It is the first of the month, and a lot of residents at our building are going to get their monthly checks from the taxpayers.
It will be interesting to see what happens.
As the cubist rendering to the right shows; I am doing fine.
I am pretty sure that panhandling has slumped lately; as the people they are begging now have concerns about their own survival.
With cops being some of the few people working, and with the roads and sidewalks bereft of people, the crack dealers pulling up to the front of our
building and having brief exchanges with the residents is going to stick out like a sore thumb, and maybe we will have some genuine "bad boys, what 'cha gonna do" type s*** going down for our viewing pleasure tonight, shortly after midnight, after the money arrives at an ATM near you. "Most Popular All Time" I have changed the "Most Popular This Year" widget on the right to become most popular, all time. I found out it was set for most popular last year, and so it was never going to change. I had wondered why it was the same three posts being "featured," unwavering. To this day, I have no idea why the scary moment post got so many hits. There must have been a glitch somewhere. One of the mysteries of the universe....
What piques my interest is that, the "community food basket" type thing that is set up at the elementary school across the street from our building is giving out some good food, like a gumbo that has hearty chunks of chicken in it, but that copious amounts of cow's milk is also handed out, along with the fact that such a large percentage of people don't eat the peas and corn that is in the other well in the tray, and they leave their apples on the donation table. I'm more worried about what people are eating than the virus. Also, the guy who stopped and gave me a bag of what amounted to "sweets," made me wonder how many people are living on a diet of honey buns and Doritos, and how many of them are on meds, prescribed for any one of the top ten causes of death in America (with heart disease topping the list). It's not a matter of longevity to me, rather, quality of life. I am going to send about a dozen of those apples through my juicer, and I guarantee that I will feel like a million dollars after I start my day by drinking it. Compared to the $35,187 that the guy who lives off honey buns probably feels like right now...
This is fresh news, above, by the way, and it ties into the post. I Get The Bag of Coffee
I got the bag of coffee from the only Starbucks open in the city.
I had arrived yesterday, when a white lady named Kayla told me that she would be working today, and that I could just call from outside the store and we could work out the sale of the one pound bag of freshly ground coffee.
It is my guess that Kayla is the manager and that she might have an interest in making even just one more sale during this downturn in the economy.
And, it is my guess that the portly African American girl, who might have been 20 years old was not, who cracked the door open about a foot and informed me "We're only selling things through the mobile app and through the drive through."
Before I could even begin to tell her about my conversation with Kayla, she rebuffed me by repeating, like a parrot, the same phrase, before closing and locking the door.
So, I looked into the store and tried to make sign language quality signals in order to tell them -it was another heavy set black girl and a skinny white guy who was a bit tan skinned like a Mediterranean- that, when I called the number that comes up on Google, I got the "person hasn't set up a voice mail account" message and then am disconnected.
I was apparently unable to do this using hand signals.
At one point the white guy approached the door and was perhaps about to open it, but right about then, I had given up and decided to try to communicate to them through the drive through.
There was total silence for about ten seconds before I said into the speaker: "Hey, I know I'm not supposed to go to the drive through on a bike, but..."
And then the voice of the Mediterranean looking guy came through the speaker and took my order. He even ground the coffee for me.
Once I was at the window, I encountered an icy hostility from the two black ladies.
One of them took my gift cards from me and checked the balance, because I told her I wasn't sure how much was on each of two cards. She then handed me back the cards.
I started to make idle talk about how they were the only Starbucks open, when I was cut off again and asked what it was I was "getting."
Why, that bag of freshly ground coffee that's sitting right by your elbow on the shelf that wasn't there a minute ago....
I told her that Kayla had told me she was going to be there today.
She said that Kayla might have worked in the morning and then gone home; she wasn't sure, though.
I left there thinking that the white guy who had actually helped me to purchase the bag of coffee (a $16 item) was ahead of the curve, so to speak.
Of course, I am going to fire off an e-mail to Starbucks headquarters and commend the guy, and Kayla and to give them a brief essay about the work culture of the others, who really give off the vibe that they feel like their job might require them to serve white customers in some capacity, but nowhere in the description is it implicit that they have to smile or be nice, and that after dispatching whatever duties are required of them can stand there and stare at the white customer and refuse to even acknowledge anything the customer might say in the way of friendly conversation.
I Play At "Piss Pass"
But, then, on the way back home, I noticed that the bridge at Clairborne and Canal Streets had been totally cleared of homeless people, as shown in the news clip above.
There wasn't even anyone at the spot where the concrete is worn smooth by the ever presence of a sign flier.
The homeless had been shunted to a hotel nearby and none had even stuck around to beg, it appeared.
So, I got home and quickly grabbed my gear, changed a string, tuned up and headed for that very spot.
I quickly learned a few things.
