A Need To Clean House

I was thinking that I would blog here in a very limited scope, and then move my posts to some place where they won't be shadow banned by "the algorithm."

But that has moved me towards the eschewing of "current events" as much as possible and trying to steer towards more universal things.

I'm hoping a kind of Elon Musk figure will come along and liberate Blogger in the same way; so my thoughts will be allowed into the mainstream again.

All signs point to me going out to play soon; yet a part of me wants to stay here, eat and practice the guitar; and then just try to make it to the plasma place in the morning.
I have given the plasma place a two week or so rest from me; and I guess in the next few minutes, maybe over a cup of coffee, I'll decide upon whether or not I want to ride down there; the webcam shot will be crucial...

A Sinfully Decadent Concoction of Apple Juice, With Honey and Lemon Juice, With Pinches of Cayenne and Himilayan Salt

I basically went out and busked tonight, and, though a success on the level of having had a couple dozen people tip me, they turned out to be all in singles; which to me means that the value of one dollar is deemed now to be insufficient ("give the dude a couple, cause everything's expensive now") and, while I felt I could have played better; and actually did do so, later on in the evening at Patrick's, but more on that later.

At the point when I got a windfall of tips from about 20 people who had hung around, I had the misfortune of having chosen a very difficult song that I hadn't played in years and which is amongst the most complex things that I do on the guitar; and then to throw the harmonica in, it really felt like juggling on a tightrope and then having to do it on one leg, type of thing.

I decided to try to play a cool harmonica part while playing the complex guitar part just barely. I managed to do so for a while, but the difficulty level was further upped when it came to trying to remember the lyrics of all the verses that I haven't sung in years. Finally, I just cut the song short.

I have to set up a metronome and run through that part over and over at home. I wish I had aborted mission, and switched to a much simpler song,
There are just some musical parts that need to be practiced to master, even by their composers; I'm starting to believe.

The highlight of the evening, though came after I was done busking and I went to Patrick's house. I had felt sorry for him and had picked up some bud on Canal Street.

On my way out to play, I had stopped there to see if I could get a small bud off of him; the excuse I was making in my mind was that I was about to give in to temptation to drink; and so, to fortify my resistance to that urge, I figured I could consider the bud to be going in an entirely different direction than booze. Kind of like; never mind the E&J brandy, you've got that bud.

But I found Patrick to be in a glum mood; he said that he had been having mixed fortunes, and to balance off one good one, was the fact that he was out of weed. He wished he had a bud to give me, because that would mean he had a bud; but he didn't.

But, he did have pain pills and offered me a couple of them.

I told him, after I had swallowed one of the things, that I would get some bud when I was down in the Quarter if he was still going to be up at 2 a.m.

"I'll be up all night," he said, making me wonder if pain pill popping can keep you up all night.

After the all one dollar bill night, I arrived about 20 minutes before 2 a.m. to see Patrick's lights on; a brief knock on the door and it opened to reveal the lovely Zeppelin, whom I greeted by name with just a slight pause as I had to think a second which rock band it was she was named after.

I smelled bud and figured that Zeppelin had shown up with some.

"Geez, I didn't have to buy bud," I lamented.

But, we had a pretty good conversation; I was trying to explain to Zeppelin, after she had adamantly asked Patrick to change the channel on the TV because the (preacher, incidentally) guy on the tube looked too much like Donald Trump for her to bear; how it was her phone that did that to her. And about the Big Tech giants and the mainstream media being part of an anti orange man campaign and how she had been brainwashed by a constant barrage of negativity.

She couldn't name any f***ed up things that Trump had done, after giving, as the reason she wanted the channel changed that "...all the f***ed up stuff he did, except for one particular example having ultimately to do with funneling money into his hotels. 

I gave her the example of the cashier at Shell who, on her break was in front of the store, vigorously puffing on a cigarette and huffing out: "I know one thing. We need a new president!" and when I pressed her for her reason, as it was just a month or so before the election, she looked at me kind of as if astounded that I wasn't aware of everywhere and everything, as she put it.

"Everywhere, everything, everything you see, don't you have Facebook or Youtube?!"  

"That girl did nothing but stand there staring at her phone in between customers."

So just be careful that your aversion to the guy hasn't been planted there subliminally by social media and everything else everywhere and everything you see, Zeppelin," was my advice to her.

I wound up being able to play the hell out of some guitar and harmonica, there at Patrick's. I might have been showing off for Zeppelin, maybe without even realizing it...

So, after having amassed over 20 one dollar bills that could have easily been sprinkled with fives or twenties; had I not decided to try a song I hardly knew, I am now home.

No Chickening Out Friday

"Everybody Has To Work"

I looked at the webcam shot of Bourbon Street around 9 p.m. Friday night, and I had to go out there.

I told myself, as I rode, that I would only be 20 minutes away from being back home, should I get there to find the guy with the loud sound system sitting 40 feet away from where I play; or I would be able to move down to the next block and play diagonally across from The Quartermaster -the place that has barred me for borrowing milk crates from them.

I had 46 cents in my pocket, and Harold had just eaten his last can; so my goals were very modest. The first potential dollar would go towards him, and the second one might go towards bus fare, so I wouldn't have to make what has turned into a hell-ride to the dental place each time, to get to my 3 p.m. appointment. I had managed to cut the trip from 10 miles down to 4.8 miles by using Google Maps to enlighten me to the fact that I had originally ridden a huge right angle route. Still, 4.8 miles (instead of 10) of dodging potholes and traffic is no picnic.

I hadn't eaten in 6 days and even forgot to bring a bottle of water with me, so I detoured to CVS to get a Celsius energy drink; and was at the Lilly Pad at about 11:20 p.m.

The fact that I am a better musician when not drunk and stoned was hinted at by the fact that, when I went to tune up the guitar it was already pretty much in perfect pitch, just from me having tuned it by ear at the apartment.

I thought I was playing pretty well, and even started having thoughts creeping in that I wasn't in the right venue to be appreciated as the first few groups of people went by without tipping, with one young guy sarcastically saying "Yeah, you sound good," as his group went by and didn't throw anything in the jar.

Maybe I need to seriously consider going around to the little pubs that pay musicians, like, a hundred bucks to play for 3 hours, using their house sound system, so that the audience can hear the music loud and clear and appreciate whatever is there to be appreciated.

