Fraternizing With The Enemy In The Great Kumquat Dispute

I was up in time to hear the morning dove coo (7 a.m.) and started to deliberate with myself over what I was going to do on this Wednesday, in order to check the most boxes off my "to do" list.

I thought about packing up my busking stuff, then riding to the unemployment office, which turns out to be about 3 miles away at their new location; from there, I could go to the Lilly Pad and start playing around 3 in the afternoon, when I would at least be in the shadow of Lilly's house..

My energy level was only at about 4 out of a possible 10, and I couldn't remember much from Tuesday night. I remembered going into The Quartermaster after I finished busking at probably around 8 p.m. They didn't kick me out. I think their entire staff has been turned over since the time about 3 years ago when I was barred from doing business there, based upon one guy having gotten angry at me for taking one of their milk crates to sit on when I play. That turned into an ugly incident as the guy tried to physically push me out the door of the place after I challenged any power he may have had to bar me, or anyone else, from the place. He was only a bicycle deliveryman, after all. 

In an act of defiance, I walked in the place, thinking that the higher-ups, whom I thought I was on good terms with, would over-ride bicycle boy.

My challenge was answered in less than a heartbeat, and the pushing started. I started to take my guitar and backpack off with visions in my head of punching him in his; but because Jacob was with me, who doesn't like violence, and I thought that physically pushing someone, whether they were barred or not, was a crime; I actually called the police, who showed up in one of the little vehicles that are like golf carts with blue lights atop them.

Jacob and I waited outside while the officers went in to get the guy's version of the story; then came out and basically tried to get me to just let the whole incident go. One of them pointed out that he couldn't see any bruises or blood on me, type of thing. I told them that after he pushed me I was pissed off enough to have come within inches of applying some bruises and blood to him "but thought I was doing the right thing in refraining from violence and calling you guys, instead."

"Can't you just let it go, I mean...?" was their attitude. And so I did.

Three years later and the whole store has had a make-over. There is no longer a large mural of the owner above the window that looks out onto Bourbon Street, depicting him in "full drag," and advertising some kind of queer show that he was a part of. It was a drag to have to see that whenever I went there. He might have sold the place. The only guy who still works there from that era is Larry, another bike carrier who is from Boston, and with whom I used to have friendly discussions about the Red Sox or the Celtics or the Patriots. He turned on me after the milk crate incident, and would pass by the Lilly Pad on his bike without acknowledging me after that.

But I had managed to go in there without raising any eyebrows, except my own after I saw the $3.49 price for a Guiness Stout Draft in a 16 ounce can) and buy one of them, then leave of my own volition; with no help getting me out the door. In fact I got one of the items on my wish list from one of the cooks who had stepped out for a cigarette, after I asked him for a light. He told me I could keep the thing, then produced an identical one from one of his pockets. He buys them by the case, he said...

This (Wednesday) morning, I decided to try to deal with the unemployment people online, rather than ride the 3 miles to the office, and got as far as registering on their website.

Then I set out to return the phone that I found to "Eddie," whose number I had fished out of its contacts before its battery died. It takes the other kind of charger than the one I have.

I decided to take the street car down there, using one of the tokens that Heather, one of the case workers at Sacred Heart, had handed me a handful of, then walk the 15 or so blocks to the Willie's Chicken Shack on Frenchmen Street, where I was kind of hoping I would be rewarded with a beer or a shot of tequila, to loosen me up for busking, for returning Eddie's phone to him.

It was kind of a weird scene, but so is all of Frenchmen Street. A young Hispanic looking kid was behind the counter. There was a hockey game on the TV. When I asked him if anyone named Eddie worked there, he repeated: "Eddie?" and then with a "just a minute' gesture, went to the back. He gave me the impression that he was going to fetch Eddie. But, he came back out in the company of a young man of color, who informed me that there was nobody with that name who worked there.

I started to recognize the familiar pattern of being given whatever I wished for in life, as long as I was holding up my end of the bargain by busking approximately every night. The street car tokens, the lighter, and now, the phone, I thought...

I decided that, having tried and failed to return it; I might go ahead and transfer the SIM card out of my phone with the crappy battery, transfer my number and service over to it and call it my own; saving myself the $29.99 that Assurance Wireless told me it would cost for them to send me a replacement.

Then I walked a circuitous route to the Lilly Pad, failing to find any beer or other drinks "just sitting there" anywhere. I would just have to start out playing sober.

I got to the Lilly Pad and picked the song "Because," by the Beatles. The sky was blue and the wind was high and I was able to muster up about half the energy required to pull that song off. I thought I was sounding half good, at least to myself. As I was doing the second song: "All You Need is Love," by the same group, someone put a dollar in my jar. I felt a tinge of shame over the fact that I was only putting half my energy into playing; and felt like I had defrauded the person in a sense.

As always happens, as soon as the dollar landed in the jar, I was able to change gears, forget about being totally sober and did a spirited version of "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan (and using his lyrics, rather than my own mockery of them; a song I call "Unlike Like A Rolling Stone").

Almost simultaneous with a lady putting a 20 in the jar and another lady throwing a 1; the gate from Lilly's neighbor whom she is feuding with over the rights to the alley that separates the 2 dwellings opened; and out came a skinny guy with reddish blonde curly hair and a pale freckled face, who put a 5 in the jar and told me something like "keep playing what you're playing," then said he had been listening from behind the gate. This drills home the point that the busker should always play as if someone is listening even when nobody is within sight. I felt a second tinge of guilt over the lack-luster first two songs...

I wound up chatting with the guy, whose name is Dave, for a few minutes; while in the back of my mind knowing that he is a McCoy, and Lilly a Hatfield when it comes to the alley I sit in front of. "Whatever you do, don't ever tell them you know me or that I said you could play there!" Lilly has reiterated many times. She doesn't want me to get caught in the crossfire or become a bone of contention between the bickering parties, I guess.

It was then that I recalled the plan I had hatched during one of my more meditative moments after waking up to the morning dove's coo. Fortified with the 27 dollars that had materialized; I headed for The Herb Shop, where I bought an ounce of kratom, intending to go that way where the road forks; with the other prong leading to alcohol.

So I did, and on my way back to the Lilly Pad found a pretty decent roach of what turned out to be potent weed, laying in the road. A blond haired lady and what looked like her blond haired daughter with the toned looking muscles of a tennis player saw me pick up the roach and smell it; so I said: "Bingo!" for their amusement, before asking the younger of the 2 if she played tennis. There was a gentleman walking not far behind them, to whom the lady turned and asked something in what sounded like Finnish, that I guessed was: "What did he say?"

Sensing this was the case, I said: "I was asking her if she played tennis," and made a racket swinging motion. No, she didn't.

"Oh, she has such good tone to her muscles; is why I asked."

"Oh, thank you," said the young blond with the toned muscles whom I thought should have smelled of coconut oil, for some reason...

Back at the Lilly Pad, darkness was falling, so I hooked up the spotlight, telling Dave (who had re-emerged after hearing me playing while it fell) the story about how the vine that I hang the light from had wrapped itself around the spotlight during the winter, forming a kind of cradle that it fits nicely in. "It was probably because of the warmth that the light emits..." Dave thought that was cool and I had to smile to myself over how quickly myself and Lilly's mortal enemy were becoming friends. I'll have to call her tomorrow and give her all the juicy details; like a description of him and, of course, everything he said...like any good spy would do...