One, I figured out from how people would roll their windows down to listen to me, but wouldn't keep them down very long.
I was singing:
"The virus...began when a bat bit Miley Cyrus... And then she kissed Selena Gomez, and put her tongue in her mouth and began to spread it north and south... The virus...started when a bat bit Miley Cyrus...etc."
To a shuffle beat,
And, I got a couple half smiles and a dollar and a bag that wound up to have Oreo Cookies in two flavors, and a half a pound cake or something that also had a ton of sugar it it.
Then, it hit me (no pun intended).
The stench of The Homeless was still emanating from under the bridge, having been freshly stirred up, as a matter of fact, in their hasty exodus just hours earlier; headed for the hotel.
"A spot's reputation precedes it..." -me
I was upwind from it.
So were the motorists, who were rolling their windows back up after just a few seconds. It must have smelled to them like the corona virus itself blowing into their cars. It would be easy for them to imagine the whole tent community as having been infected by each other.
This is what I was telling the second guy who gave me anything, a dollar. He was a 20 something Jamaican guy who had gold front teeth. He had pulled his car about 12 feet past me and had asked: "Where's the music?"
I had my back turned and was tuning up.
He countered that the virus came here during Mardi Gras, because people came here from all over the world. And, it would have no more chance of being clustered under the bridge than anywhere else; despite the odor.
That particular bridge, which I have ridden past countless times, I had given the nickname to of: "Piss Pass," for a while, because of that stench; and I later upgraded, I believe, the legend for that stretch to The Gallway.
After figuring that out, I looked across to the other side of the bridge. The sinking sun had it awash in a warm yellow light.
I packed up and quickly went to the other side. It was like night and day.
The sun in my face seemed to brighten my outlook, and to help me to pray it, and I got another dollar and more food.
Peace, Love And Mr. T
A guy and a girl who looked to be in their early twenties stopped and offered me a burrito, which they guaranteed was going to be delicious.
When I hesitated, fumbling for the words to tell them that I was allergic to soy (and that I didn't want to play Russian roulette with a burrito) I heard the girl say: "Oh, I understand!"
And then they placed the burrito down on the sidewalk about 6 feet from me.
"The six foot rule, I understand," she said.
She then told me that she would back off and "You can come and get it..."
That was so endearing that I no longer had the heart to reject it. It was more important to me to walk up to them to assure them that I wasn't going to be afraid of any disease.
I can remember hugging a person who had contracted A.I.D.S. back when I was in college in '86 when that disease was believed to be like leprosy on steroids and transmittable through things like hugs.
I got home and could not resist a few of the lemon flavored Oreos.
Then, I remembered the burrito, wrapped in tin foil upon which someone had drawn the symbols of the peace sign, a heart shape and capital letter "A" with a circle drawn around it.
There were no words, but I imagine it all meant peace, love and, let's never forget The A Team, with Mr. T, and all...
The Burrito Sucks Me In
The burrito was just plain heavy, which made it irresistible.
As I held it in my hands, I realized that I could gain back maybe 2 of the pounds that I have surely lost in the past week in one fell swoop, by eating it.
It was incredibly delicious with salsa type fresh onions and tomato cubes and rice and maybe chicken and...mayonnaise.
I kept putting it back in the microwave for 9 seconds here, another 11 there until the cheese inside had become molten, and I polished it off.
All I could think about in the bliss of eating it was the kid that I had gotten pissed off at the day before, whom Bobby had described as being messed up in the head and, in particular, a binge eater.
The Mentally Ill Milennial Skeezer Of Sacred Heart
The kid has only been at Sacred Heart a couple months and had skeezed me the first time I ever saw him. He had asked me if I had something to eat, some "little" thing.
He had prefaced it by asking me if he could "ask a favor," of me, which had immediately put me in the mind of being pitched by a skeezer.
I have heard that from at least a couple dozen various sorts who, to a man asked me to do them the favor of giving them money. It must be believed that framing it as a favor works well as a skeezing approach.
He is apparently living here because of having been deemed mentally disabled by some authority and looks to be no more than 20 years old.
He was in the lobby and had started to follow me as I passed through it.
I figured that he wanted to worm his way into Bobby's apartment, no doubt to try to skeeze him for something -he was going to walk behind me so he would be there when Bobby opened the door; something he might not have been doing for the kid, who looks like he has never had a haircut but has kept it in control by periodically ripping clumps of it out of his head.
He has a terrible complexion, probably because of the binge eating.
But, I had been rude to him. I was already sweating the stress of having to go out and play on the very spots where all the bums that I have been deriding are always begging.
I thought it was going to feel like this great poetic justice thing or of karma coming home to roost or something.
But, after Bobby called the kid a binge eater, I told him that he might just be the norm for a milennial.
Maybe one of the traits of their generation.
