Immortality and Skipping The Beer

 ....that leads to your door...

I just got back from a run to the Whole Foods where I attempted to pick up another loaf of Dave's Bread...

They were plumb out of Dave's Bread, except for 3 loaves.

One of them I ruled out instantly as soon as I saw "70 calories" on the label.

I imagine that is per slice, which would make an egg sandwich about 230 calories, if my egg data memory serves me.

Of course a super large egg would probably push your egg sandwich up over 300 calories.

Scary number, 300....to borderline obese people. Because that is about the borderline; entering Obeseville.

But, "low calorie" bread -or "low calorie" anything, I have always felt to be a ripoff. 

You are getting less calories per your dollar. (period intended)

Why not pay the same money for the high calorie stuff and then just eat less of it. Have some left over. Save money...

"Light" cigarettes always got me that way, too. You choke up on them and suck the hell out of them bitches, just to get a satisfying amount of smoke on your puff, and then you realize that the cigarette is already half gone.

It's like removing the tar makes them burn faster, like hay that has been sitting in a barn during a drought.

The bread shelves were wiped out of mostly Dave's Bread. This is because hurricane Zeta is bearing down upon us, even as I write this.

There is a chance that this post is just going to end abruptly after my windows shatter inward under the crush of water which has breached the levy. There may be a corpse floating in my place, in the chest high water, and if so, and I can keep my phone dry, you readers will have a front row seat.

I am thinking of starting a DNA bank, as a business. So, everyone who passes away's DNA will be stored and labelled somewhere, in case science figures out how to bring people back to life, say 20,000 years from now, using cloning techniques and DNA.

Of course, maybe by then they will be able to source the DNA by farming the soil, and this might make cremation a less desirable "final arrangement" type of thing.

It might be centuries more before they (we) figure out how to clone people using DNA that has been destroyed in a fire...

It would be funny if we all are brought back to life again, 24,000 years from now, and it turns out that the scientist who pioneered the technology is named Jesus. What are the odds?!

"Yes, my mom named me after the 'messiah' that people used to believe in back in the flesh and blood days, she loves ancient history."

This will be an age when we will have achieved immortality, through being able to update ourselves through a subset of cloning, so that our physical bodies will be able to regrow themselves indefinitely.

Then, soon after the dawn of that era, Doctor (Jesus) Finley will come along and pioneer a way to resurrect the dead, by using the DNA that had been deposited in a bank just like mine.

The Population Reclamation Initiative will be set in motion, after barely passing a vote, with strong opposition from the people who thought that there were already enough earthling, plus those who argued that the people should be vetted before being cloned back into life. It will eventually be agreed upon that, since everyone was immortal, it would be selfish and immoral to deprive others of the same privilege.

And so, Jesus will resurrect us all, I guess is my point.

But

How can I be thinking of other things, like immortality, when I am about to ask Bernadette out on a date!

I have become so smitten by her honor, that, after having snooped around and checked out her website and such (I Wiki-ed her good) and learned that she is single, and looks to be very attractive and Latina (or whatever Sue the Colombian lady was) and about my age and so.

I am just going to walk up to her, hopefully seeing her milling about the polling location next Tuesday, and tell her that I have become a huge fan; and that I LOVE her opinions; and that her decisions turn me on and she's the fairest of them all; and ask her for a date!

I suppose I could add that I'm sorry about her husband, who was a neurologist, passing away about 10 years ago. But offer her hope of seeing him again (through Jesus).

Let's see, what else...oh, yeah

Paying $5.49 for a bag of Hyponex potting soil rather than getting the dollar store stuff has meant the difference between most things not even growing, and stuff growing like this 3 week old plant to the left.

I used to wonder if I had some kind of airborne mold that was killing any plants I tried to grow.

But, I now know that it was the dirt cheap dirt that was the problem.

It's Tuesday night, the World Series is on and I am skipping the beer this time.

Phone Home Now

 11 Beers Later...

I seem to have fallen into a pattern of going 3 days sober, eating well and sleeping well, and then wrecking it all on the 4th day.

Yesterday (Saturday) on my way out to go to Rouses Market, I was informed by the security lady that I had gotten a package. It was a phone sized box, that I would retrieve, and sign for, after I had gotten back from there, where I bought a 12 pack of New Belgium beer, a "hoppy pack."

I came back and found that the package contained a Unimax 693CL phone, which I immediately charged and activated and switched my "lifeline" service over to.

I haven't really put it through its paces yet, but have taken a few pictures with it.

Everything kind of got put on hold as I watched baseball and football on TV and polished off the 11 beers.

I guess the good thing is that I am taking a night off from drinking tonight.