I wonder if Dave is an actor in The Great Kumquat Dispute. (The McCoy's kumquat tree overhangs Lilly's wall by a couple feet or enough so that that poor soul has to fish a fruit or two out of her pool, every so often. "They need to trim that tree back because those branches are technically on my property; and to stay out of my alley!" It's good to have a fighter like her in my corner when it comes to other musicians trying to skeeze my spot, I will say...

It's probably good that I didn't tell Dave that I was friends with Lilly and that she told me I could play there. 

It would have been funny if he had said something like: Hey, I don't mind you playing in front of my alley; I like listening to you; just don't tell the lady next door you know me, or that I said you could play here...OK?

It wound up being a $36 evening; on about an hour and a half of actual playing.

I went to The Quartermaster, where my heart skipped a beat when I saw none other than Larry behind the counter. He was polite and civil and promised not to tell me who won the Bruins game, "Because I'm going to watch the highlights when I get home..." I said.

I always thought the real reason I was barred was not so much the milk crate; but that I didn't adamantly voice a hatred of Donald Trump -and had said something as innocuous (and, hence, vicious) as: "It's hard to tell what's true and what's propaganda," to a heavyset black lady named Vilma, who then worked there and whose political philosophy seemed to be distillable to: "All I know is he's against us!" 

With "us" being heavyset black women writ large (excuse the pun) I guess.

Daytime Busking; Acclimating To The Heat; Patiently Accumulating One Dollar Bills

There is something to be said about tuning in to the Arcadian rhythm (or circadian, I forget which the earth is on) and going to sleep shortly after dark, then waking up shortly after sunrise. There is a stillness to the early morning that instills a sense of patience and a feeling that there is a whole day ahead -take your time sipping on a cup of coffee as the plans for the day ahead fall into place in the imagination, type of thing...

This is in contrast to waking up at 5 or 6 in the evening with most options having already gone by the wayside with the sole prospect of busking looming just a few hours into the future.

And that is how it stands on this Wednesday morning, after I got up at around 6:45 then adjusted my Singing Bird clock that I had knocked off the wall the other night when the guitar case on my back hit it as I was squeezing between the couch and the wall that it's on. The Morning Dove is supposed to coo at 7, but the glass shattering fall to the floor, which had knocked the batteries out, had apparently knocked the Northern Cardinal into the 7 o' clock time slot. A few presses of the reset button on the back has restored sanity to the household -there's no such thing as an "Early Afternoon" dove, except maybe in "fantasy" novels...
 

I'm hoping I can play for a few hours during today's early afternoon, and come up with enough money for an ounce of kratom out of The Herb Shop in the Quarter; then resume busking, after moving from Lilly's stoop, a few feet over, to underneath the vine where I hang my downward pointing spotlight; so I can illuminate it right around the same time the street lamp posts light up; and keep playing, aided by the Ritalin-esque effect of kratom upon me (your experience may vary).

"Please Stop Or Stop"

This blog is unavailable to the 9 Billion, or whatever, citizens of China, according to a comment I received on the first post that I referred to kratom in. In fact the word still gets a red squiggly line put under it in this editor; as if it hasn't been allowed in the dictionary. The power of Big Pharma, when it comes to natural alternatives to their highly profitable opioids, extends to their being able to edit the dictionary of the English language. The comment I got on the post about kratom came written in Chinese, which Google Translate seemed struggle a bit with, rendering something like: This blog has been secretly banned by the Chinese government. Please stop or stop.

I think the last part is a poor translation of "cease and desist," which might explain the redundancy. I remember the employees at the kratom bar I used to go to having been forbidden to mention any of the medical benefits of the green powder; only being allowed to describe it as "a plant that grows in Asia that's related to the coffee plant," nothing further; at the risk of putting their business license in peril. The far reaching tentacles of that multi-billion dollar racket in action.

Anyways, it's 9:25 in the morning, and I've got a few chats coming in; I'd better check them before Big Tech decides to follow the CCP's lead and secretly ban me...

No Good Deed Goes Unrewarded

I was up bright and early on this (Tuesday) morning. Harold was asleep at my side on the bed. I noticed that the tinnitus that has been encroaching upon me was much subdued and wondered if sleeping 2 feet away from the laptop had been contributing to that.

I decided to do the good deed of calling one of the numbers that I had written down from the list of "contacts" in the phone I had found somewhere in the Quarter, Saturday night. It's a really nice phone, and I was tempted to solve the problem of my own phone being garbage and it's replacement cost of about $24 by transferring my service over to it, maybe by moving my SIM card to it. But then I thought about how important people's phones can be to them; how their "whole life" can be on them.

The phone I found had only 2% of its battery charged, so I was only able to write down a few of the more frequently called people from its "recent calls" list; without enough battery power (it takes the other kind of adapter than the one I have -further proof that it is a more expensive phone than the one I got through the "free" government program) for me to go through all the photos and videos to try to determine how integrated into this person's life the thing had become -how far back the stuff goes; how many irreplaceable looking things were in it.

I decided to call one of the most frequently called numbers, which I did, and got an, at first skeptical sounding guy named Eddie on the line; who eventually seemed to start believing I wasn't a scammer after I had given him enough details about the lost phone.

It turns out he works at the Willie's Chicken Shack on Frenchmen Street, in the heart of that particular area which is the counter-culture alternative to Bourbon Street, where the young hipsters congregate. Bourbon Street is considered stodgy and set in its ways by the gen z-ers and millennials -where you will see a jazz drummer reading texts on his phone with one hand while keeping the beat going with his other limbs because he has played the particular "standard" he is playing about 5,447 times, type of thing. The Frenchmen Street musicians are playing their asses off, trying to make a name for themselves, type of thing; more appealing to certain types. I'll admit that I have had a lot of success the 3 or 4 times I had ever decided to set up down there -usually after buying and sampling weed from the neutral ground area around the Checkpoint Charlie's bar.

Checkpoint Charlie's is kind of a Welcome Center for musicians fresh in town, offering a laundromat and nightly open mic nights where a new arrival can get up and strut his/her stuff and be immediately shunted to the management of whatever club is deemed fit for the likes of whatever they play; or they can at least hit the sidewalks to busk in clean clothing...

I am waiting for a text from Eddie, whom I will notify when I am about to leave for the Lilly Pad, so he can meet me there to get the phone, or to tell me what hours he is working at Willie's so I can bring it to him.

I then left to go get a beer and saw 3 kittens, no bigger than softballs, on the benches of a couple tables at The Holy Grounds bar, which didn't open for another couple of hours. They were very clean and healthy looking. There were two black brown and white "tiger" striped ones, huddled together against the side of the building -as far as they could scoot down the bench away from the sounds of Canal Street, and on the next table over, similarly situated, a black one. (segregation is a natural phenomenon in the animal kingdom, maybe Governor Wallace was onto something, but I digress).

I decided to continue around the block then double back to Sacred Heart to get a little food for them. As I approached the building, I noticed a group of people on the sidewalk on the side of the building opposite where I live, who had tables set up and were giving away bags of food, along with things like socks. So, in endeavoring to feed the abandoned cats, I wound up with food for myself. Maybe I'll get a monetary reward when I return the phone, along the same lines, I mused...