But, it was him that I was thinking about as the burrito wallowed in my mouth.
I wondered if, by being rude to him, I had taken upon myself some of his karma.
Because, I have been accumulating tons of apples and was well into a multi day cleanse, which had me in a calm state of mind, despite not having figured out the way to make money.
So, what I learned was that the reputation of a spot precedes it, and I felt like I was paying for the sins of every rude, strung out skeezer who ever used the place as a latrine and a place to sleep, and, by busking there, I was associating with them, in a way.
I noticed a lot of black men turning their own music up louder rather than turning down so they could hear me.
I have decided to next try it at a more middle class white location. The corner nearby where a few of my neighbors are always flying their signs would a a step in that direction.
I will be brainstorming upon places where the volume would be low enough, and the foot traffic high enough during these times.
I really seem to have all the materials in hand to go on an extended apple cleanse diet.
Out of one hundred meals that come into the building from the elementary school across the street which has been turned into a "community feeding" station, at least half of the apples out of them are being left on the table in the lobby which has become the de facto donation table, where anything espied upon is fair game. I usually get a dirty look from one particular heavy set black lady of a security guard, one who wears "moo moo" dresses instead of the white shirt and black pants of all the other security personnel that man that desk by the donation table.
But, I believe she is one of those (at the risk of sounding like a bigot) black people who believe that the white man has so many privileges already, in the color of his skin, that it is despicable for him to take charity, such as things left on the donation table, when there are much more unfortunate people around, that might want them.
But, I guess, tomorrow, I will be playing The Virus Song at the intersection of Jeff Davis and Canal Streets.
He had to come down.
Jeff Davis just had the statue of his likeness torn down, but his street continues to glorify slave-holding (one pothole at a time).
There is a spot on the sidewalk right across from where I will hopefully be busking where the ground undulates palpably every time a heavy vehicle rumbles by when the light is green. I believe there is a giant sink-hole waiting to happen there; one that might even swallow up The Higher Ground Irish Pub, where I have often picked the ashtrays.
But, I have fallen into the giant sinkhole of binge eating.
I ate the burrito. Then I polished off the lemon flavored Oreo cookies along with strong coffee from the only Starbucks that is open. And one that will soon get an email from the headquarters commending the gentleman who ground my coffee just a bit more course than "paper filter" and chastising the two black girls for their anti social manners....but, I digress.
The day had started off with me accompanying Bobby to the Rouses Market. Bobby, who is sitting pretty and waiting for economic stimulus to come, as he is an SSI recipient, or whatever.
I went with him so he could buy me a drink and a can of cat food.
Then, I wound up riding around and went to to investigate the dumpster outside The Fresh Market.
It was just as I thought; heavy stuff piled on top of pieces of cardboard laid flat over the food items.
I confirmed this by ripping through a small section of the cardboard to discover a white plastic bag containing about a half dozen plastic containers of strawberries in yogurt, tightly sealed and still cold.
Like an idiot, I took only one of them, thinking then that it was some kind of heavy cream, and not yogurt that the strawberries were in. I can get away with eating yogurt, maybe because of the probiotics, who knows.
So, I ate the yogurt before I went to the Gallway to play, and it seemed to have opened up the floodgates for an avalanche of sugar to have hit me.
Nor were the two little containers of Lucky Charms cereal safe, and soon became part of the carnage...
I guess it will be back on the apple diet tomorrow. Almost everyone who gets the community meals leaves their apples up front. Which means they they normally live off all the other stuff, besides the apples. No wonder they are prone to health issues...
I think I was "dissociating" the past couple days; trying not to think of the fact that I had nothing, and no way to get anything.*
But then, yesterday, I hopped on my bike, and armed with misinformation, set out to get a bag of ground coffee from Starbucks.
I have always confused Claibourne Street with Carollton Street, and I did so again, yesterday.
Arriving in the 2800 block of the latter street, to see no Starbucks, I realized my mistake and headed towards the former street.
But, had it been a mistake?
On a certain corner, I saw an older black man with an acoustic guitar, standing at the corner where beggars are a fixtures, holding signs.
He had his case open and was apparently jamming away and probably making pretty good money, if my past experiences in Florida are any indication.
He was way out of the French Quarter, in the part of the city where people are still seen, going to an from jobs that are virus-proof, like health care workers and security guards...lot's of security guards.
So, there was the solution.
The only problem would be finding a corner where I could jam away with maybe a sign that reads: "No stimulus money for the lowly musician" or something. Just about any corner in the city is going to be contested by bums who might feel like they own the real estate: "That's my chair and my cooler right there; it just stays there; ain't nobody messes with it; they all know this is my corner; I been here 18 years, since before Katrina..." etc.
But, then I realized that the corners right around our building have been "held down" by certain residents of Sacred Heart.