I was playing without the amp, and happy to see that, along with the sound system guy not being there, there was relatively light traffic, made up mostly of people who were saying things like: "We're way to the right of where we're going," as they stared at their phones.

No Picnic

The other end of Bourbon was a huge cluster of people. I always think of ants when it is like that. If you are having a picnic,and there is an ant hill under your blanket, then ants are soon going to be all over you and you will probably move your blanket. Still, though, you will be regularly visited by the more adventurous ants that, sensing the heavy competition for the crumbs on the ground around the hill, strike out for fortune in some direction. What about over by that tree about 20 feet away, where those humans are sitting? they might think; in ant thoughts.

And that would be the Lilly Pad, in terms of the block of Bourbon Street where the strip clubs are being the ant hill, where they are crawling all over themselves, both literally and figuratively.

Most of the people that make it as far as me are armed with the knowledge that "the oldest bar in America" is just 40 feet past me, and from them, I often hear: "There it is; Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern!" at various distances from it as they approach, depending upon their eye-sight. "It's right up there, I can read the sign. My eyes are better than yours!" type of thing.

I might edify them as they walk past me with: "Oldest bar in America; established in 1772 by Jean Lafitt the pirate, and his brother Pierre; although they never shooed a horse there; they used it, as a front, to fence pirated goods out the back door."

Some of them might even pause to hear me add: "Chances are that if you bought a bottle of rum in 1772, it came from right there, by Lilly's pool..."

And so, with The French Quarter Festival in full swing, I had just the right amount of ants, er, tourists going to and fro; half of them historians, the other half, lost.

The 6 days of not having eaten was probably taking some of the physical energy out of my performance, which can be out of step with some of the more rowdy and drunken tourists; but the fact that I was playing well, and was "feeling" the music, and doing so without being "artificially" euphoric usually attracts others, probably the way a bartender is a magnet for bar patron's to air their life stories and grievances: Maybe this is just the whiskey talking; let me ask this sober person if he thinks the bitch is using me, type of thing.

I might have been oblivious to, and thus not factoring in the effect of not having the amp, which had me back to using the same setup that used to net me a steady 18 bucks per hour, night in and night out. 

I certainly felt that the words I chose weren't as important as when I was singing them through a microphone and wasn't as concerned with dropping in little sarcasms or directing things at individuals that I could see, but who were "out of range."

I was just having my first thoughts about quitting, as in quitting busking altogether when a large black woman dropped 6 dollars in the jar; always a large black woman, and always right when I'm thinking of quitting, I thought...

Then a group of about 6 black people stopped and took their phones out and began to improvise lyrics and eventually 4 part vocal harmony, split into bass, tenor, alto and soprano, so that they sounded like a heavenly chorus. It was like they were a Southern Baptist group on vacation, or something. The irony wasn't lost upon me that the song this group of black people were free-styling over was "A Whiter Shade of Pale."

That particular classic by Procol Harem, I read somewhere, is the song most covered by other artists, as far as released recordings go, nudging out songs like "Yesterday," and "Ave Maria." I think it is even on one of the fine discs waxed by William Shatner; and if that doesn't prove a song's validity, then...?

I'm thinking that, since the the lyrics are a nonsensical word salad, it is one of the songs least likely to offend anyone.

The choir singers threw a handful of ones in the jar; and it was at that point that I, myself, felt validated.

After my decision to fast and cleanse had removed the motive of going out there for drinking and drugging money, and had in fact kept me from going out, out of fear that I would succumb to temptation; I had decided that I still needed to go out and work in the spirit of something my dad used to say, which was: "Everybody has to work; Adam and Eve made it that way."

So I went out there primarily just to work. Sure, cleaning my kitchen would have been work; but I was defining work as "service to others," and cleaning my kitchen wouldn't produce a can of food for Harold, unless I discovered one that had rolled to behind the refrigerator, nor the bus fare to keep me from having to pedal another 4.8 miles times 2 during Monday's trip to the dentist (although pedaling home would be a bit easier (no pun intended) minus the weight of one tooth).

I was surprised earlier when David Greenwell, whom I was mistaken in thinking was heaping abuse upon me when I was heading for the emergency room when I had the toothache, knocked on my door and asked me if I had gotten any antibiotics.

He handed me a sheet of paper with the number of a "Nurse Hotline" on it, saying that the person on the other end would be a "nurse for the homeless" and would be able to help me.

I had interpreted his anger as him berating me as being stupid for even going to the emergency room for a toothache; it turns out his anger was directed that them for potentially not even seeing me over it.

He had actually gotten the number off one of the computers in the computer room and written it down, trying to help me, 5 days after I told him I had a toothache. He asked me if I was going to go out and play; and when I told him I was because the French Quarter Festival was going on, he said that I should make some good money; and then added "You're as good as some of those people playing at the festival."

And so the fruits of the cleansing fast seem to be being reaped already. I had read David totally wrong, 5 days ago, when I was still drinking and drugging.

Chickening Out

I'm chickening out, again, instead of going out to play.

"Imagine there's no heaven; it's easy if you try..."

While the White-breasted Nuthatch cries 11 p.m. from my singing bird clock, I sit here, wondering.

Wondering if the palpable feeling of foreboding in my stomach is worse than it would be, were I pedaling towards the Quarter right now, with the guitar that I haven't practiced on enough lately on my back.

I'm trying to convince myself, on this 5th day of juice fasting, that I'm investing in the future by kicking my addictions, and that, whatever money I might have made tonight will be recovered a hundred times over in future savings on booze, weed, caffeine, nicotine and kratom, if I stick to the program of alternately drinking alkaline water and apple juice on the half hour tonight, with a few rounds of Wim Hof breathing exercises done at some point.

On the subject of kratom, though, I might exclude that from my list of banned substances, along with LSD. Neither one is addictive, and in the case of kratom, when I have run out of it, I never craved it. It was only after getting some as almost an afterthought, once I came into some money, and doing a tablespoon of it that I then remembered why I had liked it so much. It's a funny substance that way.

Of course, since I discovered my friend Jacob right around the same time as discovering kratom; I will never know if all the strides I have made the past 5 years were from being friends with him, or from doing kratom...

I remember one of my first experiences with the stuff was sitting and typing out a story for something like 4 hours, and then losing it when I walked away from the laptop and the battery drained out because I hadn't plugged it in after I had gotten it back from the kratom bar. I felt no anxiety over losing the work, and in fact only looked forward to redoing it all even better. I was still focused in on the task.