I feel kind of isolated and lonely and might just go out to the lobby to chat with the security guy for a while.

Friendship Haitus

What about my friend, Jacob?

I guess he has gone the way of my friend, Alex in California.

It's been a couple of weeks since Jacob and I went to the Lilly Pad and tried to make some money playing music.

Because we started too early, and I wound up drinking an unnecessary 9% alcohol IPA that started to effect my playing by the time the "normal" starting time of around 9:45 rolled around, we wound up only making 3 bucks.

There was some rustiness, from not having busked in 3 months on my part, even though I'm sure I have averaged about 3 hours per day of playing at home. I guess playing at home is not at the same level of intensity as it is playing for a live audience; even if that audience is basically ignoring you.

Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern had moved their speakers out onto the sidewalk for the benefit of patrons who were socially distancing themselves in the fresh air outside the place, and that had a drowning out effect on our acoustic instruments.

My fingertips started to sting by about 9:30, when we knocked off.

At one point, Lilly arrived with one of her daughter's. I'm not even sure which one, but I believe it was Angelique, the younger of the two, who would be probably a year younger than Jacob. I really do have some sort of facial recognition problems, since I have known Angelique and Chantilly for something like 8 years now. But, put a mask on them and I recognized Lilly's voice, which I would know anywhere, Long Island accent and all, but I'm not sure which of her daughters it was.

I used to think that life was just heading in a positive direction, and things are just going to get better and better, and would even envision things like fixing Jacob up with one of Lilly's daughters. I would also envision myself playing with Tanya Huang, in place of her long term partner Dorise Blackmon, with whom she would split something like 100 bucks per hour.

That was a carrot in front of my nose, as far as trying to improve as a musician. But I also knew it would entail playing drug and alcohol free because Tanya and Dorise would play 10 to 12 hours, Thursday through Sunday each week.

Twelve hours is long after any joint smoked before starting would have worn off, and Thursday through Sunday, with such regularity, would leave no room for waking up hung over on any of those mornings. Running to the restroom every 45 minutes to piss out beer would be about as bad as the playing of the person doing so would get, well before quitting time arrived.

So, that particular aspiration would go hand in hand with the type of clean living that I dream about. Another carrot in front of the nose.

Playing with Jacob seemed to be a move in the opposite direction. Maybe it is my penance for being a "pot" musician, rather than a "pure" musician. Because after we smoked a tuning up bowl I was immediately reminded that I had forgotten about 10 times as many songs as the ones that I had regularly played.

I can remember when, after learning a new song, I couldn't wait to play it that night. It would infuse the whole evening with a sense of change, and growth and variety and adventure.

I learned "Tears In Heaven," the Eric Clapton song by playing it over and over one night in Jacksonville Beach, Florida.

It was during Spring Break and I was sitting along a sidewalk that had an unbroken stream of college kids walking past me; each group only hearing me for maybe 20 seconds, and none of them thinking: Is that the only song he knows?

But, the feeling of stagnation was there that night ...I should have taken some time to write down a list of all the songs that I could think of that I had ever played...type of thing.

Then Jacob started to curse every single person who was out that night who hadn't rewarded our efforts (everyone except the one person who threw the dollar and the other who threw the two dollars) even insisting that we walk back to the trolley whichever way would avoid the most people. "Because I hate every single person on earth right now!"

So, the next morning I texted him something about him having acted like a spoiled child, and he texted back a long list of grievances about me that made me realize that the guy really doesn't like me, and maybe never really did.

How was I to know that almost everything I had done or said in the past he was resenting, yet not mentioning it.

But, this blog is not supposed to be a platform for criticizing other people. Unless they are skeezers; or in the case of Alex in California, if they call me a racist, hypocritical douchbag.

I guess the "hypocrisy" results from the fact that I am so outspoken in detesting skeezers who look to get everything for free at everyone else's expense; and yet I accepted the charity offered to me as the homeless veteran that I was; rather than having rejected it. "I ain't no skeezer, you can keep your apartment!" type of thing. "I'll continue to live under the wharf and sleep on a thick piece of cardboard because that's what I have garnered in life and what I deserve!"

But I am trying to focus upon self criticism in this blog, since that involves what I am responsible for and what I can control. It is like when a teacher gives a test and half of her class flunks. Are half of her kids pretty stupid; or is she a teacher who herself failed to teach half of the kids?

I look at my plants each morning and see the intricacies of the leaves and see how much they grew while I was asleep. I didn't have to do anything. I didn't have to exert mental energy to try to will them to grow. There is an intelligence at work; something that was already inside the seed, which is coming to fruition.

That's how I look at the fact that I am in my apartment, with the electricity paid for each month. 