And, since they are not formidable physical specimens, I wouldn't have to bring a sharp knife with me when attempting to occupy their corners and play music.
I could also tell them that I stood to make 4 times as much as they would, because of "actually doing something" (and the fact that the people who travel that way every day have never seen me there before and I don't look like a drug addict -compared to them, at least) and that, if they hardly make anything after taking the spot from me, I would, I don't know, buy them a couple beers, or something.
Then the good news came that 6 gigabytes of data are to be given to myself and any other Assurance Wireless government phone holder, for free to help with the current crisis.
And, I believe that the stimulus checks that will be meted out to "everybody" will be to everybody who took the 5 minutes to enroll in the census for 2020.
This will yield a more accurate census count, most definitely, and will put the squeeze on the illegal immigrants.
As long as their jobs are closed down, where they work for cash under the table, and they are not on the census roll call, then, well. What goes around comes around; maybe they will feel like they are getting screwed by the system, for a change.
I saw Latinos standing in line for the food bank at the school across the street from our building, which gives out food each morning (most of which [milk, soy] I won't eat) and it was the probably the first time I have ever seen a Latino anywhere like that.
It could be that everything is fine and the Mexican mafia is keeping them in work and money and that they are just adding the free food like icing on the cake (since no ID is required to get the bags of food, just walk up) and that they are just getting over as much as possible, but it could mean that, because of the virus, we are making headway in solving the problem of undocumented immigrants.
I Refuse To Harbor A Negative Attitude Over The World Crisis
Regrets; I've Had A Few...
It would be so easy to cop an attitude over the COVID 19 virus thing.
This is truly a thing that hits the busker just about the hardest.
I have no verifiable job that I might receive unemployment compensation for, over the next few? months.
There are no people on the street by the Lilly Pad, because they have no reason for being there, with all the bars closed...
So, the "reality" is that, I guess it is mine to just starve to death, as that seems to be the fate that awaits a busker during a global pandemic.
I am in a better position than most to know how to handle such a situation, though.
Food
There is a list posted in the lobby at Sacred Heart, of places that are apparently giving away food, with Monday through Friday noted, and upon each day at least a dozen addresses given.
These are pretty far and wide, a cursory glance combined with my limited knowledge of the streets in the New Orleans area, showed me.
But, I think if I were to use Google Maps, I could mark out a route and then, donning my backpack tommorow morning, hop on my bke and maybe make a 10 mile loop, getting to the first food bank at around the 9 AM that they almost all seemed to "open" at, and then, depending upon how long the line and the wait is, make it to as many more of them that I can before the 12 PM that they almost all seemed to "close" at.
I could conceivably do this all 5 days this coming week, and maybe fill my pantry that way.
At that point, I will just have to tighten my belt and try to forego all of the non-food items that cash might have once been applied to.
Man really can live without tobacco, alcohol, pot, kratom and coffee...
Nix that last one, I just remembered that I have about 30 dollars left on the Starbucks gift card the The Lidgley's sent from Hertfordshire, this past Christmas. Thank you, Lidgley's; I will be awake and alert throughout the entire crisis!
Diving For Health
Last week, I was riding my bike at around 3 AM, when I decided, out of curiosity (and drunkeness -it was the last relapse, in that regard) to investigate the dumpster at the edge of the Fresh Market parking lot.
I found it to be business as usual in that, the food being thrown out which still had value (in order to perpetuate the image of it being a "fresh" market, the management [especially after they first opened and people were getting a "first impression" of the place] has an ambitious policy of refreshing the inventory, so that when you walk in, all you see are the hues of fresh food everywhere; no wilting on the lettuce, only the reddest of meat, and not a bruise on a mango.
This, I fathomed, would necessitate them throwing away a lot of food, as soon as it its past its peak.
This is where my flashlight and my backpack come in.
Business as usual is to throw the foods that still have value in the dumpster first, at the bottom and rear of it, and then to cover it with things like cardboard, to hide it, and then throw heavy things on top, so the cardboard can't be easily liftet in order to take a peek under it.
I didn't smell any bleach, bless their hearts.
That time, I only grabbed about 10 pounds of bananas from one of the heavier boxes that were on top of the cardboard -I guess they thought that brown spotted bananas had value only as a cardboard weight, or that, if someone like myself were hungry enough, they weren't going to begrudge me bananas (a 20 dollar fillet Mignon slab that is only starting to grey around the edges is a different story. I can understand an employee, who might only net $65 a day working there thinking it unfair that the homeless guy who sleeps behind the fence should enjoy lamb roasted over a fire, with maybe even a bottle of fine wine that has a scuffed or mangled label, or a crack in the glass around the cork not big enough to let any wine out, but still making it un-saleable, well, you get the picture...the employee is going to go home and eat Ramen Noodles with a bag of Doritos and salsa that night and, well, it might not seem fair to him or her. And, hence the practice of burying and weighing things down.