And, I think the stuff just alters the brain's chemistry because I still have that sense of focus even now, after running out of kratom 3 days ago. Of course, fasting brings the same mental focus about; no surprise that that guy who almost starved in a concentration camp was able to write that book called: "The Meaning of Life" -probably wrote it in his head as he lay there feeling physically weak, but having no distractions from wayward thoughts.

Once the appetite for food goes away, so does that for alcohol or nicotine, etc. And, I guess, even kratom, although as stated above, it was never an addiction.

Neither was LSD. 

"Dave's Been Confused"

And, a college roommate of mine, Dave LeClaire (who was a big Led Zeppelin fan and who's high school yearbook epigram was: "Dave's been confused") was majoring in Biology, and grew some really good pot in a tin foil-lined closet, using special lights attached to a timer, and eye-droppers of various liquids to control the pH of the soil, and to turn male seeds into female ones, etc. and whose belief was that marijuana is a placebo; had a very different opinion of LSD. "That's something that radically f***s up your brain's chemistry," he once told me, over a joint we were smoking at the kitchen table.

And it's true that a lot of the older deadheads that I saw at Grateful Dead shows, weren't there to trip their teeth out, or to be able to sit and watch the shadow of a maple tree in a swirling breeze, dancing on the white-washed side of a building, and have that turn into a detailed cartoon, complete with an actual plot, instead of going inside the arena to see the concert; like I once did in Providence, Rhode Island, from the driver's seat of my car (I learned that night not to eat your hit of acid on the way to the show, but at least wait until you're in the seat written on your ticket).

Those deadheads had had their breakthroughs, gained their enlightenment, and would never again think that the universe is just what can be perceived with the senses; why belabor it? After you smash your way through a wall with a sledgehammer and are in the enchanted kingdom, why carry the hammer around with you everywhere you go? type of thing...

It hasn't been a perfect fast, as, last night, in a spaced out frame of mind, I opened a can of great northern beans, stirred some salt and pepper, to include cayenne, a bit of mustard, and even a teaspoon of honey into them and ate them. 

It was a good opportunity to find out what great northern beans alone can do for the human body.

For one thing, there was no perceivable flatulence involved; leading me to wonder about how the gut bacteria of a fasting person is able to digest beans without a byproduct being flammable gas out the anus.

Organic chemistry is something I wish I had mastered. Alas, though, when I took chemistry in high school the same thing would play out; Mr. McGuirk, the teacher, would start to explain something about moles and specific gravity's and allotropes, and it would lull me into a deep daydream, where I might be looking at the chalkboard, but somewhere else; and when I came to, the whole chalkboard would be covered in symbols, and Mr. McGuirk would be asking the class: "Any questions?" before erasing it all. I passed the class by cheating on tests off a kid who sat one row over and one row up from me. I think Mr. McGuirk knew, but let me slide. I wouldn't be going on to embarrass him by enrolling at M.I.T. as a Chem major and flunking out in the first semester; I would be studying subjects where there are no right answers; like English, where "Spring is a perhaps hand..." and "Mercy is twice blest," and Music, where, well, listen to Stravinsky...

It's only been an hour and a half since the White-breasted Nuthatch sang; perhaps I write more quickly when sober...

I left to get more apple juice and alkaline water, along with a zero sugar Rock Star energy drink.

"You're In The Way!!"

I felt like I was out of sync.

As soon as I got to the front door; there was an ambulance outside, and just as I started down the ramp to leave, they started towards it with the stretcher. "Hurry up, you're in the way!"

Then, all along my ride to the store there were cars trying to back out of places and I was in the way. I got to the store and a lady in front of me ran out of money and had to phone someone in the parking lot to bring her more cash. Then, when I tried to apply my "reward points" toward the purchase of Harold's food, it turned into the fiasco of me not being able to do it at first because one can is less than a dollar. "Well, ring up two, then I'll go get another one before I leave..."

Then, the cashier entered the amount for 2 cans, which was over a dollar, but he didn't calculate what the tax would be. Somehow, it seems like you don't have to pay tax on whatever you buy using reward points; it went through.

Then, there were at least 3 cars trying to back out of parking spaces that had to brake for me; then as I approached the tattoo shop where the sidewalk is always littered with half smoked American Spirit's a young lady was just sweeping them all up; I was a minute too late.

I just wanted a half cigarette to go with the Rock Star drink; but the message to me was clear: I wasn't where I was supposed to be. I should have went out to play at the Lilly Pad, but I didn't; so I was just in the way. No half cigarette for you; you're not where you belong...you chickened out; afraid that you would spend your tip money on alcohol and you would wind up full of self loathing and back at the bottom of the mountain that took you 5 days of fasting to almost reach the peak of...cluck, cluck, cluck!

Here It Is; Exactly 9:12 p.m. Again

I'm still feeling the tug from the playing spot; and happened to glance at the clock to see that it was 9:12 p.m., the time of the trolley that I used to ride down there 6 nights a week.

And, I would feel guilty about taking that Monday night off. Now, look at me; making excuses for not going out: "I'm on the 5th day of a juice and water fast; I need to take it easy; this is a time of restoration and regrouping; cleansing both inside and out, etc..."

I am starting to change my perspective on things, though. That could just be the result of being substance free for 5 days, though.

I've promised myself I won't go back out until I have at least one brand new song to do. I've also gotten some alphabetic indexes that will go in a spiral binder; so I can keep track of the 500 or so songs that I have done in my life; of which I can only seem to think of less than 25 of, on a given night.

This is partly because I'm only thinking in keys that suit the C major harmonica or the D major one. This is kind of limiting. But there is more than one way to skin a cat. By moving the capo around on the neck, I could potentially do any song in a key that fits the harmonicas; given that I now know how to play in 4 positions on each one. That at least gives me 8 out of 12 keys. And C sharp, F sharp, D flat and A flat, I hardly ever played in, anyways...

I'm off to get juice to keep the cleanse going.

I have an appointment for next Monday to have a tooth pulled. The dentist was talking about me "saving" a lot of teeth and only having to wear a partial denture which, I guess would cover the "smiling" teeth that I imagine society is most concerned about. I don't think I ever smile hard enough so that my teeth show; but that's where that stands.