The whole situation is just like one of the leaves on one of the plants. 

There was an intelligence behind it all which is beyond the comprehension of Man. Nobody had to do anything or exert any mental energy. I could just simply say that God provided. Consider the lilies of the field, they don't labor nor weave.

So, I guess I'm not going to try to be friends with anyone; just like I'm not going to approach Tanya and ask her if she wants to pair up musically, until such a time that it becomes apparent that that is in the blueprint, and I have grown into the situation. I guess maybe never...

Right now, it is early Monday morning; maybe about 65 degrees outside.

Who knows what today might bring.
 

  

I have become quite the political campaigner these days, having endorsed Bernadette D'Souza (#83) for Family Court judge. Let's see how long before I find an egg splattered on my door...

Thrown by a never D'Souza-er...

All That Matters

 The trip to the Tchoupitoulis Walmart was a success, up to the point of there apparently being no potting soil in the whole store.

"I always go to Home Depot, over by the Superdome," said the first person to hear me ejaculate: "No potting soil?!?" a middle aged woman, who looked like she could probably grow some mean avocados.

"Not the stuff they have out front because that's always overpriced, but if you go into the garden section and look around, you can usually find some bags for 3 or 4 bucks of the good soil."

The speakers were taken by a friendly black woman who cautioned me that the money wouldn't appear on my card until "5 to 7 business days" had elapsed; should I have been a crackhead hoping to turn the speakers into an instant crack rock.

She gave me a tracking number so that I can follow the progress of the returned package via global positioning systems in satellites. I hope the satellites work better than the speaker box...

It was kind of important for my own sanity to be able to accomplish a task as complicated as taking the street car to the bus to the Walmart and then reversing the process; all before the store closed at ten, and after I had made a separate trip to the Whole Foods, where I picked up a loaf of Dave's "Good Seed" bread, along with a couple cans of Voodoo Ranger IPA, on sale at 2 for $5...

It was these that I was working on, when I left the place, carrying the child sized rectangular box, and headed for the trolley stop across the street.

About 10 minutes later the thing came, but only dropped me off at the Joy Theater on Canal Street, leaving me to walk the rest of the 5 or so blocks to the stop where the #10 bus stops; the one that usually has "Walmart" alternately flashing with with "Layola," which I guess is at the other end of its orbit from Walmart.

Carrying the box wasn't so bad and I do believe that was from carrying it about a half mile 3 days earlier.

That first outing to the ghetto located Walmart (where the answer to everything was either "no' or "I don't know") had gotten me into much better box carrying shape.

So, I trudged along, with the box half slung over my shoulder, stopping for another beer at the Walgreen's and then carrying on, but not after having seen a young woman being skeezed by one of the skeezers, who seem to be getting back to "phase 3" of the Covid-19 situation, by skeezing people from a distance of around six feet.

The woman, had just said "sorry"or something to the skeezer who then turned his attention to me and my box.

"Dude, I have to get this crack to a guy; I'm kinda busy right now.

Damn, I never knew crack was so heavy; I mean it starts out as powder, then you add a little baking soda, but, man, this feels like a box full of concrete!" I said as I walked away. Then I noticed a grin on the face of the young lady, who I had fallen into step with. Priceless.

I dropped off the speakers in customer service as soon as I walked into the place. The lady found the order in the computer and assured me that it would be packed and sent back to the seller (which was a third party seller through the Walmart website). I could contact them; maybe just to help them out with the detail that the whole system seemed to work as indicated, except for the sub woofer box which wouldn't pair up through Bluetooth and wouldn't even seem to power on when plugged in. The thing that can be heard and felt rattling around inside the box when it is gently shaken might offer up a clue as to why this is so...

 

I have put tires on a bike, so am no longer walking everywhere.

And, have returned the speakers, ending that saga.

And, now, I suppose the next item will present itself...

4 Days To Spare

 Finally a "yes" out of the mouth of a Walmart associate...

 

Tuesday afternoon, I lugged the box containing the speakers that didn't work, down the halls and out the door of Sacred Heart.

It is probably only about 35 pounds, but is a long rectangular box that is hard to balance and carry at the same time.

When I got to the lobby, Donna the security lady jokingly asked me if I was sneaking someone in and out of the building using the box, because of its long rectangular shape.

"That's funny, because the last time I went out into public with it, I would mess with people by putting my mouth near the top flap and half-whispering: 'Stay quiet, and don't wiggile around so much, we're almost there. When we get to Auntie's you can come out!' and stuff like that to the box."

"Doesn't Jacob have a car anymore?" she asked.

"He's battling some kind of depression or something, and I don't have it in me right now to try to stay sober enough to be of any help to anyone in that regard." I said.