The person such as myself would have to get right inside of the thing, flashlight in hand, and probably have to temporarily remove some of the heavier items to get at the stuff below. I say "temporarily," because, leaving a mess of trash in my wake would be one of the surest ways to wind up smelling bleach upon my next visit.
So, it is Sunday afternoon, the sun is sinking low. I am charging up my usb flashlight and getting my backpack ready, and I hope to bring home some casabas or something shortly after the place closes at 10 PM. I would imagine some of the employees remain there an extra hour or two to wax the floor, etc.
I'm not so much worried about being "caught" going in there, as about gettting there to find someone else already attacking it. I'm sure they would share, to an extent; but it would be exasperating to see them having gathered a $400 pile of meat and wine: "All this stuff is mine!" and then handing me some bruised bananas: "You can have this..." type of thing. But, that would just be envy at work on my part. Geez, I haven't even gone down there yet, and I'm already envisioning fighting over casabas...
New Series: My Biggest Regrets In Life
#10: Not having answered wholesale, the entire poll of questions in the inventory of the lady judge in Ocala, Florida. This is not a major one, ranking tenth, but, I occasionally think about it.
2011, Ocala, Florida
On this particular morning, I had been probably about the last of the 20 or so called in front of the judge.
I had been locked up overnight for having opened a big can of beer in a little park right by the little convenience store where I had bought it.
I suppose, if I were super intelligent, I would have postulated that, surely the park across the street from the beer store was so inviting, with its benches to sit on and drink a beer, its trees to sit under and do the same, that it most likely had become like a certain corner on a certain road which becomes used as a speed trap (after the cops notice that most people have a natural inclination to come down that certain slope at a rate of speed over whatever curiously low rate is posted on a sign, which probably only becomes completely visible to the driver after it is too late. She might see the sign and the cops holding radar guns at the same instant, as a matter of fact).
So, the idyllic little oasis across the street from the beer store had been patrolled by actual Ocala, Florida cops posing as citizens just out looking for tranquility in the same park.
It was from under a Hawaiian shirt, that the cop flashed me his badge.
But, I was the last of the 20 or so to be seen.
I am intelligent to know that this is usually the best of signs.
The few times in my life that I had basically been summarily cut loose from jail by a judge or prosecutor that might have felt sorry for me, or felt that the arresting officers had actually abused me, I had been adjudicated such as just about the last person still left in the courtroom.
It usually involved some kind of paperwork which the judge would sign which would abnegate and override any sentence that might be mandated by the statutes.
These were usually exhorbitant in the cases where I was found to have more than one ID on me, and was subsequently charged with some kind of fraud, which was the "tip of the iceberg" charge levied against someone in that situation, as a means of holding him in custody, while the ocean below was explored.
Given the rash of identity theivery and the public's outcry against it, there was often some kind of a minimum sentence put in place, as a deterent, of course..."Man gets 25 years for bilking elderly out of their life savings," type of thing.
So, on those couple occasions when, after a thorough investigation revealed that my other ID was not connected to any bank accounts, or wire transfers of huge sums of money to the Antilles Islands; and didn't appear on the radar of the FBI, state of local police, Secret Service, Militsiya, Federal Security Service, KGB, etc., and it had been decided by decent prosecutors and a compassionate judge (usually after my being allowed to speak about my purposes for having obtained an extra license under the name of a dearly departed friend of mine (so I could keep my pizza deliver job at Dominos) I was usually brought back to the courtroom at the end of the day (3 PM or so -it must be nice to work as a courtroom official) when I usually stood at the podium in an almost empty courtroom and it was agreed between all parties concerned that the judge would sign some kind of injunction and I would be set free that day, and not 36 months later as mandated by the statute.
This was done, I assume, to minimize the number of witnesses to this act, which might be spun by some as His Honor having been lenient, or maybe to have given only a slap on the wrist to a white man, depending upon the perspective.
But, as I went before the judge in Ocala, who was a middle aged, white woman, and despite the fact that there were still a gaggle of less fortunate orange jumpsuit clad others in the room, waiting for the transportation van to come and take them back to the jail, I was pretty sure that I was going to be cut loose, because; as Her Honor stated in the course of the proceedings; "This isn't exactly the crime of the century."
The most likely reason that I was the last one called in this case, was that some kind of check was being run upon me, in case the public drinking charge was just the tip of the iceberg, type of thing...
But, given Her Honor's light mood, and apparent sense of humor, I was, like a person at the end of a diving board, just about to launch into a solioquey, after her first question of "What is your name?"
I was going to say: "It's Daniel McKenna, your honor."