When I went into my phone to call who turned out to be Eddie ("I'm Hispanic," he had told me, after telling me his name -so maybe Eduardo is more accurate) I noticed that I had 2 missing calls from Lilly from about 20 minutes after I had stopped busking from her stoop, due to being drenched in sweat. A call to her confirmed that she had heard me playing and had probably gone outside and just missed me. My phone sits at home with a useless battery (but I'm glad I didn't decide to steal Eddie's -humble Willie's Chicken Shack worker that he is...
I called Lilly, who told me that her neighbor had tried to change the locks on the gate in front of which I play, which leads to an alley between the 2 properties over which there has been a McCoy/Hatrock type of dispute for years now.

"Please come and play," she admonished me; but then quickly added: "Don't tell anyone you know me, or that I told you you could play there." I guess she wants to reserve the delivery of that last bit for any such time that her neighbors might try to run me off, so she can assert her control over the block...

So, soon I will ride down there and set up, maybe start at 3 p.m., clad in shorts and a tank top and not the long-sleeved thermal shirt. Jazz Fest is this coming weekend, and people have arrived early to walk around and explore before the big weekend commences; and, though they only walked by sporadically yesterday, they almost all threw me at least a dollar. I might have to acclimate myself to the summer heat by gradually increasing my playing time from the 1 hour of yesterday, up to the more "living wage" expectancy duration of at least 3 hours. Stings and picks and harmonica funds need to be set aside, above and beyond alcohol and weed expenses...

Busking, "That's Your Spiritual Health."

I suppose, as long as you still have things to learn, you will live on....

When you reach a point where knowledge meets understanding (as if a light bulb suspended above your head suddenly illuminates-nowadays, it would be an LED bulb) you die, taking all of this wisdom with you.

This is why it might be important to have a blog....

Locked Out, And Things Breaking

I was up early the other day; seems like a week ago, now.

I guess I had been taking for granted the smooth operation of this 12 year old laptop that I am once again on, this Monday afternoon, after having gone busking at the weird to me hour of noontime. I felt I had to get away from troubleshooting the laptop; and from Jr., who had gotten money from the plasma place and whose standing offer of purchasing my friendship with whatever spoils obtained in exchange for that plasma money; I rejected.

Better to get on my bike, totally broke (well, I had 15 cents) and to ride down to The Quarter on a Monday; after having made only 6 bucks on Saturday night, albeit after having arrived there at about 12:15 a.m. and played for only about 45 minutes..

This (Monday) morning, it was a chilly 62 degrees, and so I put on a long sleeved "thermal" type shirt, which became my undoing after I got to the Lilly Pad after the sun had broken through the clouds on my way down there and sat on her stoop, where Jacob usually sits. I didn't need the spotlight, as the sun was doing a much better job, and allowed me to sit away from under the vine where I hang the rechargeable light.

I played about 4 songs and was tipped during the performance of each, which was nice, and confirmed that I am playing as well as ever now. I have to credit Jr. with having cajoled me to his place to "make some noise" quite a bit over the past week. Sunday morning, after I had busked and only made the 6 bucks, I got back at around 2 a.m., and there the guy was, showing up and wanting to jam.

The reason I had arrived so late at the Lilly Pad was because, after grabbing and drinking along the way, a half bottle of wine, I stopped at Patrick's house around 10:30. 

Already feeling the wine, I was then handed, by him, a THC vape pen. The first time he passed the thing to me, I didn't really get much out of it. He then instructed me to hold the button down on it and draw really hard on it, which I did; and the cloud of smoke I exhaled was more suited to getting an elephant stoned than my 139 pound self. I felt like I had been hit with a tranquilizer dart and just wanted to sit there and melt into the chair. When I closed my eyes it was like an out of body experience.

Unfortunately, Patrick was trying to get me to go with him somewhere nearby and help him drag some large item (that I don't even remember what was, now) and I kept telling him: "Yeah in just a bit; I feel really tranquilized right now..." until such a point that he got angry and told me to leave and never go back there. He said something like: Go, and enjoy your dope; because he thought I must have done some heroin, in order for me to be so languid (if that's the word). So, that friendship broken, and more than an hour wasted, I then left for the Lilly Pad. Who knows how much more than 6 bucks I would have made, had I not stopped there.

After that, and the busking; it was to Jr's where we jammed until the sun was about to rise. I woke up, right after it had, on his couch; kind of surprised to find myself there for a second, then, seeing him asleep on his bed in the other room, I tip-toed out with my guitar and went back to my apartment, where I probably only got another 2 hours of sleep before his familiar knock woke me up. He was wide awake; it was about 9 in the morning, and he had resumed working on the half gallon of vodka that he had started the night before. He told me he felt great and wanted to jam; and so we did, with him passing me the bottle until such a point when I felt great, and wanted to watch golf on my TV instead of continuing to "make some noise" with him...

About a week ago it seems, this very laptop that I am using now, went on the blink.

I was watching a Rumble video and thought about how, after about 15 minutes of watching any videos, the screen would fade to black -ostensibly to save energy when on battery power, but kind of incomprehensible when the thing is plugged in.

I went into the settings and adjusted the "timeout" value from 15 minutes up to 30; and then I tinkered with a few other settings that I didn't really understand and had no business touching; especially when I was running the wi-fi and the browser and the video player- kind of like trying to do a minor repair on a car's engine when it's running 50 miles per hour down the highway.

The screen went black, although I could still hear the video. There was nothing I could do; nowhere to click and bring up a menu to even attempt to undo what I had tampered with. I had to unplug the thing and pull the battery out; and then wait until it finally came back up- another bug in the ol' Thinkpad; I think it doesn't reboot until the internal temperature drops to room level; somewhere between 3 and 5 hours...

From there, it has been a convoluted mess; with me having to boot up from an old USB stick that had Linux on it; but which was 3 years old and had all of the unattended security vulnerabilities that 3 years of updates and patches would have kept up with. So, I brought up a working system, just so I could copy all my files painstakingly to another computer; while using a system from the Sacred Heart computer room to download the latest version of Linux onto a USB stick.

Only, those computers run the Windows system and so I had to use a special application in order to make a Linux USB using Bill Gates proprietary garbage...

I have only scratched the surface.of the monumental obstacles I faced.

Having a 3 year old Linux system, I should have just used it to take all my files off and then wipe the disk clean and re-install. But I got lazy and decided to run the old software and go online and watch some videos and...get hacked, freezing the system so that I wound up unplugging and removing the battery and finally getting all my files moved to the other computer and putting an up to date Linux on it, only to learn that "the hacker" had changed all my passwords. I couldn't get into this blog until an hour ago (it was my smartphone that saved me -I was able to change the passwords by using the phone, which I guess Google knows and trusts....

If you are still awake, dear reader, after all that technical gobbledeegook, I guess I will recap with. I can once again blog here.

The cable for my electric guitar broke and needs to be wiggled and positioned in a certain way in order to play. My Snoball recording mic needs to be wiggled and positioned in a certain way to record. I knocked my singing bird clock off the wall with my guitar case, which I was wearing on my back, causing the glass cover to shatter. Just after I transferred my files to the other computer, it started emitting a whirling noise, which means I might have just one more chance to back all those files up onto a huge USB stick before whatever is making noise burns out...