I am a believer that if I drift off course, or "away from God" in my own life, then it will have a global effect and everything in my world will suffer.

I joked about the whole pandemic having come about just because I hadn't been able to embark upon a period of fasting and cleansing and meditating, and strengthening the things that remain, as a certain scripture advises. I felt that it was the right time for me to go on a 3 day apple juice diet, followed by a period of water-only fasting; but kept putting it off.

Then, a week later, the pandemic was in full swing, and I found myself advised to stay in my room, and then the apples started appearing.

The residents of Sacred Heart began getting meals at different food bank locations and leaving the apples that came with them, at the front desk, in case anyone else wanted them.

     So things kind of fell into place that way and next couple weeks might have been a great opportunity for spiritual growth for me.

But, then the pandemic unemployment assistance check came; and Bob Caravajal made the statement: "The worst thing you can give an addict is money!" which became kind of prophetic as the bottles of wine with the evening meals began, and I began to see the world around me start to dissolve into chaos.

It seemed like, as an alternative to the path showing me "a way out" through apple juice fasting and spiritual growth, there was also this other one, involving becoming an alcoholic and drug addict, which was equally available and could even be seen as the wide path, or the road frequently traveled...

So, yeah, I could just drink and drug my money away like the other 90% of Sacred Heart residents, or I could use it to do things like buying the new set of speakers, which could improve my daily life indefinitely. Definitely long after any drug high may have worn off.

I told Donna that I was only cautiously optimistic about being able to return the speakers and have the $124 put back on my U.S. Bank pandemic assistance card.

I started to outline the various things that could go wrong:

The street car not running that day for some reason. The street car driver not allowing me onto the car with the box ("We can't allow any boxes onto the car; because of the virus..." type of thing).

"No, I've seen ladies bringing big strollers onto the things; which just barely fit through the door..." Donna said.

"Then, when I get there, the computers could be down, or the store could be closing early because of a pipe bursting or something; or the only associate authorized to do returns on items just went home sick, come back tomorrow, type of thing.."

Donna laughed at my pessimism.

It was none of the above, after I got to the "Chef Street" Walmart, located in the ghetto area of Gentilly.

It was that they were out of "shipping labels."

"We can't do returns because we don't have any shipping labels; we ordered them but we're still waiting for them," said the young black lady, who seemed to be relishing the opportunity to deny a white man.

She told me that I could print out the label on my computer and bring it to Fed Ex myself (so someone like her wouldn't have to do a thing). Or I could just hop in my car and go to another Walmart.

"I guess I could call first to see if they have shipping labels," I said, which got no response from her other than staring at me with her mouth slightly open, as if she was at a loss for words.

By this time, the black people who had gotten in line behind me began to fidget and become rude, which is par for the course at any of the Walmart locations in black areas. I wouldn't doubt that white people know enough to just not go to these stores, as I often find that I'm the only white guy there when I go to them.

Joe Biden might have been right about Latino people being "incredibly diverse" in comparison to black people, whom he suggested mostly all thought "the same."

And so that little vignette played out. After the girl told me that they didn't have any labels and then took up the posture of staring at me as if for a loss for words, except for saying "I don't know" to any questions that I posed.

"If I print out a label to ship it myself, I'll probably have to pay like thirty bucks just to get my $124 refunded..."

"I don't know..."

Diversity Galore

 

I set the box down next to a bunch of other stuff that was along the wall and was about to ask if I could leave it there while I shopped but she was able to find her voice and said "You can't leave it there; you have to take it with you!" scoring a point for herself and her race, I suppose.

Of course, one of the random blacks in line had to echo the sentiment: "You can't leave it there, you gotta take it with you!" as if by not knowing that, I had no sense at all. That is the "piling on" that I have experienced before when I was the only white guy in the immediate area. 

One time, I put the wrong PIN number in the machine at Rouses Market and the black cashier had to push a reset button, which she did, but not before heaving a huge sigh, as if I was just ruining her day. A sigh which seemed to signal the couple of blacks in line behind me to launch into "Man, I'm in a hurry, I ain't got time for this s***!" and such things designed, I suppose to try to ratchet up whatever anxiety I may have had over having punched in the wrong PIN number.

They know that you are flustered and so they try to pile on, hoping to anger the white person so that the white person might say something that will get them barred from the business, creating a great inconvenience for them, perhaps.

So, that whole thing played out, just like at the Gretna location, almost word for word; as if they had rehearsed it. Or as if they all think the same.

"The Metarie store let me keep it there while I did my shopping."

So, I put the huge box in a cart and pushed it around while I did some shopping so that the trip wouldn't be a total waste of time. It became a target for at least a dozen of "them" to suddenly need to get to somewhere right behind my cart as soon as they saw it.