And, then, heading her off at the pass, I would append: "I'm 48 years old, I was born in Holyoke, Massachusetts. I went as far as an associate's degree in college. I can read, write and understand English ("despite what my English Comp professor might say") [waits for the tittering to subside from the gallery].
I am entering a plea of guilty on this charge of drinking in public. I understand that, by entering such a plea, I am giving up certain rights, such as the right to a jury trial, the right to face my accusers, and the right to appeal.
I am entering this plea willingly. I am not being coerced by anyone, and I am not currently under the influence of any drugs or alcohol."
After having heard her run through the list almost 20 times, one question at a time, for the people before me, and thinking This has got to be the part of her job she hates the most; I had been so close to doing that.
I imagined her smiling and then striking the gavel while ejaculating: "Case dismissed!" before sighing and perhaps saying: "If only every defendant were like this!," maybe telling me "Sir, you just made my day!"
But, what had stopped me was imagining her saying: "It sounds like you're no stranger to being a defendant in a courtroom," and then throwing the book at me, as would befit such an incorrigible.
But, I will never know, now.
That is, I am going to arbitrarily say, #10 on my Top 10 Regrets In Life list -not having done that. I found the judge attractive, also, and it would have pleased me to make her smile...and to show off my ability to memorize a list of questions after hearing them a few times.
The series: My Top 10 Regrets In Life will continue, with #9 coming shortly.
"Will somebody put the Lime Away away while I'm away?" -something I once said when I worked at Dominos, where we used the product called Lime Away.
Bobby from building C bought me an ounce of kratom this morning, out of the blue. This comes at a good time, as I am stuck in the house working on music, writing and art...
It is a Saturday, and would be a busking day, were there any living souls out on Bourbon Street.
But, as fate would have it, the scene is that of above.
I don't have any money, very little food, and no income.
I suppose the implication is that I starve to death and the C19 virus would have, at least, accomplished that.
I have no idea if there is any aid available to me.
But, now, I go to Bobby's apartment, where maybe he has heard through the grapevine about where to get food for the next 2 weeks.
If I thought that the people of New Orleans were rude before this, the virus gives them one more reason to back away from, or totally ignore people around them.
Last night, a middle aged white guy in the supermarket made a show of backing away from me as I was squeezing between him and other shoppers.
Above: Maybe moving my typing spot to the bed from the living room will spur me on to start posting more frequently...
As if he could tell by looking at me that I was a carrier of the virus -the things that a cursory glance can reveal about a person to those, like he, who have eyes.
I have always sensed that the homeless are often scapegoated by people who have homes and jobs that are in jeopardy. It as if they think that some force is showing the homeless person to them as a taunt to them, as in: "This is going to be you pretty soon."
I guess by casting their derision on the homeless person, they are putting up resistance, in their own way, as in: "Not me, 'll never become homeless!"
So,the guy in the supermarket must have thought that I was living under a bridge in close quarters with other dirty and disease ridden homeless people. He could tell that by my long hair and my manner of dress, I suppose.
So much time had gone by since I last called her that it seemed like I was going to need a reason for doing so.
But, it was just to say hello and to hear her voice, and to get the Massachusetts (read: left leaning liberal) take on the C19 (or whatever it is) virus.
She believes that the virus is real and not a hoax. "Things are really messed up in Italy and France, and Spain has totally quarantined itself..."
Some people get their news from Fox and others from CNBC or whatever, and the two can be almost diametrically slanted away from each other.
I get my news from mom.
The virus is REAL!
And I suppose it was in poor taste for me to have gone to the cashier at Winn Dixie and asked if they sold any flu remedies "Cause I've got a headache and I've been sneezing and coughing..."
"Just kidding!!"
She wasn't, though, as evidenced by her having applied a fresh coat of hand sanitizer to her latex gloves before taking my money...
I notice that a lot of African Americans take things literally and often don't see the humor in, especially things that I say.
One time, I was sitting on a little wall in front of a construction site in Jacksonville, Florida, waiting for a certain employee to come on duty at the little nearby convenience store, when I was approached by a young black lady wearing a security officer's uniform.
She asked me what I was doing there.
I told her I was waiting for a friend to come on duty at the Circle K.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to try to steal the bulldozer," I added, kind of tongue and cheek.
It wasn't long after that a police officer arrived, who questioned me along the line of: "Did you tell that security officer that you were here trying to steal the bulldozer?"
"No, I said: 'Don't worry, I'm not going to try to steal the bulldozer; I was joking!"
And so "coughing and sneezing" joke suffered a similar fate...
I'm just glad that I wasn't handcuffed by an officer and escorted to the hospital, or something.
I was able to get my pinto beans, instant coffee and cat food and get out of there safely...
There is a divine purpose in everything, if you believe that there is.