My little fan that I use to blow warm air from the oven into the living room (to take the chill off the air in lieu of turning the heater on; blew it's fuse this morning...

My phone's battery dies after a minute of being unplugged....

That's all the things that have recently broken that I can think of; with the laptop being the most glaring item. In fact I have some slight doubt that this will even post when I hit "publish." You never know what the hacker might have done.

It kind of started shortly after I commented on a Youtube video asking how much nuclear bombs cost and which companies would rake in the profit off of them, should the U.S. need to manufacture a few more in the coming weeks...mere coincidence? Or was it me messing with system setting while an application was running? This is why I study computer stuff; I hate not knowing things... 

"I Had You For Breakfast; You Were Delicious!"

After adjusting my sleep schedule, by forcing myself to sleep Sunday night, after I watched golf on the TV that I hardly ever turn on, I was up at the traditional "start of a new week" time: early Monday morning.

I hadn't used any sleeping pills. I have enough of them so as to give me the option of committing suicide, should life at any point turn into a mockery of my whole existence. They have been in my medicine cabinet, along with some "stool softeners" pills in the one other bottle there; for about 5 years.

Having ceased to view life as something that happens to me, totally out of my own control, it isn't likely that I will ever employ those pills to that particular end (excuse the pun). 

I don't foresee being physically apprehended when some invading army sacks New Orleans, with, in my immediate future, being strapped to a table and tortured until I divulge some secret that I don't even know ("Where is Jr. hiding?") so that death would ultimately be a blessed relief from excruciating agony. Despite certain pundits on Youtube who are prognosticating that, within 4 years, the soldiers of the Chinese Communist Party will be consigning us U.S. citizens to just such fates. 

So, I could have used a couple of the pills to induce slumber, in light of the strides I've made in the area of my mental health, since I stashed them 5 years ago; but The Golf Channel functioned as a drug-free alternative to treat insomnia.

The List Of 5

I was bright-eyed, clear headed, full of energy and focused upon accomplishing 5 tasks.

The first one was to contact the AmBetter "health insurance marketplace" people, who had given me until April 19th to submit to them "proof of household income," to ask them how I should go about getting some such documentation.

I was told, by a representative (who said she is "third party" and, in effect, has no skin in the game) that I had been misled by the guy who had approached me on the street corner and signed me up, promising better coverage than what I could expect using the "medicaid" card that has been in my wallet the past 9 years or so. I used that about once, during a visit to the emergency room, when I had an abscessed tooth that was swelling the whole side of my face. 

In the past, I had treated that condition a couple times using the needle from one of the syringes that I always see on the sidewalks of certain parts of The Quarter, which I used to lance the thing, after sterilizing it with my lighter (the needle; not The Quarter -it would take more than a lighter to sterilize that). When the pain in the gum reaches the point where it hurts more than stabbing your gums with a needle is going to; that's when you go in.

I have since learned to substitute deep breathing exercises, massage, acupressure and switching to a diet of only apple juice for a few days to fight back infections at the onset of them. Speaking of infections...

I was going to see about getting antibiotics for the swelling in my throat, and was calling the AmBetter people to see if I was indeed covered, despite not having sent the "proof of annual household income" documents they'd requested.

The people who prowl the sidewalks, looking for people like me, work on the basis of commission, and will "tell you anything" to get you to sign up, I was told by the last of 3 representatives that I was able to get on the phone, who sounded like a young lady of color. 

The first person had been a guy with an Indian accent, whom I had to disconnect from because (item #4 on the list) my phone, was breaking up. 

The second was a young lady, to whose astonishment, I correctly guessed was in The Philippines ("How did you know that?!") I then provoked her into a fit laughter, after she'd told me her name was "Farina (and, how can I help you?)" to which I joked that I eaten Farina for breakfast that morning. "I put in some blueberries and sprinkled fructose powder over the top; you were delicious..."

It took her a few seconds to regain her composure. "Oh, I can't stop laughing!"

The way I'd guessed that she was in the Philippines started after I had said that I was up "bright and early" on that Monday morning, "trying to get some things accomplished."

"Oh, it's night time here," she rejoined.
Then, imagining a globe in my head, and rotating it about 8 hours in my mind's eye, I chose a country out of the few American allies in that region, ruling out Taiwan and Japan because of her accent; and South Korea, because her name was Farina, and not Kim. The Philippines, America's strongest ally in the region; why not put them to work answering phones...?

After about a half hour of holding, tethered to a wall outlet by a 3 foot cable (because my phone's battery only lasts about 80 seconds) I was informed that the guy that had signed me up had entered, unbeknownst to me, an annual household income of $20,000 on my behalf -a figure he might have pulled out of his ass after giving me a once over and judging me to be worth about that.

I felt about as insulted as I do when I hear a skeezer trying to skeeze "a couple bucks for a hamburger" out of a better dressed than me person nearby; who then skeezes me with: "I'm 50 cents short of a beer, can you help me out?"

"Sorry, I don't have any coins on me; just large bills...Have a nice day..."

Speaking of being skeezed; I remember thinking: "Who is going to believe that, as I'm out here trying to make a buck; skeezers actually come along trying to skeeze them as soon as I do?" But, luckily for me on that note; someone shot a video of this particular instance of that fiasco. I told this guy (as it's hard to make out) "No, I'm trying to make a buck, so I will have one.."

 

The AmBetter health insurance is a "Federal" program, the young lady with no (brown) skin in the game informed me. She went on to say that it was good that I called her, because the $1,080/mo. of coverage that I was ostensibly entitled to, was only a "credit" -kind of like a lien placed upon whatever taxes I would be paying, based upon the "$20,000" that the guy who works on commission had entered on my behalf, right before I signed on the dotted tablet.

I could have wound up owing "a lot of money," at the end of the year. She said she knew of people being hounded for $30K; who couldn't verify that they made the amount of money that their coverage had been based upon. "They're going to want you to file at the end of the year," she said, adding that, if I have no income, then I would have to pay full price for everything and wouldn't benefit from AmBetter at all.
This is confusing because, I didn't think they took any income tax at all out of people who made less than a certain amount; but apparently, I could get $12K a year for medical expenses, when I supposedly made only $20K?

"Download Your Digital ID, So You'll Have It On Your Smartphone!!"

I think programs such as AmBetter might just be a ploy in order to have the "digital ID" issued to people that is prominently mentioned in the paperwork that they sent me; telling me that they only needed me to verify my income (download it and always have it with you on your smartphone, type of thing).

That way, they can monitor citizens through it, and link it to other agencies, so that, should I ever want to fly out to the Philippines, to meet Farina and make her laugh in person, I might be told that I can't board the plane because I'm on some non-vaccinated-no-fly list. Give Big Pharma their cash, or go nowhere, type of thing. Even though I would be taking on more risk of injury from getting the ugabooga, than I would be from the plane ever crashing, type of thing. (red flag: AmBetter is a Federal program).

She went ahead and cancelled me out of the program, but then warned me that I now have no coverage at all. I need to contact the "state" insurance program i.e. Medicaid, and re-apply for that; as a person with no verifiable household income.