"Ess-cuse me, I need to get there" I was told a few times after I parked the cart anywhere in the store." One employee grabbed a floor jack that had been just sitting there and needed me to move the cart yet again. "Ess-cuse me I need to get by there!" After I returned to that aisle a few minutes later, I saw that the jack had indeed been moved, then abandoned, in another spot kind of near where my cart had been parked.

"You gotta be kidding me," said Donna the security lady after I came in, still toting the box.

"I told you I was prepared to have to lug the thing all the way there and back, and am not surprised.."

So, this afternoon I called the Tchoupitoulous location, and a Creole sounding lady told me "Yes, we have shipping labels" in a voice that suggested that she actually understood my question and knew what I was trying to do.

I guess this is where the whites shop...

I still have 4 days left to be able to return the speakers.

More Control

 

Hey, everyone...

Before and After

11 months between the two pictures, and the one on the right is actually the "after" photo. The kinda skinny guy to the left is me back when I had no idea that a virus would be coming in 4 months.

But, God with his ever loving grace has made it so I would actually make out like a bandit in this Covid world.

The money that the government is doling out to the masses is based upon keeping the average guy alive.

A guy like me could use the whole amount to create something in my room, while eating the healthiest diet and watching Eckhart Tolle videos to guide me into the present moment and then become an amazing person, to emerge from Sacred Heart Apartments after the virus is over and the horn sounds, alerting the citizens that it is safe and they can come out, as a phoenix rising from the ashes.

I might be able to go back to the Lilly Pad to play and people would be whispering "Over the whole year and a half of the Covid thing, he shut himself in his apartment and then studied Tommy Emmanuel videos for 12 hours a day, like a maniac, while subsisting on a vegan diet and meditating 3 hours every day...."

To explain what the hell had gotten into me and why I had gotten so good; since the last time I was out there.

Of course, when drunk people are telling you you're awesome, and tipping well, night in and night out, it would almost seem like overkill to actually be playing awesome stuff; like Tommy Emmanuel...

But, the theory is that, the music is to connect with individual people; and playing the Tom Petty song that you heard coming out of a guy's car as he was attempting to park it, as he walks by you to get to the bar, is something that I once did (I think it was "Mary Jane's Last Dance") and that guy might have just ignored a great piece of classical music; but he threw like five bucks in my basket.

...gee, five bucks is nothing to a guy who finds $1,200 checks in his mailbox at his Permanent Assisted Housing unit....

 

 I am looking into the process of exporting this whole blog into Wordpress, or maybe one of the sites that charge a nominal fee, in exchange for allowing you to have more control.

Although, most of that functionality in other blogs just seems to turn into links to all sorts of other material.

Like, I saw an interesting article this morning, here's a link to it...

But, not just a link; an embedded page of sorts with a photo plus the headline and the first paragraph, with the "more..." thing fading at the bottom.

Well, more control over who reads it...

Tomorrow will be the trip to Walmart to exchange the speakers for a refund on my card, and to grab a few things while I'm there. Planning to really stay inside for a while.

I need to get a pistol before election day. I just wonder if I should use an alternate ID...

Item #1: Put Memo On Fridge RE: Make A To Do List

 There were no bookshelves at the Goodwill Store when I went there yesterday afternoon, after stopping at the Shell for a new nicotine vape (to replace the lime green one on the bed next to the remote for the TV.

The TV that gets about fifteen over-the-air stations, which I hardly ever turn on. The commercials paint a disconcerting picture of our culture.

The target audience seems to be those too poor to be able to afford cable and broadband, and elderly people who never switched from their rabbit ear equipped sets that they have been watching since long before computers and internet came along.

The idea is that you load up on the food that is advertised, so that you will soon be under the care of a doctor; who could prescribe you any one of the drugs advertised, maybe even through one of the health care "plans" advertised, should it be determined that the drug is "right" for you, and if you promise to consult him should any of a litany of side effects occur.

And then, if and when this lifestyle runs afoul of good health, the rest of the advertisements are for attorneys, ready to sue the pants off of all the other advertisers on the channel.

Meanwhile, the latest batch of books, all six of them, were under three dollars at the Goodwill Store.

One of them is a "motivational" book co authored by Bill Cosby, entitled: "Come On!" -telling his fellow African Americans that he has decided to join them in being black, after 40 years away; since he is now rich and can't be hurt by anyone.

Blaise Pascal is solid; a kick-ass philosopher, him.

Now, I go to push the bike (that's Jacob's) down to the gas station with the two new tubes in the tires; where I will cross my fingers and put the pump to the valve..

