I Should Know By Now

Last night would have been a good night to go out and busk. I had woken up around 4 p.m. -a full 5 hours before I would have to be ready to go out.

So far, it's chicken 1; turkey 0

The harmonica issue has been on my mind, having had one of my front teeth cracked after biting into a cherry pit (like the dried ones "may contain") so that there is a sharp edge to what is now a David Letterman type gap between my two front teeth (maybe I'll get another pair for Christmas...).

My last time out, I almost bloodied my inner lip from playing draw notes on the thing, which was drawing some of the flesh of my inner lip through the gap, with a force commensurate with the passion with which I was expressing those particular notes. They require "bending," which is achieved through further mouth gymnastics which seemed to put additional friction friction on the sharp part of the tooth. I'm hoping that the tooth will wear smooth, maybe if I start gargling sand...

I'm procrastinating upon having all my remaining teeth pulled, to be replaced by a full set of dentures. I may have to relearn the harmonica after that, but at least I won't be mangling my inner lip on the sharp edge of a broken tooth.

I imagine I will lament the fact that my brand new dentures might look unnaturally white against the backdrop of my otherwise dingy appearance. "There's no way those are his real teeth," people might quip. 

But looking half my age, as I might, when following my optimal diet, is already belied by the condition of those teeth. All that fluoridated water over the course of my lifetime, and for what? When I was living in the woods and would tote "spring" water out to my campsite, I would going something like 5 years between toothaches, and even those could be cured through acupressure, deep breathing exercises and eliminating red meat from my diet for a while.

So, last night, as I was still shaking off the cobwebs after waking at around 4 p.m., Jr knocked on my door, offering me a share of a joint and "plenty of alcohol," if I wanted to go to his place to jam. I guess I figured I could do that and still make it out to busk by the usual 9:40 p.m. or so.

But, I wasn't taking into account the insecurity and paranoia that smoking weed can instill in certain people who smoke it, myself included. There have been times when, after getting baked, I would feel like I was in a fuzzy cocoon, as I looked out the window of my apartment into the dark night, which seemed to stretch to infinity, with the Lilly Pad being away in a distant galaxy; with the path to it being fraught with all kinds of hidden dangers and obstacles. And, I would decide to not go off into the Great Unknown of the murder capitol of the nation - just one skinny guy with a guitar, harmonica, and milk crate, against the world.

Many nights there is hardly any traffic on Canal Street, while at the same time, the Lilly Pad is teeming with tourists; so there is often that leap of faith required to ride the 2 miles, hardly passing by a soul, ostensibly to go out and play for "all the people" at my spot. Though, often I round the corner onto Bourbon and remark to myself: "So, here is where all the action is..." when I see 75 people, after such a solitary journey.

Jr. has been getting on my nerves, as I have started to notice a certain narcissism in him, which was further illustrated last night when, about a half pint of vodka into the proceedings, I went to move my guitar and wound up knocking my little Yamaha amp off a little table it had been on. My cord snagged on the neck of the guitar which yanked on the amp, causing it to fall a couple feet and thump the floor.

Jr. had been at his stove, cooking what would later give me an allergic reaction. Upon hearing the thump, he immediately ran over while saying: "I hope that wasn't my s**t that just fell!" in a threatening tone of voice.

Seeing his own guitar still leaning on the couch and his own amp still on another little table, and realizing that it had been my amplifier that fell, he relaxed and said: "OK," shrugging it off and going back to his stove.

Nothing like: "Man, what happened? Is your amp OK? It didn't break, did it?" such as someone with the empathy to intuit that my own little amp might be just as valuable to me as his is to him might say. 

I could picture it being his guitar that I (accidentally) knocked over, and the neck breaking on it; and him launching into a tirade, the upshot of which being: "You're gonna pay for my guitar! I don't care if you have to trade all your food stamps next month for cash; or if you have to sell everything you own; you're gonna pay for my guitar!!"

And this from a guy who calls me a half dozen times a night sometimes; on the landline; on my cellphone; and then, this all failing, will come knocking on my door as loudly as if it were the police. 

Then it's always the same situation: he is drunk and stoned and wants to play his guitar really loud, which he enjoys more when he has a "rhythm guitarist" to play along with. That's where I come in, stone cold sober and not in the mood for "revelry," most times. He will typically blather out drunkenly: "Come on, let's jam! I'm ready to go!" He's ready to go; I'm not. Which one matters to a narcissist?

So, today I woke up around noon and had to remind myself to take full responsibility for having hung out there and drank and for having accepted, on the way out, a Tupperware full of the beef stew that he had been cooking when my amp fell.

My sleep was broken because of my lower legs itching and hive-like bumps having risen, just below my knees. I had to think for a few seconds on the subject of: "what the hell did I eat?" 

And then, I remembered. 

Jr. is constantly trying to push food on me; in the traditional way of a lot of Italians whom I have known over the years have done when I've visited them. They have seemed almost insulted by my turning down their food; as if they felt they were offering me their love; and I was turning it down. 

They seem to be particularly incredulous about the existence of food allergies, too.

"It's all in my head; all you hives on my legs! And you shins better stop itching, because there's no such thing as food allergies!!"

Not only that, even when I was able to sleep, my mind was full of static and senseless dreams were mingling with the Youtube videos that were auto-playing on the laptop that I fell asleep while watching.

I decided that I'm in a predicament like a traveler who makes a wrong turn. Sometimes the best option is to double back, spending some time just to get back to where you were when you erred.
I would work my way back to health by first doing the Wim Hof deep breathing exercises; then would get on my bike and go get some orange juice, along with some instant coffee and some alkaline water (so I won't have to drink the tap water, which may be even worse for me than Jr's cooking).