I'm thinking of starting a GofundMe page with a picture of me smiling with my bad teeth; to see if anyone would give me money, so they could look forward to seeing me with my recently purchased smile, and feel like they had a part in it.

I imagine the success of that plan would lie in how well I marketed the thing...

It's almost 10 and I'm thirsting for alkaline water...

How Can I Doubt A Guy Born With Rotten Teeth?

I got home at 9:12 p.m. -the exact time I used to leave on the trolley most nights to go play at the Lilly Pad.

This was after having gotten what should be a pretty good can of tuna for Harold at the Ideal Market, which is painted yellow outside, and run by an apparently all Hispanic crew.

To answer a most pressing inquiry of mine...

The cashier, a young kind of round faced brown eyed and skinned girl with long straight hair, whom I would have to guess could be traced to Central America, was very positive and, after I asked her to take back an energy drink which had rung up as a cash sale and not been funded by the food card "I guess 'cause it's zero calories, it's not considered food," i had said, which made her smile.

Then, when I produced the food card while saying: "I need to save my $2.89 (the energy drink cost) for tomorrow..." she smiled and nodded, as if admiring my fiscal acumen.

For it is true, had I spent cash on the drink, I would absolutely have to ride my bike back to the dental place, which took me approximately 50 minutes to do this morning.

That means that, even using a rough average speed of 11 miles per hour; (which is 2 mph slower than what I have averaged on a bike my whole life) the dental place is about a 9 mile ride from here.

On the way back, I had smartened up a bit. Having seen in retrospect that I had basically taken a right turn shaped route that took 50 minutes; I took off in the direction of where I guessed Sacred Heart to be, as the crow flies. I shaved a lot of time off the trip, so making my 2 o' clock appointment there tomorrow is less of a daunting task.

The 3 day now fast has weakened me a bit, such as when, on the ride back from the dental place, I stopped at the big Rouses Market and bought a carrot based drink, that I sipped as I rode to keep me going.

I still kept having the recurring thought of: "How am I going to bring myself to the Lilly Pad and play music in just a few hours, after doing almost 20 miles on a bike, on the third day of a juice and water only fast*

*There are those who call a juice fast "a juice feast," and they have an argument, because the hardcore key-toe-sis that the body goes into by day 4 of a water only fast will technically never come while "living" on juice. But I suppose that is debatable; will the body start living off its own fat while it has a glass of apple juice every so often to fuel the brain? Doesn't the brain run off fat? I haven't actually searched for info on the biochemistry of juice vs. water.

(side note: This Blogger editor, provided by the search engine that is named after the term for a one with a million zeroes after it; draws a squiggly line under the correctly spelled key-toe-sis word, which means, in my conspiracy aware head, that, along with other terms for things that could take money out of the pockets of drug companies -water and juice fasts being not squiggled under in red when mentioned; but a word such as the "k" word that refers to science that, if the average citizen were to become aware of the implications derived there from, might have multitudes of people curing their diseases through fasting. And so the "k" word is squiggled out and, in the old days would be flagged and reported to ultimately a human being who would shadow ban the blog; so that a throttle would be put upon how available to the general public this blog, that talks about the body burning its own fat during a fast, then turning to cancerous tumors for sustenance when that runs out, would be. 

But, that has already happened to this blog. I can think of it as having a small audience have the secret code to get to this blog; from having had it before the shadow banning happened.

The shadow banning means that anyone in the world can put "blogs about street music played by guy's named Daniel" in a search box and they will be returned results for websites about exactly that, unless that website is disseminating misinformation on any of a whole gamut of topics.

Ironically this means that I can just about write anything I want; I have free speech; because the algorithm has already closed the gate to the internet writ large.

The reason I bother (excuse the pun) if one post a week can be considered bothering, is that I intend to double cross "them" by switching this whole blog in the hopefully near future, to another platform; one which will not be under the control of anyone not nice, like Elon Musk is.

Then this blog will become unfettered, like Forest Gump....

Then all my misinformation, like about having apparently kicked down an infection using Wim Hof breathing exercises, juice fasting, acupressure, hot compresses at the sight of the infection, and imagining myself as a person who does not have any bacteria multiplying under his skin; and even imagining a white light, well more like a lightning shade of white, with a tinge of electric blue-green streaming into my forehead with each breath I take -shining in through an aperture which has opened to the universe at the crown of my head; and having that light shine through me, cleansing and infusing every cell with positive energy; killing bacteria in the process, and then exiting through my toes, after having pushed the negativity out through them; can once again go out to the whole world; as long as everyone starts using a different search engine than Google...unless Elon buys that too, and does away with the shadow banning).

Anatomy of a Shadow Ban

Case in point: I took some kind of circuitous route to a podcast of an interview of Linda Ronstadt. I guess I had fooled the algorithm into thinking I belonged in "the other" echo chamber; perhaps because I had watched enough Linda related stuff to tip some balance somewhere. 

It was done during the Trump administration; and Linda's once angelic speaking voice (and you should have heard her sing!) was a bit cracked and strained; already ravaged by whatever disease she has.

But, at one point she started talking about the horrors that that particular president had inflicted upon immigrants who arrived at the southern U.S. border; in the form of separating parents from children. Linda mentioned how cruel this was and how horrified she would be if separated from even her niece.

Then it occurred to me that I had never gotten that information, or "narrative," if you will. Not at all. 

I had just never heard that, sitting here in Louisiana getting stuff off a Google server in Texas. I had never been fed that by the algorithm. 

Every source that I would scroll through had clips of Trump explaining that, in the cases of these separations, these "parents" had been determined to be human smugglers and not mommy and daddy at all. When the adults and children are told that they are going to be separated, and given a chance to say goodbye; it's probably pretty easy to tell; like when King Solomon, or one of those guy's, was poised to divide a baby in half in order to settle a custody dispute between two women who each claimed to be the mother.

I think professionals are good at determining which are the actual families; by the tears and the hugs; and which are the endangered kids in the hands of cartel members, by the fears and the thugs.

And so, I was never given any different narrative; and had to learn from Linda Ronstadt that there was even anyone out there who believed any differently. That kind of explains why I've heard that internet connectivity is so spotty and slow in certain places; there is probably a lot of data being throttled and a lot of filters that stuff has to go through. This blog needs to be filtered out, for example, which requires that many more nanoseconds of processor time, down at Google Central..