If you don't believe that there is, there still might be a divine purpose, but maybe you just won't see it.
Having had my opportunity to make money in the French Quarter dashed by the crisis with the virus, I found myself plagued by some insecurity, fear of where my next dollar was going to come from, and an urge to drink alcohol which I succumbed to on 2 of the past 3 nights.
Tonight is not one of them, though.
The Market Savvy Busker
I bought an ounce of kratom at The Herb Shop, using 4 dollars of my precious cash, leaving me something like a couple bucks (and a Lilly Pad that the webcam view shows as being so uninhabited that they may as well have just Photoshopped balls of tumbleweed blowing around in). I only need cash, these days, for laundry, bike tire inflation's, marijuana and the occasional candy bar from the machine in the lobby, in moments of weakness at 4 AM after having smoked some of item number three, perhaps.
Harmonica Economics
I put the balance on my green American Express card, leaving on it, just enough to send off for a cheap harmonica, which should be an upgrade upon the Marine Band (expensive) harmonica that is missing one of its draw notes; but only for a short period of time.
The half price harps have to be replaced 4 times as fast as the better ones; making the better ones a better value; but; these are uncertain times and I will be looking for a time and place to play somewhere, and might have to bring a big bottle of hand sanitizer in place of, or in addition to, the "tiposaurus" as the eye-catching gimmick that is part of the accoutrements of the market savvy busker.
I think I am going to take the advice of Alex In California, (former) blog reader* and buy some type of harmonica for which replacement reed plates are available for, at about half the price of the whole harp.
That way, putting 22 bucks towards the reed plate has the effect of restoring a 50 dollar instrument to its veritably pristine condition. The only caveat would be that on a harp that has a wooden comb. the wood could swell (if not wiped off immediately after every use) and this happens independently from the brand new reed plates, you might have put in.
This actually makes the thing more "air tight" as the wood swells into a literally tighter fit, which makes it play better, but the wood also swells out where the player puts his lips, and she has to be careful not to rip open the skin of her lips on the sharp edges of wood. It calls for a less pressure intensive playing style.
I always liked the fact that I could use the protruding wood to count the distance between notes, like reading braille with my lips if, say, the next note I want is 3 holes to the left of the one I was playing.
Now, I am a better enough player that I can rely more on gauging the locations of the holes using the distance between them, more like a trombone player with his slide, does, and less like a harp player who is risking putting blisters on his lips while counting holes to the left or right, using the swelled up comb wood of a Marine Band that wasn't wiped off immediately after playing it every time; or one that was in a persons mouth long enough, in one sitting, to water log the wood before he even gets a chance to wipe it off.
In the heyday of "Street Musician Daniel"
I have every bit of faith, though, that harmonicas will soon be developed out of new, synthetic materials, which will "out-perform" wood for this application. It seems like just a matter of time.
Up And At Em' With Kratom!
Ten years ago, I never would have imagined something like kratom, and here I sit, sipping it, and it is fueling a blog post, just like it used to do when part of my daily routing was to go to the Uxi Duxi before busking every night.
That helped me to post just about daily and to busk just as much.
The good ol' days...
Now the webcam image of Bourbon Street shows
Well, take a peek for yourself. Looks like ain't nobody (but one nigga on a bike) out there...
It just ain't worth packing up your gear and going out there, for one nigga on a bike...
"How 'bout some 'Bicycle Races' by Queen?!?
* Alex In California apparently took offense to a comment I made which suggested that he could "play his ukulele, pick up seashells, or do whatever the hell he wants to do."
This was apparently only an inside joke between myself and Jacob, as we both knew that this was a reference to a song that I wrote, and which I believe I posted a version of right here on this blog.
The quote came from Alex himself off of his now defunct blog. I had actually set the whole comment he made to music, pretty much verbatim.
But, it seems like Alex thought the gist of my comment was that he could do whatever the hell he wanted, as in; I don't give a s*** about him.
Any further clues as to why Alex In California seems to no longer be a reader were lost after he deleted his own blog, as well as the last comment he left here which I was only able to see the first few words of, after his deletion of it. The "body" of the comment went away.
The first few words appeared to have been voicing his annoyance over, probably the "ukulele, seashells" comment I made, or something that Jacob Scardino said in reference to one or the other, or both.
Rest in peace, Alex In California, though.
That does remind me to polish off that song.
At least the chorus of: "I can play my uke, I can pick up seashells, I can do whatever the hell I want to do..." has the potential to be parlayed into a hit song, especially in Hawaii, where it might resonate with the hauale's (sp?).
There is a preset or two on the Casio WK-200 labelled "Hawaiian." Maybe I will begin my search there, for a righteous groove to go with it.
The weather was perfect, only we had the Corona virus to think about; the one that had shut off access to the Sacred Heart Apartment building (as if people who have just flown here from China are going to stop at Sacred Heart just to see their buddies).