I went about doing that, but, for some reason the holding time, waiting to speak to someone who deals with people who have no verifiable income seemed to be much longer than it had been to get the 3 separate people from AmBetter on the line. No Farina for me, I guess...

My Fill Of Holding

I hung up after about 20 minutes. I had been tethered to the wall for half the morning at that point, and my right ear was starting to stick to the phone, and itch..

Then Jr. knocked on my door, holding a large bottle of orange juice mixed with vodka, and I became side-tracked with only 1 of the 5 things on the list being checked off. I didn't want to go to the unemployment office (item #3) smelling of alcohol, and I didn't want to call to order a new phone (#4) because I'd had my fill of holding for the day. I didn't want to go to the emergency room, pursuant to the swelling in my throat, because I have no coverage at all; so, sure, pass me that bottle again...

Having run out of food money for the month (after being cut from $380 to $215 per month, now that "the pandemic" is "over") made me remember that I don't actually have to fast for the next 2 weeks. I can go back to busking every night; a situation wherein you get handed food nightly, in one form or other, by people. Or you find a pizza box atop a trash receptacle with a couple still warm slices in it, somewhere in The Quarter. Not to mention finding enough drinks that people set down all over the place, for one reason or another (their Uber arrives and they don't want it to spill every time it hits a pothole; they take one sip and decide that it's too strong, too sweet, too tart; or they had just started sipping on it when they came upon the club they were looking for, where "no outside drinks" are allowed.

So, even a crappy busker who doesn't get tipped can eat, drink and be merry every night in The French Quarter. Of course, having food allergy issues, it's incumbent upon me to make at least enough to buy something that won't give me an eczema flareup (we hadn't even taken our instruments out of their cases when a guy offered us a couple egg rolls, which I deferred to Jacob on, due to my soy sauce phobia). Of course, a good dose of alcohol acts the same way as most anti-histamines do, I have found -I guess your skin won't itch when your whole body is numb...

Initially, when my food stamp money ran out; I was in a slight state of panic.

I thought I would just start going into the Quarter in the early afternoon every day, and just find different places to play at, for maybe a half hour or 5 bucks, whichever came first. Then, maybe grab a shot of brandy for a buck, and maybe even a McDonald's hamburger, no mayo and probably have a dollar and change left over to put in my tip jar, to start the process over again.

That seemed to be the third best option, inferior to fasting until the end of the month. 

Fasting would cure the swelling in my throat (if it's a cancerous tumor, my body would eventually use it for fuel, once all my fat had been metabolized) It would bring me mental clarity and focus, as well as take advantage of the fact that I wouldn't be needing to keep any protein or iron levels up, so I could sell my plasma.

And, of course, the penultimate solution would be to busk in the state of not having eaten in a week or 10 days; something that has never failed to fill my tip jar (from looking so "skinny?") with money that had no claims made upon it in the way of food, alcohol, tobacco, weed, kratom or anything that isn't water or air; as the desire for all of those former things goes away around 5 days in.

Failing that, I could subsist on all of the food that gets donated to Sacred Heart residents which winds up in the dumpster, as it is usually all kinds of beans, along with rice and cans of vegetables. I looked in a cabinet under my kitchen counter and found, behind a pillow sized wad of plastic shopping bags, about a dozen bags of various beans. Most residents seem to stock-pile such things, going so far as maybe eating the macaroni and cheese, the powdered milk and the "brick" of cheddar cheese which, along with the cans of tomato soup and a loaf of cheap bread can put them in grilled cheese heaven. I avoid dairy, so it is no loss to me that most residents would have eaten what they do; but I would imagine some of them opening a cabinet full of beans and saying: "Grab all you want."

Sunday, I made a large pot of quinoa, which I ate along with some "turtle" beans, which are small and black, and that was the precursor to me being able to fall asleep and wake up full of energy, bright and early Monday morning.

Monday, I repeated that, but with kidney beans. I didn't feel quite as well Tuesday morning; but that experiment may have been tainted by the amount of vodka that Jr. had given me -cheap vodka, to boot. Perhaps that's what contributed to the slightly depressed mood I was in upon waking up Tuesday; until I drank some coffee and shook it off. 

It's Wednesday morning, April 19th now. I could start some (Great Northern) beans a-soaking, then call the phone company about a replacement phone; then maybe the Medicaid people -I'll plug my speaker into the headphone jack so I can roam around the place while being on hold- and maybe even ride over to the unemployment office to see if I can get at least the minimum benefit of $107 per week (out of which Sacred Heart Apartments will eventually hit me up for about $11 out of.

"In order to get unemployment, you have to work," said my neighbor, Wayne.

But, I seem to recall that, for the pandemic, I was able to apply as a "non-filer" (of taxes) and they just asked me to estimate how much I made busking; which I did as honestly as possible, referring to records kept on this very blog.

I started to get the minimum amount of $107 a week, but then my account started receiving deposits of an extra $417 per week as "pandemic" assistance, along with lump sums of $600 "out of the blue." That might have been because Louisiana voted for Trump, because those payments sure stopped as soon as fumbling, bumbling, blathering Biden was installed as president...

I don't mind putting it that way; I've already lost 100% of the readership made up of those who would never read any blog they think might be authored by "a Trumper." There is no one more foolish and hopeless than he who blithely hates another man because of the way he thinks that man voted in any election. Now several nations are being run by the oligarchs of Big Tech, Big Pharma and the Military Industrial Complex, ours included. Any fool should be able to figure that out, despite what that smartphone they're staring at right now is telling them...

Gee, if I'd only had the foresight to buy Pfizer stock with those extra "pandemic" funds...that's the kind of 'wealth transfer' I'm talking about....

  

"...But A Change Is Gonna Come."

 

I guess I can pick up the action from around 10 PM, Friday night, April 14th...
"Are you guy's clocking in or out?" asked Tanya Huang, who had been playing for at least 9 hours, at that point...
"I always feel ashamed of the 'long hours' I put in whenever I walk past you," I said, in an attempt to be facetious...
But, being the literal-minded individual that she is, she raised an eyebrow and retorted: "Long hours?!" as in: You must be kidding me, I've been here since noon and almost ten hours later, you are on your way out to play for maybe 3 hours, then call it a night?

Yeah, but I don't have a mortgage on a house, plus a vehicle to pay for; along with setting aside a few thousand, so I can take the month of July off to fly to China, to see family, with arms laden with gifts from America. Plus, she has a dog to feed...

"I would need a nylon string guitar like Dorise (Blackmon) used to play in order to be able to play for as long as you do," was my excuse. It's true that a steel string guitar can have you playing like the marathon runner who is running flat footed at around mile 20 because he no longer has any "spring" in his step, nor can he feel much below his knees; after playing for 3 hours...
For that is what I learned after Jacob and I had played for (I think he said "3 hours and 16 minutes" according to his phone -at least that's how long the stereo recording he made of us, using 2 of the things, wound up being).

I would also need to not use alcohol as "liquid encouragement," should I endeavor to achieve Tanya-like levels of endurance. I was telling Jacob about how she was made to practice the violin every day, beginning at the age of 4, and ultimately increased that to the same 12 hour stretches that she now does on Royal Street.
"You get used to it, I guess."