Elon can't act soon enough. There is a faction at work trying to divide the U.S. into two warring tribes. We "Musk" do something (groan, I know). OK, end of soapbox speech.

Back To The Tooth...

So I did all of the do-it-myself home toothache remedies that I told the dental people about, with the meditation being done under the guidance of a young Asian lady on my laptop's screen, sitting in the lotus position, with amazing breasts.

The infection does seem to be receding; but I do still have the appointment in another 15 hours, and I think it wouldn't be honorable to blow it off after I felt that the hearts of the staff at Exceptional Dental melted a bit and they warmed toward me, as I spilled my guts about being a street musician "I think, if God wants me to have the tooth pulled, I'll get a hundred dollar tip tonight; but that being said, I might have just jinxed it; and I can't count on having the 27 bucks for the checkup, even; and, to tell you the truth, if I just made 27 bucks, I would get some cat food, and..."

There was a black lady, who was wearing a mask, but looking very "African" in her manner of dress. It was by her direction that "spiritual health" had been added to the words on the front window of the place, to go with x-rays, root canals and other more temporal areas of "health." I am guessing that, based upon her vibe (Her eyes had lightened up after I told her that I had been doing the Wim Hof breathing exercises) and the colors that she was wearing in a kind of wrap around garment that was earth tones, mixed with the kind of colors that appear on inner city murals that are promoting peace and harmony, type of thing.

There was a slightly older lady sitting down behind a computer, who had initially asked me; as if by reflex; if I wanted an appointment. The black lady seemed to be the one absorbing my whole story, except for the part about the breasts of the meditation guide lady; while the one behind the computer looked at her fingernails.

But, I could really sense that they were trying to bend over backwards a bit to come up with a way that I could basically have a tooth pulled, using only a Healthy Blue medicaid card to affect the action. "I haven't asked my mom for money in...." I was in the middle of saying, when the black lady turned and yelled to an unseen person in the back, inquiring about a Doctor Foster. After getting some kind of reply, she asked me if I could come in at 2 o' clock (14 hours from now) and that I would be able to be seen by this Doctor Foster, whom I was told had some sort of link to the medicaid system and would be able to look at the tooth, tell that it was infected, x-ray it, and then pull it out, all at no cost to me.

I was telling some of this to Patrick, whom I dropped in on, on the way back and subsequently found to be quite the expert on the very subject:

"I was born with rotten baby teeth; I had an abscess every two weeks; they used to give me tea bags to place against them and draw the poisons out; tea bags will do that..."

"Just black tea?"

"No, it's a blend..."

He then told me that what was really going on was that the dental place technically has to honor medicaid and treat you; but they will try their darnedest to get as much cash out of you as possible; with I guess the $29 special for exam and x-rays being the introductory offer.

The reason, Patrick said, was that the dental place will have to wait something like a year or more in order to get paid by medicaid; it's backed up, it's slow; it's no surprise, I thought. How can I doubt someone who was born with rotten teeth?

So, this particular Doctor Foster sounds to me like kind of a speculator; willing to sow seeds that he will reap later on. If he can charge medicaid say, 3 times as much as the $29 special that I was offered, then 3 birds in the bush are still worth more than one in the hand. Even with Biden's projected 5% rise in inflation, or whatever "they" are saying, over the next year; a 300% return on investment in one year (or maybe a little more) is better than a sharp stick in the eye.

And, so I admire Doctor Foster for that display of fiscal acumen. Which is why I was amused by how it came full circle with the Ideal Market cashier smiling in approval after I had told her I didn't want to pay out of my cash for the Monster drink; "because I need the money for tomorrow."

This Bites (Updated)

Waiting For The Pants To Dry

I was up around 1p.m. and ready to go introduce myself to the dental clinic that had been assigned to me through the "Healthy Blue" plan which is part of, I assume, the medicaid program.

First, I had to wash a pair of jeans in the bathtub, using dish washing liquid, then throw them in the oven, before setting it to about 210 degrees.

Saturday, I had started to get a toothache, and it felt like it was going to turn into one of those abscessed situations where the whole side of my face would swell up. There was a throbbing pain below the gum line, and I could sense that my whole immune system was kicking into gear.

In the past, I had waited until the pain was unbearable, before going to any emergency room. They had always drained it, then given me antibiotics and told me I should set an appointment to have the tooth pulled, because it would only be a matter of time before it became infected again.

Exceptional Dental looks good, "Except" for one dentist looking frighteningly like Brian Stetzer from CNN

Sometimes it was a couple years before that happened. A couple years of me procrastinating upon setting the appointment. Sometimes, it wouldn't even be the same tooth that started aching two years later...

This time, my tooth was hurting so much Saturday that I got some BC Powder and spent a good hour doing the Wim Hof breathing exercises, and then in the evening, I got the idea to soak some face cloths in very hot water and press them against my face where the pain was. I figured that I would be doing the same thing that the body does when creating a fever; putting the invading bacteria at a disadvantage, while helping the body's own defenses.

Now that I think of it, I haven't had any tooth problems since the last time I was donating plasma regularly.

Wim Hof might say that my body is capable of completely killing of the infection; probably in just 15 minutes; but, since I'm not to the point where I am submerging myself in frigid water, through a hole cut out of an ice covered lake for 3 minutes after having expelled all the air in my lungs every morning, like Wim does, I'm going to go to the clinic to see if I can at least get some antibiotics, if not an appointment to have the tooth pulled.

"Let the body do what the body is capable of doing..."

I'm to the point where I should probably have them all pulled out and then get some kind of dentures. The only thing that has been keeping me from doing that was worrying about how it might effect my singing and even my harmonica playing, as I might have developed my harp technique around the way my teeth are now.

It's now about time to go up to Exceptional Dentistry. The jeans are dry enough.

One of the other residents here, after I told him I was thinking of going to the emergency room, told me that they were not even going to see me, not even take my blood pressure, and that the emergency room is only for gunshot wounds now; and that even health insurance doesn't cover "dental" now.

What was weird was how he had yelled all that at me, without any regret in his tone. He didn't seem sorry to have to give me the news, but rather seemed to be reveling in the opportunity to heap abuse upon someone else.

"Go, ahead, go to the emergency room; you'll see! They probably won't even let you in; their not going to do a thing for you! I had to pay $1,500 to have a tooth pulled! Insurance doesn't cover it anymore! Go ahead, I invite you to go down there!"

