the 15 dollars (minus bus fare) that I would be coming back with to make me wake up and smell the coffee.
But, I had already decided that it was time for me to start to endure hardship in order to climb out of the financial hole that toothaches, rain, cold and paranoia induced by smoking strong pot had brought upon me, so I continued to the plasma place, the Lidgley's money notwithstanding.
I had felt like a wimp after not having gone out to busk during the Bayou Classic.
Even now, as I step outside for a cigarette, where it is about 44 degrees out, I can't help thinking: Imagine going out to busk in this cold? As in, imagine it, but don't do it.
I can stuff my face with turkey over the next day to give me the blood protein sufficient to get the 45 dollars from the place on Friday, and I can busk if and when the temperature rises to the promised 74 degrees of the coming weekend.
I might be alright. I paid Jacob back ten bucks of the money I owe him, and Harold the cat has a can of food.
While there is a Yorkdale in Australia, you probably mean Yorkshire which is in England. But I suggest you keep calling it Yorksdale, in the same way I call Elvis Costello "Declan Crumpet".
ReplyDeleteHave you considered becoming someone's "pet" guitarist who gets to play indoors, or at least under an overhang where there's some sort of heat? I've seen it done here. A very old guy who played both guitar and cornet, used to play in a little Croatian-owned coffee shop in Palo Alto and the word on the street was that he was making about $80 a night. In other words, 2X what my "real" job in electronics surplus pays me.
There's also a guitarist who's allowed to play half-sheltered right in front of the door of a place in Mountain View, with I think one of those propane flame things nearby.
That's kind of the nice thing about playing a brass instrument; the effort of playing the thing tends to warm a person up.
Shit, Dan, I was getting worried about you there with your long absence from the blog.
ReplyDelete60-90 is my 'rule of thumb' temperature range for remunerative busking.
The trouble with brass is not only can intonation be difficult due to wonky acoustically coupling with cold external air (the horn warms as you play then cools off quickly when you stop), the extra condensation factor forces you to empty the water valve every 15 seconds or deal with the gurgle till the tune is done.
Not a huge deal for marching band players where they are just blasting away most of the time but really fucked up for any kind of broad dynamic emotive playing, which is most of what I do.
I'm probably not playing when it's much colder than 60, maybe 50 but then I'm playing fairly simple stuff that people will be familiar with. And yeah, the spit valve .... and having to not take any real breaks because the horn cools down. What amazes me is the violinists who play in the same weather.
ReplyDelete