I think that; like that Viktor Frankl guy, who barely survived a stay at Auschwitz, or one of those Nazi concentration camps, she somehow gleaned "the meaning of life" via that discipline/ordeal. Somewhere in the middle of a 12 hour practice routine, a little bird alighting on a branch outside the window, might constitute a thing of such beauty, as to make that whole day special, type of thing...

I can't remember who it was that said this; but someone once said, upon hearing Tanya play: "When I see someone that good on a violin, I feel a deep sadness and think: Here is a woman who never had a childhood..."

Enough of me being a "3 hour busker" apologist, for now.

But the steel strings on my guitar (which are a monstrous .13 mm. gauge right now) proceeded to sap the strength from my fingers, by the time I was lobbying for us to knock off at that 3:16 time mark. One lesson I took from the experience was that a 3 hour jam session at Jr.'s apartment, playing either his electric guitar with only 3 strings on it, or my own, is no substitute for the kind of workout, that busking for the same duration on the acoustic, would supply.

"This Is Sounding Better Now, But That Might Just Be The Weed..."

Another thing that runs counter to the 12 hour busking session is the smoking of pot at some point, which delivers the mixed bag of, making you think you are sounding better, which encourages you to play longer, while at the same time distorting your perception of the passage of time, so that a check of your watch reveals that you, in fact, played for no longer than usual; it just seemed it...

Smoking weed conjures up the analogy, to me, of the brain being pretty well evenly soaked with creative juices but, after you smoke, it being squeezed like a sponge, so that all the ideas rush out in a torrent. But then, after the hand squeezing it relinquishes its pressure (pretty consistently around 80 minutes after smoking, in my own experience) the brain is left kind of arid -absorbent to new ideas; but giving the impression that there isn't much more there to be squeezed from it...

With Tanya, it would be maybe some green tea before starting at noon, and then maybe paying a willing and ready skeezer $20 to guard her equipment for about 10 minutes, while she runs for fried chicken or sushi around 5 p.m. before settling in for the second 6 hour set.

Left: I think what was happening Friday was that, having painted her nails red, she hadn't factored in the 2 milligrams of extra weight that would be a burden on her fingers.
At this point, 10 hours in, she must be feeling like the jogger who puts little ankle weights on, in order to build up leg strength.

I sensed that she was laboring a little more in her playing; and like a tiny grain of sand inside a Swiss watch, the red nail polish was messing with her. I had a similar experience when I once acquired a 10 carat gold ring, which I placed on the ring finger of my right hand and then noticed that my strumming patterns had, inexplicably until I figured it out, become kind of erratic...

Like they were at points during Friday night's session.

One of the bad habits I developed, especially after getting my apartment, was that I tried to treat my time off from busking as sort of a weekend; and would switch modes mentally, so as to "forget about work for a while." One problem with that arose once I had become really good at turning that switch off, which was that it often wouldn't be until I woke up half hung over, with busking time fast approaching, that I might be revisited by a thought such as: "Oh, that's right, I knocked off last night after breaking a string (I'll need to put a new one on before going out -now, I might miss the 9:12 street car, and have to get on the next one, 25 minutes later than usual...).

Or maybe I had gotten back the previous night, and just shed my backpack and guitar into a heap on the floor, before turning my attention to a bottle of wine, some fish in a frying pan, weed and maybe some Youtube; having forgotten about a half pint of ice cream I had found, still frozen solid in the Rouses Market dumpster, when drunk enough to have had no compunctions about digging through the thing in plain view of tourists (that I'll probably never see again, so who cares?) but drunk, also, enough to have forgotten to take it out of a backpack, which now, 10 minutes before I'm supposed to go out, I find contains 2 harmonicas, each with its 10 holes filled with delicious rum raisin ice cream, in melted form...

I have reconciled the disparities between Tanya and myself; in the same manner that I've dealt with notions such as the one that I might never, in this lifetime, play any of Robert Shummann's piano works flawlessly, and with passion and emotion. Maybe just with passion and emotion...

I've consoled myself with the "truth" that, if I do "me" as fervently as Shummann did "himself," then we can be deemed musical equals. He might have envied my ability to rhyme words, or something. Plus, if being manic depressant and suicidal is the trade-off for being able to harmonize 4 notes in infinite ways, I might pass on that.

Although, I don't rule out myself having, some time in the future, a self contained music apparatus that I could quickly deploy so I could stop and jam with Tanya, on a few songs when I encounter her. It would probably be a diversion, of the bird outside the window sort, for her to suffuse that particular element of variety into middle of her 12 hour stint; and I think she might welcome the facility with bantering back and forth with tourists, making jokes etc. that I might be able to bring to her table -more than any flashy technical skills- although me playing the harmonica and guitar at the same time might keep her amused enough to consider it a pleasant little diversion. Then, she could throw me a 20 dollar crumb off that same table, should the market bear it -i.e. if about $50 went into her basket while we were noodling around; And that would basically pay for my whole existence, before I even arrived at Lilly's.

When Preparation Meets Opportunity

But I have learned that busking is practically a 24 hour job. The hours spent not actually playing shouldn't be spent trying to forget about work, as there are plenty of chores that should to be done at home, that are job related.

For example, keeping a comprehensive list of every song that you ever played and refreshing your memory on all 557(?) of them; at least once a week; so as to avoid another problem I had Friday, which was losing my way through a song I used to do "every night," back in 2010. I guess 13 years of rust is a bit too much to instantly rub and polish off of a song...
There were 2 or 3 times when tourists stopped to ostensibly listen, but then continued walking, without even tipping; and those incidents still cut like a knife..
Luciano Pavarotti once said something I paraphrase as: "If I miss I day of practice, I know it; If I miss 2 days, the audience knows it." So that is what was running through my mind, upon seeing a few people stop, listen then go...

A couple days jamming with Jr. constitutes a dereliction of the kind of practicing I should be doing. I'm going to have to consider only jamming with him on acoustic guitar and harmonica -that way I might realize an improvement in my busking skills as at least some recompense for the 3 hours spent up there; more than just a hangover the next day...

Jacob and I played some good stuff, in my opinion, before the .13 gauge strings caught up with me and I found myself snapping my left hand the way you would a towel, trying to get more blood to the nerves, or whatever...

Then, after sleeping until about 4 the next afternoon, Jacob and I jammed some more at my place and recorded some of it. I had about 3 hours before I had to be back out there busking at the time his ride came for him. I spent that time preparing to go out. I decided I would be lazy and take the trolley down there, rather than ride my bike with all my gear on me. That meant that I could wait a while longer before leaving, as the trolley can get me down there in half the time of the bike. I waited just long enough so that the first drops of rain were starting to fall on the Lilly Pad as soon as I had finished the first "Knocking On Heaven's Door." 

I decided to just drink up whatever little money I had left, out of rebellion against nature, stubbornness, and to flip that darned "forget about work" switch... 

Money

But, the elephant in the room has to be the fact that 3 hours and 16 minutes yielded a paltry $12.70 in tips. It was just one of those nights when tourists would stop and chat, and we would play them a song, and then they would thank us profusely; promise to "DropBox" us the video they shot; and then go on their ways; after leaving one dollar in our jar. Some nights almost everyone throws a 10 or a 20, but Friday wasn't one of them..