Becoming mobile, should the tires hold air, will help me as I tackle the next 40 or so items on the to do list that I plan to make...

Success

I pushed the bike down to the gas station and put air in the tires and then rode the bike back home. Now, the map in my head has shrunk to where things that were 12 minutes away yesterday are now about 4 minutes away...

Now, to Walgreen's to replenish the nitrogen precursor pills which bodybuilders and myself use to generate explosive workouts and/or guitar practice sessions.

Goodnight.

Item #1: Make A To Do List

Fix the bikes, get more potting soil to start more seeds; find a way to hang the plant light higher, to accommodate the growing plants; get cat food; finish re-arranging studio/living room; get a turntable; get a bookshelf; organize books and CD's; get a power adapter for the second laptop, which has a CD player that might work better than this laptop's; send off for new strings; new gig bag; look into a headset microphone to become amplified; using the cover of the outside music at Lafitt's to clandestinely boost my own volume level, so that after the bar reverts to it's normal level, I will still be at the Lilly Pad, but will be amplified...

As soon as I get around to switching my phone's service over to the LG Aristo 3 smartphone, then I will be able to use it's camera and camcorder to have higher quality pictures here.

I procrastinate for the same reason as always; which is "what if I screw it up so I no longer have any phone that works, nor any hotspot...?"

Bike Repair

Am still walking everywhere, while the bikes stand upside-down, waiting, in one case just for new tubes to be put in both tires..the nut on the back tire, I cannot remove using the only tool I have; a pair of pliers.

The other bike has an "allen" wrench type screw on it.

And so the bikes sit there and I am walking everywhere. I might take a chance on a cheap Family Dollar socket set, which might take the nut off the bike before the nut on the bike snaps the thing in half.

 

Jordan Peterson Educates Climate Activist

Up Against The Wall (Mart)

• The Speakers of the House
• Thank You, God

 I woke up at high noon.

Today (Thursday) might be the day that I return the 5 piece speaker system to Walmart so that $124 will be put back on my pandemic assistance unemployment "benefit" card.

Monday, Jacob and I trudged to the Walmart in Metarie, after having wrestled the box into the back seat of his car, which had the speakers in it.

We then used a cart to wheel it to the customer service area.

I wound up glad that we had gone to that particular store in Metarie (where Ellen Degeneris grew up, and where the world infamous motel where Jimmy Swaggart fell from grace, is. Whether or not Ellen Degeneris ever stayed at that motel is one for the researchers to pursue).

The staff, while predominately African American comprises the more civilized culture of them that you often find, living besides whites in affluent areas; areas where people like Ellen Degeneris grew up in.

The last time I went to the Tchopitoulis Walmart, I had taken the bus.

While waiting for the returning home bus at the stop outside the store, I found myself sitting besides two young black girls who were wearing Walmart vests. They were both rather pudgy in appearance, and were eating cheeseburgers and talking with their mouths full.

"You said a mouthful, there!"

Their conversation revolved around some of their friends, and who the fathers of those girls children were. One girl informed the other that a mutual acquaintance of theirs had been impregnated by a guy whom they also both knew. What a small world. The guy was described through the lens of what kind of car he drove, and how big a monthly disability check he had been able to finagle.

The conversation starter had been a black guy in a used red Honda Civic who had been circling the block and who, I guess, tried to "holler" at one or both of them. 

The deal breaker had been the used Civic. He must be crazy if he expects me to get with him when he drive that ratty old thing, was the gist of the first girl's message.

This opened a conversation about what kind of cars the current boyfriends of other girls the knew drove. It became clear that the red Honda would have been something that she could never have saved face over, if any boyfriend of hers drove it. Her friends in the projects who had nicer boyfriends (boyfriends with nice cars, that is) would ridicule her.

And so the car circled a couple times with the guy slowing down and offering a palms raised gesture to them, as if to say: I'm riding around trying to pick up a sex partner (or two) off the street. I'm a nigga with a car; that's a big difference (a whole car) from a nigga without a car, so what's up girls?

I got the impression that if a guy had come by in a nice enough car then the pudgy and not very attractive -especially with their mouths displaying half chewed cheeseburgers whenever they opened them wide, which occurred often, as they were basically yelling their conversation back and forth.

Such and such a girl's "man" drove a really nice convertible of some sort; which allowed the world to see the expensive clothes he wore, after he put the top down. Such and such a girl was doing good. One of them barked out the list of who the fathers of her 4 children were. If a car that nice came along then one or both of them might not be taking the bus home.

And, so that seemed to be the ploy of red Honda man. There were girls out there who had to ride buses everywhere; let me ride by the stops, showing off the fact that I have a car; and maybe find one who will be willing to trade sex for access to the automobile.