But, I didn't go out; and I blame the bottle of wine.
I am down to zero days sober, after having gotten back to another 12 or so days, after the last 12 or so day period of not drinking.
I could have easily made 50 bucks out there, but I lay on my bed, scratching Harold the cat, and trying to prepare my soul for passage into the next consciousness...
But, I still could have busked.
As I could have, Sunday night.
Same thing; another bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon; plus some gabapentin, the usual weed, and kratom, plenty of kratom.
Enough kratom ot have made me go out and play, were it not for the other constituents of the evening's mindset.
Well, I am working hard on some music and, once again, will post some here soon.
The thing is that, "they" have been improving the Open Shot Video Editor, and the improvements have been being automatically downloaded and patched into the program via the Ubuntu Linux system, upon which I have the "live patch" feature on.
So, I think, after not using the Open Shot editor for about 2 years, I might be pleasantly surprised by the fact that I can use it to make videos, without worrying about the thing crashing after every operation I perform....
One hundred minutes of playing, I would say, yielded the above amount...That's about 36 bucks an hour...but
Now it is already time to go back out there; it's Saturday night...
I had no milk crate to sit on and I was feeling pretty cramped up from sitting Indian style on a piece of cardboard after an hour and a half and making the above amount of money.
Tonight, I will hopefully have a milk crate and be able to go 3 hours and pay for my extravagant lifestyle.
Blog Traffic Ebbing
So, the infrequency with which I have been posting lately, has led to a drop in the amount of traffic that this blog sees on a day to day basis...
All I can say is that I am using the computer at the apartment complex, in an attempt to at least post something, as opposed to nothing.
The fast that I began about 3 weeks ago has turned into a diet of mostly fruit and fruit juices, with coconut milk and oatmeal and an avocado a day if I can help it.
So, this blog; I am not giving up on it. It is just that my data ran out last month after I watched a string of Muhammad Ali fights on Youtube.
Data Coming
I got a confusing notification saying that I won't get data until the 15th.
I usually got it today (the 10th).
But, I promise to be more careful of the data this month and hopefully bring this blog up to the next level.
At some point in the future, I will unleash links to all of my 80 or so Facebook friends to this blog and so it could potentially be seen by 80 times X people, where X is distilled from the number of friends that these 80 people have combined, multiplied by how interesting the particular post is that I will point them all to.
Basically, if I come up with something that I think is hilarious; be it a music video or some "man on the street" type of thing, but basically if I create a very good post (ever) than I will definitely send all my Facebook friends a link, which will sport some compelling thumbnail and headline, type of thing, and will ask them to share it, after reminding them that it is my first time ever making such a request on Facebook.
But, as soon as I get data, either today some time, or upon the 15th, I will try to post something worth the pixels that have to light up on everyone's screens...
I am in the computer "lab" at Sacred Heart Apartments.
Last night, I flipped a book open and landed right on a page where a guy is talking about his fasting in prison for 75+ days.
He eventually began to consume a couple 10 ounce glasses of orange juice.
His weight went from 169 to 100, and this is something that perhaps a prisoner can pull off; because all he has to do, besides the labor of breathing is to sit there.
I always thought that the faster should go out and try to do physically "demanding" things, and then to use that as the measuring stick for how long the fast has, in effect, gone. If you have more energy than you could have imagined, after not having eaten for x days, then all well and good. But, if you actually fail in the task or feel faint, then it is time to look into some deals on orange juice.
There is the whole thing with the scurvy, such as sailors used to be susceptible to, when on voyages of 75+ days without any limes or glasses of orange juice.
My monthly allotment of data through the government phone is near its very end.
I had bought 2 extra gigabytes, but had then gotten on a Muhammad Ali boxing match watching kick.
I watched about 4 of his fights in their entirety.
His career ran parallel to the one of Elvis Presley, with regards to them both having been out of action during segments of their "prime."
You could lump Mike Tyson in there, who missed 6 years of boxing while locked up for rape; and Michael Vick, the NFL quarterback who missed at least 2 prime football playing years.
Granted, it is probably easier for a singer to "bounce back" after being out of the business for 4 years, or whatever, than it is for the boxer, or football player. Elvis could have sang his heart out everyday, in some capacity, in the military, to include the shower.
The fast has reached the point of 6 days. I am pretty much full of energy -I am waking up early (healthy and wise) and getting a lot done as far as cleaning and organizing the apartment; getting rid of books that I know I won't read, along with music CD's in the same category.
Music creation has gotten a shot in the arm.
I have begun a separate project of learning how to play "Maybelline," by Chet Atkins on the acoustic guitar. Hopefully I won't need to get a nylon stringed one like the one he plays in a video I have of him playing and teaching that song.