"I think we are in a recession, despite what anyone say's,"

I remarked to Jacob. The double-whammy of that inflation being that; people are now tipping less of a currency that is now worth less than it's been at any time in recent history...

What I Need To Do

Being more conscientious, and thinking like a busker, even when not on the job, as mentioned. This should include an actual post busking meditation wherein the events that unfolded can be sorted out and improvements made; given the benefit of hindsight.

Business

Case in point; one guy stopped and was ready to tip us using Venmo. My phone died in the middle of me checking to see what my Venmo "handle" is (It's "Daniel-McKenna-47") I couldn't remember if it had underscores or dashes and/or if the "k" was capitalized or not. And all that was a moot point because I was thinking that I was -49 and not -47. That gaff might have been the difference between a $12.70 night and a $62.70 one..

So, I need to call for a replacement phone to be sent to me -one with a longer battery life than 80 seconds...

Health

I should call the number on the back of the AmBetter card that came in the mail from the health insurance provider that I guess I signed up with through a guy I met on the street; a letter that informed me that I had until April 19th to provide them with "proof of income." That was a long way in the future when I got the letter. I need to ask them if I can get some print-out from the Food Stamp office to "verify" that I have no verifiable income...

And then I would have to ride over to that office, hoping that, on April 17th, they aren't backed up with 3 hours worth of people.

Career

Because I could spend some of those hours learning an Eddie Vedder song ("any Eddie Vedder song") because another couple stopped and asked us if we could play just that item.

There are busking "standards," one of which being "Knocking On Heaven's Door," by Bob Dylan -one of the first songs we did Friday; though I was rusty and shaking off cobwebs and trying to focus on it, while wrestling with the thought of: "Why is this a busking standard?" that was pestering me. But, once most of these songs are under your belt; it would then be advisable to build up a repertoire of songs by artists that you can "do" pretty well -one's with the same vocal range; and ones that are your favorites, which you have heard 1,000+ times. Maybe one's who are your favorites because you can sing along and sound "just like them," type of thing...

Then, once those boxes are checked; and all other things being equal; you might as well add songs that have, at one time or other, been requested by the nice people who stop to listen.

Some of these artists; in a neglected stack of them in my mind, that have never seen the light of day, because of the flipping of the "forget about work" switch; would be:

Oasis; Dave Matthews, Steve Earle, Townes Van Zandt, Leonard Cohen and John Prine; just off the top of my head, where they are stacked...

But this is ancillary to making more robust the list of artists I can "sound just like," that get requested also. What is my excuse for not doing at least 24 Elvis Costello songs, or a dozen Neil Young? A change must be made so that my busking self is sentient, even in the off hours. Otherwise, the audience will "know..."

As I was struggling to switch out harmonicas in my neck brace harp holder thing; I remarked to Jacob: "Tanya would lay out all her harps in front of her, then swap them out 80 times for practice, perhaps for 3 days in a row; so she would discover any tricks and shortcuts that might speed up the process, while the tourists who requested a song in a different harmonica key waited. She would also be testing the durability of the neck brace; is it going to break after just 75 harp changes? -type of thing..

Better Health

It might behoove me; perhaps after calling the number on the back of the AmBetter health insurance marketplace card, to go to some clinic and try to get some antibiotics for the swollen node in my throat, so I won't have to let it run it's course and swell until it bursts like a boil on the outer skin would.

New Again!

And, while I'm taking care of responsibilities that nobody else is likely to, for me, I might swing by the unemployment office and apply, as I did during the pandemic, for at least the minimum amount of benefits, as a verifiably unemployed person. The "worst" thing that could happen is they could hook me up with some kind of part time job, so as to save the state that money; and that would be just fine with me. It would protect me from the anxiety of showing up at a job and not knowing if I'm going to make $2.12 an hour, or $30.

Don't Let Your Left Arm Know What Your Right Arm Is Doing

And, there is always "the other" plasma donation center, over in Gretna, where I used to donate, until they told me my proteins were low and I would have to return in a week to give them another vial of my whole blood; and then wait up to 2 more weeks for the results to come back, along with the verdict on whether or not I could go on donating. At that point, I just switched over to the one in East New Orleans, where I was able to take advantage of their "new donor" deal that gave me $100 for each of my first 7 bottles of plasma. The place in Gretna had a similar program (a chance to make $1,000 your first month) and, having not been there in over 6 months -I think; I'll have to check- I would be taken in as a new donor; new again! 

I can see Jacob shaking his head over the last paragraph -he thought it was a divine blessing that my blood proteins ran low and now I'm "forced" into doing what I inwardly want to do- and I think he's right in that regard. I can do more in this world than sell my blood plasma. But, just realizing that I have the above options is a cushion against despair and/or any feelings of hopelessness...

Or, I can sit here like a bump on a log for 3 more years, at which point I will be old enough to get Social Security. Then, Sacred Heart Apartments, will start taking something like $275 per month out of that, seeing it as being "income," but; alternatively, I could return to homelessness. When that phase of my life commences, I'm sure I will thank my lucky stars if I'm still able to busk, and make up the $275 difference every month. 

Hopefully, I'll see an increase in my tip flow, whenever I'm a frail, old and gray, grizzled-looking cantankerous man (with a cane leaning against a wall nearby). An old man who plays a few good Eddie Veddar tunes, along with "Wonderwall," by Oasis...     

Just To Say "Happy Easter."

 

I was slightly apprehensive about calling to wish my mom a happy Easter, Sunday evening, because I knew she would probably ask me if I have been going out to busk every night, to which I would have to inform her that, after getting paid by the plasma place, it became easy for me to find excuses to do other things than go out and busk. Night time has become more dangerous in general in this post "pandemic" situation, with the daytime buskers seemingly raking in good money, which proves that there are plenty of tourists; but the diminished number of them that I see at the Lilly Pad after 10 PM seems to be a tapering off of the number of them who are doing the "out all night" type of thing...

But, I found that my mood was lifted after having called her, although the question in question was asked...

I had to tell her about the recent return of a condition that causes a swelling in the throat, one which I hadn't had since about 2013, called something like "quinsy."

quinsy, also called peritonsillar abscess pus-filled swelling in the throat that develops infrequently as a complication of acute tonsillitis". It extends through the tonsillar capsule into the loose connective tissue of the neck and displaces the involved tonsil toward the midline of the throat. Extreme pain accompanying the condition interferes with swallowing and talking. Often there is high fever and general prostration. Although acute tonsillitis is usually caused by streptococci bacteria, these organisms are not always present in the quinsy pus. Surgical incision and draining are sometimes needed if antibiotics are not given promptly.

It might just be a tonsil becoming inflamed, something that doctors would probably be chomping at the bit to assign me to surgery in order to remedy. It feels kind of like having a boil somewhere in the throat. The first time I had this, I could feel the swollen area which, at its peak, almost interfered with my singing as it was palpable when I changed notes from high to low or vice-versa.

Then, while busking one night and playing the harmonica, one of the residents of the block where I play, an older guy, who lived a few doors down was walking by me as I was struggling to bend to a particular note on the harmonica and said: "You need to kill that thing," which was probably a reaction to the tone that I was getting out of the 10 dollar Hohner I was playing, while also contending with the swollen whatever it was in my throat.