But, the Metarie Walmart is just a nicer environment. The blacks there not only understand English but the lady at the register actually chuckled over a couple things I said that would have probably gone right over the heads of the half chewed cheeseburger mouthed girls. That lady had a Caribbean accent and was certainly a breed above the damaged individuals who were born and "raised" here in the deep south.

So we got the box to customer service where I was told that I needed to have an order number or something that should have been e-mailed to me.

This didn't test my patience much. I decided to leave the box there in the cart and then go do other shopping; leaving the return for another day.

We went into the electronics section where I discovered a much bigger selection than there had been in the ghetto situated Walmart where we had gone the last time. I can't remember the name of the street that one is on, but I'm sure if I Googled: "Man found dead of gunshot wounds" and scrolled down, that name would be mentioned among the top results.

There, in the electronics section was a speaker system for 69 bucks which was the next step up from the 30 dollar system I have been listening to for the past 6 years or so.

It almost seemed sensible that I move up just one level; from 25 to 40 watts; from 30 to 69 bucks; and wind up trading my existing system up to the next model up on their line. Kind of like driving a Chevy Chevette for 4 years and then, after having gotten regular raises and maybe a promotion, trading it in and moving up to the Impala.

But, not the Corvette, that particular model is fit for those about 25 years down the road, who have finally been promoted to "regional manager" or something.

The speakers that I sent off for were the Corvette. They were regularly $169, but I had found a "refurbished" set for $124. Only, that Corvette wouldn't start.

So, I put the 69 dollar ones (the Impala) in the cart, thinking that I may have gone overboard a little in wanting to go from 25 to 100 watts, and that, volume-wise I would hardly ever be utilizing all 100 watts; especially after the 10 PM through 6 AM "quiet time" that we try to observe at Sacred Heart.

I felt like I had made the right choice. I would still get the $124 refunded, but would go ahead and spend an additional 69 bucks. Just being able to go home and plug them in, rather than having to wait for them to arrive by UPS was enticing.

I wound up getting a 3 pound bag of catfish fillets, not without being plagued by a bit of inner turmoil over the question of vegetarianism or not.

I am reading Buddhist literature that warns that, by eating flesh, you are increasing the suffering in the world and it has a global effect which will come back to bite you, like the fish that bit the hook. Life begets life; death begets death" so I compromised and got the 3 pound bag of catfish fillets instead of a 4 pound bag of Swai fillets (which I heard something negative about in regards to them being "farm raised" and what that entails).

But then, I was on my way to hook Harold up in the cat food section, which is tucked away in a remote spot, in between the pharmaceutical section and the household appliances, and one aisle away from the "clearance" aisle.

I hadn't known that they had a clearance aisle, but there it was, a few shelves of random things with...wait for it...the exact speaker system that I was attempting to return, with a bit of cosmetic damage to the box and a 99 dollar price tag on it.

The Cadillac of ONN systems, the $169 dollar set which I had found for $124 online, but which was broken, and now, I snapped one up for even 24 dollars less.

So much for "quiet time" at Sacred Heart...

I think that God was tipping me for taking care of Harold the cat, because I had just splurged on a case of Fancy Feast "florentine" salmon; something that Harold eats with ardour and relish.

So, Jacob did me the favor (to work for the sushi I got him) of putting the speakers which would have been a sensible upgrade to my current system and the next step up, towards eventually having the loudest stereo in Sacred Heart Apartments, back in electronics (unless he just went around the corner and chucked it somewhere like what is common at the ghetto situated Walmart)

And so that is the story of why I am getting up each morning (at noon) lately and, thanks to my laptop being connected to my neighbor Wayne's router once again; either through some glitch or maybe his having enabled "share this connection" after having put me on a veritable probation after I had used the Tor Browser to go into the deep dark web, which made his anti malware program give him some kind of warning.

But, for now, I have been blessed with a 100 dollar speaker system that sounds like a $169 one. The logic there is that it sounds exactly the way it would had I paid the full price of $169 plus tax.

And I have been blessed with my neighbor's WIFI and his terabytes of data available.

I am putting "join The Writer's Den" on my to do list."

For something like thirty bucks a month, they have staff working "there" that will prompt you to write and will critique that writing and will provide access to resources, such as where to sell your writing, or how to find a paying job writing, type of thing.

Writers Den, And Now.

I knew about the website, but had kind of forgotten about it. There is something like a 40% chance that you will make money as a writer in some capacity, using their program. That sounds good to me, considering that a certain percentage of people who join might have no proclivity towards writing, and they are the ones who would be dragging that statistic down to the 40% success rate that they, for what it's worth, advertise on their website. The Writer's Den.