The deep breathing exercises already done, and my morning bowel movement providing evidence that my body couldn't rid itself of Jr's stew fast enough, I was able to refocus upon the things I was grateful for and eventually felt my spirits lift. It was in this state that I decided I would spring for another can of food for Harold, who has been stuck eating the dry stuff the past couple days.

Getting to the lobby, on this errand, I ran into a lady who lives in building C and has cats; who immediately asked me if my cat had food. "I'm actually on my way now to get him a can..."

She told me she would give me some food for Harold. "I know, being a magician (sic), you don't make a whole lot of money," she said, as we walked to her apartment, which reeked of cat urine, where there was a stack of about 8 cases of Fancy Feast and Friskies brands of food, leaning against a wall in her kitchen. She told me to grab a couple of them "I just want to make sure you have enough to last the month," she said.

And so, after depositing the 48 cans of food next to Harold's dish, I set out again for The Brown Derby, where I bought a bottle of orange juice, a 2 quart bottle of alkaline water, and a small jar of instant coffee, which was $4.99.

I realized, too late, that I could have skipped the coffee, as I wasn't planning upon drinking any before going to the plasma place, where I would get 80 bucks, before stopping at the Walmart, where I could find a better deal than $4.99 for 3.5 ounces of the precious bean.

But, I should know by now to automatically double the plastic bags that any stores give me to carry my purchases in. I hit a bump in the road soon after leaving The Brown Derby, and the single plastic bag tied to my handlebars couldn't withstand the jolt, and I was soon holding up traffic as I stooped to gather up the water, which had luckily not burst open, and then as much of the instant coffee, which hadn't fared as well as the water, by tilting what was left of the shattered jar, so as to retain as much of what wasn't laying in the road, as possible. 

Now I can only drink each cup down to within an inch or so of its bottom, so I don't swallow any slivers of glass. I'm pretty sure glass doesn't float, so the uppermost coffee should be safe. I suppose I would run it through a paper coffee filter, as if it were the ground kind, if I were overly concerned about vomiting up blood; but that's extra work. I should know by now to heed my intuitions; the coffee could have waited. But, as I'm out of kratom right now, I guess I wanted at least some kind of stimulant in the house... 

Then, when the 4:10 p.m. street car passed on by, about 10 seconds before I got to the stop, my plans to get the 80 bucks from the plasma place went on down the tracks with it. Better to wait until tomorrow, than to catch the next car and wind up being one traffic jam away from having wasted the bus fare each way, plus an hour and a half of my time. I wouldn't even be able to utilize that time reading "The Human Stain," by Philip Roth, because I would be too distracted watching the clock, with my stomach tied up in knots, sweating over every minute that passed, as the 6 p.m. closing time of the plasma place approached.

I'll miss having kratom for tonight. 

Tonight is a chance for redemption when, instead of accusing Jr of being possessed by an evil spirit that is hell-bent upon sabotaging my busking career, I will have a chance to just say no. 

Like I could have said last night, to everything, and especially the "beef stew," which I suspect was more like soybean and hydrogenated soy oil stew. At least that's what the flare up of eczema seemed to by trying to say. It figures that Jr would buy the cheapest and least healthy foods possible; the better to save money for the necessities of vodka and weed.

What remains is for me to play a bit of harmonica to see if that broken tooth is still going to be a problem. The other night, it was kind of in the neck brace crooked, and I didn't stop to bend it back into shape, so that may have been the problem, and not so much the sharp edge of the tooth.

I just played along with the classic rock station for a couple minutes, and the lip felt OK, but I was having some trouble bending the very high notes on the 9th and 10th holes. Bending those notes requires something like learning a language comprised of sounds not heard in English. To bend the middle notes downwards, for example, you make kind of a "thchew" sound while blowing into the thing, but when drawing on the highest holes, you have to shape your lips into an unpronounceable syllable, which I found through trial and error. This might be much more difficult when you have a gap between your front teeth...

I was just signed up with something called Ambetter health insurance. From a guy who walked up to me on a corner, and first asked: "Do you have Medicaide?" and then, after I said I did, went on to sell me on whatever this "insurance" is [that promises to send me $100 in cash each month that I don't make a claim, or whatever he was selling...]. I wonder if the dentist that I am "entitled" to see can apply some kind of non toxic substance to fill the gap between the teeth, in lieu of a costly procedure -something like Liquid Wood, for teeth...

But, Is Ambetter A Trap?

The packet that came in the mail from this new insurance company informed me that I still need to take a couple more steps in order to be enrolled -probably so they can legally steal me away from the Medicaid people- but there is also fine print about a "digital ID" that is required as part of the membership.

This is not a road I'm willing to go down since the Big Pharma companies are among those obviously running the world right now, more so than any "governments" are. And they just made a ton of money over the past couple years, which might make them that much more powerful; and any "digital ID" that I'm required to get will potentially reflect the fact that I refused to be treated with a certain product, that I might otherwise have been mandated to submit to, had I not been blessed with not needing to fly anywhere, nor visit any particular bars or restaurants, nor work in any number of industries. Digital ID's could easily morph into tools of authoritarians who might want to put a block on the bank account of someone who doesn't parrot a certain narrative.

Thankfully, I wasn't duped like, say, Alex Carter in California (author of "The Pie's A Lie" blog) who rolled up the sleeve on one arm, while saluting the Pfizer corporate flag with the other, as Reichs-Rundfunk-Gesellschaft (NPR) played through his ear buds.