My reaction to someone making a derogatory comment is usually to double down and play even more intensely and so before he was out of ear shot I bent a note as hard as I could and was just thinking in the manner that could be confused with schizophrenia by a non believer in such things, that there might have been another meaning in what the guy said. But only schizophrenics believe that everything they see and hear is being directed at them personally, in a solipsistic way.

All that aside, I felt something distinctly "pop" in my throat as I played the note and had to pause to spit out whatever had flooded the back of my mouth, rather than swallow it. And that was the end of what I think is called something like quinsy; that time.

I remember the onset of it, in 2013, as being when I had bitten into something tart -a chicken wing that had some kind of tangy, perhaps lemon, flavor added to it. My mouth being pretty dry at the time, and having been given the wing out of the blue without having had time to salivate in anticipation of eating it; plus it being mid morning, when my body usually only got liquid energy drinks, I felt almost a cramping sensation in whatever glands make the mouth water, as if I was struggling to secrete saliva out of a dry gland, which was a pretty noticeable pain that only gradually subsided. But, it didn't totally go away, it turned into the quinsy. It probably was about 10 days from then until whatever it was popped.

But, that time I did "kill that thing." 

I "know" the old guy was probably talking about the harmonica, but, once you start to see the world in the way that I started to, back when I was around 22 years old, and had "turned the world around," and started seeing it as something that I was creating my experience of, and in effect had control over, rather than seeing myself as being subjected to random occurrences and my life being shepherded by my constantly reacting to them, never knowing what was going to happen next, then it is easy to believe that the old guy running to the Quartermaster for a roll of toilet paper or something, had delivered a message to me from God or the cosmos, suggesting that I play the harmonica even harder than I was -don't pussyfoot around, kill that thing!, type of thing...

This time I am using the Wim Hof deep breathing exercises, along with meditation while listening to Beethoven, and a bit of acupressure -trying to feel where it is and pop it without a harmonica (it had been a note that I was drawing air into the thing with, while moving my jawbone around in search of the right embouchure). I can still feel it when I swallow.

After hanging up with my mom, I felt in a good enough mood to go out to the store and gather up whatever tobacco I might find along the way.

On my way out, a heavyset black man who habitually hangs out in the lobby -some people just "need people," and become lonely by themselves in their rooms, I guess- asked me if I was going to the store and if I would pick him up a couple cold drinks, giving me a five dollar bill.

Getting to the corner bar and finding a few half American Spirit's in the trays on one table, I was aware of a young black guy coming towards me on the sidewalk. I resisted the urge to wait until he passed, out of embarrassment over being seen picking the ashtrays. I was aware of the guy stopping behind me and thought for a second that he might have been a second tobacco sniper, trying to get to the trays on the table behind me, in case I hadn't already grabbed all the half cigarettes out of its trays. I had already gotten those, and so I knew that there hadn't been a 5 dollar bill sitting on the bench nearest me. But, when I turned around to continue towards the store, there it was, folded in half and sitting there. An act of kindness by the young black guy that he probably intended to be anonymous.

That kind of surprised me, yet it didn't. I saw it as a reward for having been humble enough to pick the ashtrays in front of another human. If I want some tobacco, then why would I let my perception of what others might be thinking stop me. If a certain person judges another's worth by how much material they have and is going to be thinking: Look at that guy, he must be indigent and can't even afford a pack of cigarettes, what a loser, then that person needs to check his own attitude and stop being such a loser, the way I see it. Besides, he could be thinking: Look at that guy who is so secure in his self worth that, if he wants tobacco, is going to get some and not be deterred by whatever someone might be thinking. I think I'll leave 5 bucks where he'll find it.

Of course I could have turned towards the people a few feet away that were ignoring me and asked if one of them had dropped the 5 bucks, but I wanted to respect whatever had led them to be ignoring me...

"Ala 'na laykoom!"

Then, at the store, I used my food card to get the 2 drinks for the heavyset man, and some food for myself, and grabbed a beer and a pack of cigars, that I figured I would buy out of the 5 that I had found. But the cashier just didn't ring them up. It was the one upon whom I had said "God bless you," to, in Arabic the night before, after having learned the phrase from a cashier at the store across the street from that one. He swiped my card for the food items and then handed me the bags with everything in them, not asking for any cash for the beer and cigars...

"Ala 'na laykoom!" I repeated, on the way out..

Then it was to the other store, to break one of the 5's so I could give the heavyset guy his correct change, where I found a fat roach of potent weed sitting on one of little tables nearby. Upon returning to Sacred Heart, I gave the guy his 2 drinks, who then said: "You can keep the change..."

So, I wound up with tobacco, beer and weed, plus 10 bucks in my pocket. And, again, some might think that was all just due to random events. But, the more I believe they aren't, the more frequently they occur. Maybe I'm a schizophrenic. One psychiatrist diagnosed me as such, about 25 years ago. But he was probably just chomping at the bit to prescribe me something profitable to both him and the pharmaceutical industry...

On The Subject Of Kingsnakes

Daniel McKenna · Kingsnakes And Coffee

There hasn't been much activity on this here blog lately; as I have been devoting most of my recent waking hours to a flawed attempt at making a video to go along with the above song, but alas, my OpenShot Video Editor has been quirky and that might be because the latest and greatest version of the software may have outpaced this laptop that I use, perhaps requiring more memory and/or resources than the ol' dinosaur (which dates back to just after the turn of the century) can handle.

It was going to be great...

The video was going to be great, it was going to start with Kevin Bape, a musician friend of my friend Jacob Scardino rapping along with the opening piece: "That's Like All The Time," and then would go to a shot of Bob Carvajal, doing his "Current Word," show at the Christian radio station, which Jacob produces, and then would have a bunch of still photos that would transition from one to another in time with the music, and would even have had a clip of me dancing around in my room in time with the music for a few seconds here and there. I even might have gone so far as to have found a clip of a kingsnake devouring a mouse (in time with the music).

But, Alas...

Such grand ideas; and an impetus for me to try to get better equipment.

There is another computer here, called the "Claudia" computer, which was given to me by the same Bob Carvajal (sp?) and is about as old as my laptop, but is a Windows machine and perhaps I could put OpenShot on a stick and stick the stick into Claudia and maybe it would run. Part of the problem (and the blessings) of Linux is that you basically have to cobble together your own software and there are thousands of programs, written by the thousands of members of the Open Source software development community, who might have cobbled together a utility that depends upon, you guessed it, any of the thousands of other utilities in order to run. There are a thousand ways to do one thing in Linux. You can't even get past setting up your desktop without choosing from the multitudes of them.

Harold, in his can kingdom...

(none)

I installed another one of the many video editors (some of which have names that elude to the same conundrum, like: "Yet Another Video Editor" (The YAVE Editor). The one I tried is called Olive, which is most likely, as per the Linux tradition, an acronym (I'm guessing that the last two letters stand for "video editor" and maybe the "O" means "open source") but Olive one uses a whole different set of libraries to render everything on the screen than what I have loaded. When I ran the program, I got a screen full of placeholders that basically were informing me things like: Here is where your timeline would be, and here is where the icons for the different tools would be if you had the right libraries to render them. There were lots of parentheses that said (none) in them...

I just now got the idea of running the older (outdated) version of OpenShot, with which I have done videos in the past. Maybe that kingsnake will strike yet!