That did have the effect of making me decide not to go there, even though it's always better to hear things from the horse's mouth. 

They way they treat that guy might have more to do with him individually. 

He was left a bunch of money by a relative, but it is under the control of his caseworker, who only gives him a little bit of it each week. Maybe someone unscrupulous saw the chance to get $1,500 out of him for a tooth extraction, taking advantage of the pain that he was in, combined with his feeble mental state.

Back From The Place

The Exceptional Dental place told me right off the bat that they no longer deal with the "Healthy Blue" plan that I am apparently still signed up with, and they gave me the number and location of another Exceptional place, about 3 miles from my apartment, that does.

I then went to Rouses Market just for some alkaline water and some juice, plus a Celsius "Heat" energy drink, the thought of which was about the only thing that elevated my mood.

One of the good things about the tooth ache has been that I have withdrawn from all "intoxicants" except for caffeine. 300 mg. per can of Celsius, on that head.

But, 3 days of what has mostly been juice fasting, and deep breathing exercises, has already got me thinking of doing a massive cleaning and de-cluttering of the apartment. 

The heightened sense of smell that comes on about the 3rd day of juice alone has made me aware of a slightly foul odor coming from my refrigerator, probably from stuff that has spilled or leaked in it, which the cold temperature has retarded the spoilage of, but only to a point...

The fevered state that I slept in, was giving me crazy dreams, and reviving old memories, none of them good. That was the reason I had to wash some clothes to wear to the dentist, because I had woken up sweating and shivering off and on, in the clothes I had slept in.

"The infection can get into the brain," the lady at the dental place had said.

She had tried to see if there was anything they could do for me, but me showing up at 3:30 p.m. when they close at 5, kind of precluded that. Waiting for my jeans to dry in the oven was what killed me.

Plus, all of the home remedies that I have been applying made it so I wasn't in excruciating pain upon arrival.

I think if the whole side of my face was swollen and I was in misery, one of their staff might have stayed an extra half hour, in order to maybe drain the abscess and/or write me a prescription for antibiotics; in kind of a Good Samaritan spirit.

I certainly wasn't getting the same "f*** off and die!" vibe that David Greenwell (as that is the name of the other resident) was trying to portray.

But again, that is probably based more upon the way the world treats him, and not necessarily me. For: "Our attitude towards life determines life's attitude towards us," a mentor of mine once said..

Starting The Day In The Afternoon

I had slept like a log and had woken up at the regular time; but was still fatigued.

It made me wonder if something had gone on at plasma place the day before when they stopped my donation about a third of the way through.

Of course, the blame was directed towards me. 

At the point when the machine paused, and perhaps gave some indication of something being out of balance, I had jut taken my glasses off and rubbed my eyes. 

This was mostly because, in my effort to ride my bike to the place against what was probably a 30 mile per hour wind, which was inexplicably right in my face all along the 2 miles when I was heading due east, but which then seemed to shift direction to be right in my face again after I had made the almost 90 degree turn to be headed southward, I had broken just enough of a sweat so that whatever dust and carbon monoxide from car exhaust that had stuck to the sweat on my forehead ran down into my eyes, which produced an irritation, if not quite a stinging.

After I wiped my eyes, I was immediately asked by one of the attending nurses if I was feeling alright.

I explained the sweat in the eyes and then added that I didn't really want to see the Boys To Men video which was what was on the TV at the time. The TV's there are always tuned to "Black" entertainment channels, and after mentioning on this blog that I really had no idea who Will Smith was, the time he infamously slapped Chris Rock during the Oscar ceremony, I had since been well familiarized with his work, as the BET channel that plays at that particular Octapharma location is apparently running a Will Smith movie marathon.

But, after I mentioned that I had taken my glasses off to rub my eyes because of the sweat, and added that I had seen the Boys To Men video "a million times" since it came out in 1994, or so, this only seemed to make matters worse.

The nurses stopped my machine, and started to take direction from the head nurse about what to write on the paperwork, with the words "patient reaction" being bandied about.

"Do you still feel bad?" asked one of them, who ignored me as I tried to say that I had never felt bad, and in fact I felt better than at other times.

They started to put ice bags on my chest and behind my neck, which I think was all for the benefit of the cameras in the place.

The head nurse told me that they were going to have to have "a talk" with me after they unplugged me, and before I left. I heard one of them say to another "He does this every time..." which I could only take to mean that what I did "every time" so far has been to have to race there on my bike, arriving just minutes before they closed, and to in effect make them stay there until around a half hour after closing time. Still, I have never been the last person to leave because my plasma flows faster than some of the other people who might have gotten there earlier than me, but who were still hooked up to machines by the time I was done.

The other thing might be that, at some point during the donation, I close my eyes, but this is done out of putting myself in a meditative state, and I continue to pump the fist of the arm that the needle is stuck in, to show that I haven't fallen asleep (or died, which is probably their chief concern).

The are trained to react to certain signs, like a patient closing his eyes, and to automatically count them as strikes against the person. Someone who has his eyes closed, but who is still squeezing the foam rubber ball that they give you, is probably not asleep, but it is the cancel culture mentality that affords them a "gottcha" moment. Despite the fact that a rational person could see that you haven't fallen asleep; your eyes closed (and you are a white man; one of only 2 out of 24 patients there) and so; they can unplug you and send you off without paying you; and maybe that will teach you to not show up at the last minute and make them have to work right up to the end of their shift.

So, I left there, and saw that there was still just 22 cents on my plasma card, and that, had I not had 2 bucks in my pocket for the bus ride back home, I would have put myself in a messed up situation.

I texted a message to Octapharma, through their "contact us" section on the app, where people could post questions. Something to the effect of "The Gretna, Louisiana location just took 250 ml of my plasma, then unplugged me after THEY insisted that I wasn't feeling well, and I wasn't compensated at all for it. Is this legal?"

The last interrogative was in order to make a question out of it, since it was a "do you have any questions?" form.

15 minutes later, I checked, and there was 45 dollars (and the 22 cents) on the card.

They never actually pulled me into some office to have that little talk with me, but were rather asking me a battery of questions, like "Did you eat?"