A guy who used to work at Uxi Duxi left that job to take one that paid 5 times more, which was as a "technical" writer. He credited the Writer's Den for giving him an avenue towards that job.

They also give members assignments, and deadlines. Write 500 words describing your neighborhood" for example. They can then possibly steer you in the direction of a career as a travel writer, if you display an aptitude for that, type of thing... 

Time To Kratom Up Again

 I just used my last teaspoon of kratom during what has become my "morning cup of tea," which means it's time to go and spend about 75 bucks on another month's supply.

I think I figured out that I do about 7 grams of the stuff every morning. 

And I do mean every morning. 

This works out to about 90 cents a day for kratom..

This used to be enough to keep me off of everything else but cigarettes; the lighting of one of those becoming a knee-jerk reaction to the first sip of the green, swampy tasting liquid.

No pot, certainly no alcohol, nor any other substance was necessary to compliment the kratom induced state of mind. The kratom sipping had the effect of making me immediately get to work on something. In fact, often I would be an hour or so into doing something when I remembered that I had a glass of kratom with only a couple sips taken off of it, sitting there in front of me; so focused upon the thousand or so words that were coming out of me in a torrent was I.

A few times recently, I recalled the words that I had heard from my friend Bobby in building C, who was most likely repeating them from some Alcoholics Anonymous meeting that he attended.

He told me that I just couldn't drink. "There are some people that just can't drink," he said. For these people, a sip of alcohol puts them on the fast track to their ultimate demise.

After having messed up a few times in the past weeks; train wrecks that all began with me finding a couple cans of beer in the fridge, left over from the night before, or having decided to grab a beer at a store that I had run to "first thing in the morning" (maybe around noon) for something else that I had run out of, like nicotine.

At the conclusion of those days, after I had wantonly pissed away money on impulse purchases, with the impulses having found the guard at the gate asleep; or maybe the next morning, after finding a very trashed looking kitchen that had been spic and span just a day earlier; seeing stuff left out on the counter that should have been tossed in the refrigerator, seeing the evidence of ill-advised dietary decisions, like a creme filled chocolate cupcake wrapper, and of course the empty beer cans, here and there, and one way over there on that little table for some inexplicable reason; I had come to the same conclusion: "I just can't drink." I one of those types.

 But, now, Monday afternoon at 3 PM, it seems like now I can.

Today, I will hopefully bring the speakers to Walmart for a refund (the sub woofer box doesn't do anything; no power indicator, no "plunk" sound from the speakers when you switch it to "on" and the sound of something loose and rattling around inside when you shake the thing. It had been a "refurbished" unit, that I had gotten for $124 (normally $169) but, I was able to virtually return it online; and now I have to physically bring it to a Walmart to get $124 added back to my credit card.

Then I might get a different speaker arrangement. That one came with a soundbar plus the sub woofer box, plus two "satellite" speakers, making it just as clutter-some as the jerry-rigged setup I had slapped together, using the amplifier from one box that had a blown speaker to power the speaker in another box that has a blown amp, type of thing; spaghetti wires on the floor, distracting me an making me less creative...

Things are going at a snail's pace. I need to make a list and hang it in a prominent place. And put things like "phone" on it.

I am about to try to switch my free government "lifeline" service from the ten year old phone that isn't very smart, to the LG Aristo 3 that Bobby bought me once, but that I didn't keep the service up on.

Hopefully it will fully function as a modern phone and will have my current phone number and 350 free minutes and all that; and will work as a hotspot.

I hesitate to do it because if it doesn't work -maybe Metro PC only sells phones that have been hard-wired to only work through their network, type of thing- I don't know how long it would take to try to get a rep on the phone and explain what I had done and how it had not worked. Which phone would I call her on, if it doesn't work? type of thing...

And, so I procrastinate. I have been meaning to make that list of a bunch of things I could get done; but just haven't gotten around to making it yet, yikes...

Joe!!

I'll tell you what; I have been a recluse the past few days since the debate. There are so many things that could be added to this piece of music etc. etc.
But, I got kind of carried away when I worked on this; the rhythmes of the vocal ejaculations, I found, fell into patterns that were very much musical. Donald Trump's ability to speak over another person, it seems is due to his acumen of picking up on the rhythm of the other speaker, in order to head him off at the aoss, and in effect calculate on the fly just where the other speaker would most likely be taking a breath or otherwise pausing, maybe for dramatic effect, and then to pounce. There is a whole world of that here.

Somehow, you have to click on "soundcloud" to listen to it there, because it won't play here; something that I need to try to figure out, along with everything else.

Darius Palermo · Joe!