To that, I answered that I had actually been stuffing my face with all kinds of foods, and I was even up 4 pounds when I had weighed in before that donation. Taking the tack that I had answered entirely differently, the nurse had countered with "Yeah, that's it..." as if the fact that I had eaten a bunch of high protein foods (a whole pound of almond butter with fresh broccoli crowns) as instructed in their literature, had been the wrong thing to do.

They asked me if I had walked there, as walking a great distance through the heat can dehydrate a person and make it harder to extract plasma from them. "I rode my bike, 3 miles against a strong breeze; feeling pretty strong, as a matter of fact..."

"Yeah, that's it...you must be dehydrated..."

Then there was something made of the fact that I had taken my glasses off because I hadn't been interested in the Boyz To Men video, "when Boyz To Men wasn't even on," said one of them; perhaps trying to posit that I had become delirious. It had actually been the particular song that has the lyrics: "Boyz To Men, are back again; doing that little east coast swing..." one that mentions their own band name so many times that I remember thinking, back in 1993, that it must be a jingle for a commercial for Boyz To Men.

That was back in the era when artists were under the impression that "name recognition" was paramount in MTV videos. That was when you would see Jody Watley dancing and lip syncing her song in front of a huge billboard sized lettered display of "Jody Watley" behind her; or when Janet Jackson had the name "Janet" flashing here and there a couple dozen times during her songs.

That whole thing may have started in the 1960's when a band, whose name you might not have previously known, hit the airwaves singing: "Hey, hey, we're the Monkeys! and went on to tell you that they were "just too busy singing; for putting anybody down," and once again, don't forget: "We're the Monkeys!"

So, the self referential song that began with "Boyz To Men, are back again; doing that little east coast swing," I saw as just another version of the "We are Devo" approach to self promotion; and so I was familiar with it. Even though "...and Boyz To Men wasn't even on..." according to the one nurse, who was probably 3 years old when "that little east coast swing" was sweeping the nation.

So, "yeah...that's it;" unplug him, and send him away with no money.

I'll probably never know if it was my "question," sent to Octapharma that caused them to put the 45 bucks on my card, an hour after the fact. Maybe my mentioning the 250 ml, along with the word "legal?" tipped them off at corporate that I might be smarter than the average "patient" that goes to the Berman Highway location, and the might have concluded (quite correctly, actually) that if they just gave me the 45 bucks, I would shut up and go away. Then the nurses wouldn't have to call into evidence the video of them placing ice bags on my chest and behind my neck, all while asking me if I felt "better yet?" while any lip reader watching the footage would see me saying things like: "I never said I didn't feel well; I've been eating well, and drinking plenty of fluids and in fact felt pretty strong when I was pedaling against a stiff wind..."

I suppose I learned a bit about my own mind and the continued importance of my pursuing a more spiritual existence. I was having fantasy's of opening the door of the place and lobbing live hand grenades in the place, yelling: "He does this every time!"

Or, at the very least, going there and announcing loudly: "Plasmaphersis has been outlawed almost everywhere else in the world, due to 'health concerns' and has been linked to kidney damage!! They prey upon to low income people in order to manufacture expensive drugs for the rich!"

All those thoughts were banished at the sight of the $45.22 on my card.

I had been sucking it up and telling myself that this was the universe trying to tell me to go back to busking as my sole source of income, and that I would probably go out that night and make 90 bucks, as I saw Octapharma shrinking in my rear view mirror.

I got Harold some food and then wound up getting a 10 dollar sack of what turned out to be excellent weed, and which will last me 4 or 5 days.

This will keep me from drinking over those 4 or 5 days, saving me double the amount I spent on it.

I'm starting to think that the best approach an addict can take is to choose his substances wisely. So many addicts I talk to have similar stories about how they used to be a hopeless heroin junkie, or would spend their entire monthly check on a 4 day sleepless crack binge, or would be up for a whole week at a time on crystal meth, with the concurrent weight loss, psychological episodes, legal troubles, broken relationships, etc. "But now I just smoke me a little weed, play my guitar, watch a little TV and I'm eating a really healthy diet..."

If you are going to assume that the addict is going to find something to be addicted to, and that some things are healthier than others, then it stands to reason that, rather than fooling himself into thinking that he is just going to give it all up, no nothing, and then failing that in the worst way: "I was on the trolley and this guy go on and sat next to me and he had some heroin; and I know I shouldn't have, I know that now, and I had been doing so good; I went 3 days without even a drop of alcohol; I even switched to light cigarettes...but it was a moment of weakness, and..." type of thing.

Blog Post Fueled By Squid

I have a beautiful stack of vinyl records.

About a year ago, I came across a stack of boxed up Beethoven music that had been culled together by some heritage minded society and probably marketed through late night TV ads. Perhaps one box per month was sent to someone with the symphonies arriving one month and then the lieder and dance stuff the next; just $29.99 a month, cancel any time...

There were actually about 20 boxes, stacked next to a trash can but not in it, in case anyone wanted them. I had only taken about half of them, actually thinking at the time that it would have been selfish of me to grab all of them. I could have carried them all the 300 feet back to my apartment, so that wasn't the issue. I think I thought I was giving someone else dibs on some of the Great Music, envisioning some kid growing up on the classics and becoming a better person, because of me. I should have just carried all 20 back to my place, even if I had to put them down to rest half way...

The vinyl is of poor quality; with some of them having skipps in them, right out of the box. All of them are warped to some degree, signifying that the boxes were probably subjected to heat at some point. This surprises me, because they are Deutsche Grammophon "brand," which I had been led to believe were the finest records available. Perhaps they are another line of lesser vinyls that the "Gesellschaft" designation, which is appended to the name, might indicate. Maybe that's how they were able to partnership with whomever boxed them up and sold them so cheaply through the Home Shopping Network, or whatever.

But the quality of the music is irrefutable. Beethoven was pretty amazing, though not perfect. I think the Grateful Dead finally came along and outdid him, with some of their jams...

But the stack of records is something that I value and I keep looking forward to just spending days playing all 75 or so records that I have, which now includes boxes of Tchaikovsky (on much higher Time/Life Records quality vinyl) Luigi Boccherini, Brahms, and a few loose discs of other composers. That is one of the things that Youtube keeps stealing time away from doing. 

But, when typing these posts, I am able to listen to them without too much distraction, and multi-task in that way...

The big concern now is the amplifier that I have conceded to be almost a necessity for busking.

When Jacob and I were tripping on acid and busking last Friday and the batteries died in the amp, I continued to play while he put a fresh set in it and it was a night and day type of drop off in volume, as the noise of the environment made it so I instantly felt like going from performing for everyone within 100 feet to everyone within 10 feet, and I felt like there was a uselessness to that.

After we got back to my place, we tried to record some music in my room using the same setup, but there was a loud hum coming from the amp, which might have been from me knocking my guitar against the jack where the mic plugs into the amp. I had rolled up the cable to shorten it, so it would be more manageable when in my backpack, but I made it too short, so that I was yanking on it at various times when I leaned too far in the direction away from the amp.

So I didn't even go out Saturday night and potentially make another 100 bucks, or potentially not, because of being unplugged. Amps might just be a fact of life for the acoustic guitarist/singer on the street these days...

That has to be my number one concern as I prepare to go and get another hundred bucks for my plasma tomorrow.

And with that, I shut it down, and go to see if Jacob sent me any of the audio files of the recordings of us playing on Friday night.

...and vegetables...

The acid turned out to be incredibly medicinal in restoring my frame of mind to what it was when I was in my 20's and music meant the world to me. One tab of acid cleared away all the cobwebs of cynicism and negativity which had insidiously accumulated over, especially the past 5 years or so. One might think is an inevitable attribute that comes with aging. "The curmudgeonly old man" has become a trope in our society, for a good reason*, and though I thought I had fared better than a lot of my contemporaries on that head, age had still taken a toll on me. 

Especially damaging was seeing people whom I once aspired to be like, die and become forgotten 10 minutes later in this ADD world.

It's important to focus upon the music and not care about any of the accolades or the "success" or fame or trying to be "somebody." The music speaks for itself and, maybe you will be forgotten 10 minutes after you die, but that moment that you are in the music is the actual moment that matters and what will live on, outside of the constraints of "time."

Time to flip a record over and put the needle back on.....

*Just read some of Alex Carter's blog: "The Pie Is A Lie"on Blogger.com and see how, at the age of sixty, he is full of hatred at the homeless, the Christians, the Republicans, the white race, etc. He seems to get all his "news" from NPR and can't seem to see through their agenda, but he may also have fallen prey to the ravages of age; plus a toxic diet of Ramen noodles probably contributes to his state of mind. 

He is a classic bigot, lumping society into groups that, in his mind, all think and act the same way. The fact that there is probably a whole group of Alex Carter's that all think and act in the same way is an irony that is not lost upon me as I label him a bigot...

One Post Per Week Now?

 $99.73 Friday

"I love your city!"

Here it is Sunday, and I have 20 minutes to do this before I will get on my bike and head for the plasma place.

I had been on my way there Friday but changed my mind after riding most of the way to the bus stop that is about a mile and a half from the apartment.

I would have had to get on the 3:25 p.m. bus and then gotten off of it in Gretna then raced (against a stiff breeze) to the plasma place, arriving there sweating and with an elevated heart rate/blood pressure. The last time I took that bus I got to Octapharma at 3:51, just 9 minutes before they close; and had actually propped the door open by shoving my hat in the door while I locked my bike, so they might think twice about closing a few minutes early -the hat was meant to say "Don't lock the door just yet, there's one more donor, who raced all the way from Canal Street to get here!"

I was also thinking about the energy depletion that would result from my donation and how that would put the Friday night busking in jeopardy.

As it turns out, had I gone there to get a hundred bucks for my plasma, and then decided I was too fatigued to busk, I would have missed out on just about exactly a hundred bucks in the tip jar.

I decided to just ride through the Quarter instead of making the mad dash for Octapharma. That was a very eye opening ride. The place was swarming with people in town for the "Final 4" of the "March Madness" which is the NCAA Basketball Tournament.

I figured out which 4 teams were in it by observing that the tourists were adorned in basically 4 different team colors; with Kansas people and Duke people both wearing different shades of blue and Villanova people looking more wealthy and tending to be in more expensive looking team colors.

The University of North Carolina people were mostly black, and so that goes...

I was surprised to be getting smiles and head nods and other forms of greetings from random people; and can only conclude that they somehow gleaned that I was from here, due to my appearance, and were trying to communicate: "I like your city!"

"Just like that!"

Just Like That

I was very nearly in a self loathing frame of mind because I had spent the whole week, since Jacob and I had busked the previous weekend, wasting my time with drinking and drugs and bingeing on Youtube.

Putting the best positive spin on that, I convinced myself that I had learned a valuable lesson about the dangers of watching the videos that Youtube serves up to me in the form of suggestions, or just automatically plays, if I should be away from the laptop when the previous one ends.

I had finally figured out that I need to massage the Youtube algorithm by manually typing things like "Samantha Fish" into the search box, first thing in the morning, or "John Anderson." 

Otherwise, the machine would take on a life of it's own and, after, say, a video of Will Smith slapping Chris Rock (for the 88th time) played, I would be sitting on the toilet when the sound of Donald Trump's voice would start booming from the living room, and I might have to get up, mid poop, and run over to reduce the volume, in case someone walked past my room and heard the cheers and the: "We were energy independent for the first time in, oh I don't know, years and years!" coming from my room, which might have led to me being (further) ostracized by my fellow residents.

But, I was on the verge of self loathing over what I had failed to do, over the course of the week; things such as learning a brand new song to debut out there at the Lilly Pad. That is something that can elevate my spirits as I proudly trot the new tune out; perhaps doing it 5 times in a row to seal it in my memory and work the little bugs out.

But instead, I enacted The Law of Attraction and put myself in a happy and grateful state of mind, figuring that I, at least, would be no worse than the weekend before, if not noticeably better in any way. I would find some angle to take to inject enthusiasm into the evening's proceedings; and I wouldn't be feeling drained of my platelets, on the bright side...

Then, I checked my phone and "just like that," Jacob had texted to say that "just like that" he had come into some tabs of acid and was looking forward to us tripping and basking that night.

I began to look forward to us tripping and busking that night, with my only concern being what the quality of music from us would be, after our instruments had turning into huge cats that we were sitting there petting instead of guitars, and the purring of the cats turning into music like we had never heard before, type of thing...

Already, the 20 minutes I had to do this has turned into almost an hour, so I will have to continue this later, so I don't put myself in a situation where I am pedaling my bike against the wind and hoping that Octapharma doesn't decide to close 10 minutes early on this sunny Sunday.