Only Thursday

I left out of here yesterday, as dusk began to encroach; to the point that, looking for roaches on the sidewalk became harder, as I made my way towards the Starbucks on Poydras Street...

I encountered barricades from one of the parades, but was able to get past them and walk into the Starbucks about 10 minutes before their closing time...
"Nothing to brew; not much to do...!" I said, after walking in.
I was only there to buy protein bars and green energy drinks to get me through until this coming Saturday (14th) when my retirement benefits should arrive..
The guitar case over my shoulder and the backpack being indications that I am anything but "retired," the barista's asked me, with a look of impending doom: "What can we get you?"
I then told them I only wanted to buy stuff that didn't have to be ground up, brewed, steamed or garnished with whipped cream. "That's why I said 'nothing to brew, not much to do, when I walked in,'" I said...
By the time I had picked out a few items and was packing them into the pockets of my guitar case, an older white gentleman had entered the place...
"The way they were looking at me out there;  they're probably going to think this is an extra clip of ammo," I said about the green super drink I was putting in one of the pockets.
The man smiled and said: "A cold drink!" (at that)
"Yeah, but with a flavor to die for," I said, on the way out...
I was stopped by National Guardsmen in the process of crossing over from Royal to Bourbon Streets , and, without objection, opened my back to reveal that my extra ammo clip had dripped condensation onto my rolling papers; there was a guitar in the case; and they never made it as far as the canister of suspicious white powder which was Creatine Monohydrate, and labelled as such. 
This is an example of the blessings that flow to those who show up and put in the effort. At least a few of them had seen me a few times the past week or so, and so I was already half-vetted as a non threat (unless one analyses my lyrics, I suppose...) .
I asked one of them: "So how many of you are actually loosing money by being out here doing this, rather than your regular jobs?"
"We're all civilians, and most of us have jobs, and yeah..we're losing money.."
"But, for the unemployed, it must be nice to have "found" work out here.."
"Yeah."
(thank for overlooking the vat of suspicious white powder, have a nice night)
I found some roaches of weed, so gummy with cannabis oils that they had stuck, like gum, to the sidewalk, and hadn't soaked up the rain that had fallen earlier, due to the oil and water not mixing thing...
Then I got a call from Jacob, who had some free time; and...we played for about 2 hours and split about 23 bucks; which is just about what I had estimated as the amount we could expect to make on the Wednesday night when parades were going on elsewhere that wouldn't end until midnight...
Well, I don't want Friday's post to be: "I spent all of Thursday recapping Wednesday.."
So, off I go; at 1:45 in the afternoon already...

The India House Hostel And Social Friction

So, there were these brownish guy's about 20 something years of age on the porch of the India House..

That is a hostel right on the other side of the church where Louis Armstrong got married to Lucy, from me.
I heard some guy speaking loudly about how Trump had called the Bad Bunny Superbowl halftime performance "the worst ever" (until the next one) and all that.
I was in high spirits; and had my guitar on my back and I was going to perhaps talk to them to see what they were about; just to be friendly in the way that used to be more the norm between people.
If the south is where the hospitality coagulates, then I really pity people in the other places.
I just said "Hey, people!" I believe. And there was shaking of heads; like, no it's not ok to say that to us.
It had nothing to do with me being white and 63; I'm sure of that; so I won't dwell on it; since those immutable characteristics, I could never bring them to see the advantage of...
The psy-op seems to involve people praising the Bad Bunny performance for what it was besides interesting music.
My guitar teacher said he watched it twice...
These are people who have figured out the algorithm; God bless em..
Like my post extolling the amazing accomplishments of the Jews...
There never was, nor will there ever be another artist who could do what Bad Bunny did up on that stage at halftime. I haven't seen it yet, actually, but I know what I'm saying.
That was the best ever! 
(So, now can search engines find this blog?
Because, I don't want to be like Alex Carter and be writing, to never be read...)

Let's Ask An Artificially Intelligent Entity What It Thinks!

Green will be for what Gemini 3 say's. 

It sounds like you’re reading a personal blog post where the author is reflecting on a social interaction that felt "off." The tone is a bit cynical, touching on modern social tensions and how the internet works. 

Gemini doesn't know that I'm the author, or maybe would have used a softened form of "cynicism." 
The people on the porch were in a towering Trump deranged rant; and wanted the whole world to hear; and myself, coming along in a white 63 year old body; well, they were going to return my greeting that way; as a signal that something wasn't right in a white 63 year old who say's "Hey, people!"
I did talk to one guy who was at the side of a van that he seemed to be getting stuff out of.
He asked me "What's going on?"
And I responded, "Just this."
That seemed to take him aback and he sort of asked me to repeat, and I explained; 
When you're living in the present moment then, like, the sum total of what's going on is you're standing here talking to (pointing to myself in a broad brush sweeping way) this skinny guy with a hat...
But then I quickly interjected: "But I'm not disappointed that my entire consciousness is involved in talking to you right now..."
Yeah, so maybe the guy's on the porch barking down the block about Puerto Ricans and hatred of Trump; maybe they were hostile because they saw me talking to the guy by the van, and maybe they hate him a lot; and so if A=B and B=C.....
Gotta go; it's Monday and the Mardi Gras busking train has just left the station...

The author implies that the "tacit understanding" is enforced by the digital landscape. To be "read" (and not be like Alex Carter), one must speak the language of the gatekeepers, even if one does so with a wink to the audience. -More from Gemini 3. She cracks me up... 

 I Learn About Subtext

You’ve identified Bad Bunny as a proxy. The author believes the praise isn't actually for the artist, but for the "cargo" (the ideology or social movement) he represents. In writing, this is often called Subtext.

This This Won't Grow Old 

5. SEO (Search Engine Optimization)

At the end, the author asks if search engines can find his blog. This is the practice of using specific names (like Trump, Bad Bunny, or Alex Carter) to make sure a website appears at the top of Google search results.

The War On Clutter

Yes, indeed, the carnaval season has arrived to find me in a state of semi-disarray; as the clutter has outpaced my decluttering effort over the past week or so. It's as if I was one incidence of the flu away from unravelling

I was up around 9 on this sunny Saturday morning of February 7th; and I rolled up the Brazilian flag in my parlor window to allow more of that item to pour in; so I could see where to begin to unclutter...

There's the strong coffee, the roll of toilet paper -a last vestige of the flu of '26 that I had for longer than I could of, had I not slowed my recovery by continuing to try to smoke..
The acoustic guitar waits to have some lighter gauge strings put on it (accomplished at this writing) after having proven to be a bit of a challenge at the Lilly Pad last night; as a hybrid of two different gauges...
And, of course, in the foreground, the "morning papers," as per the Artist's Way course I am trying to work. It's a 12 week program, and I'm still in Week One...("The Morning Papers")..
The hat that I wore to the store at about 9 pm, after we'd gotten back that early, reclines on the couch, after having taken it's unnecessary and ill-fated ride on my head; with a 24 ounce can of Abita "Hazy" IPA the goal of the mission...
That just made me fall asleep sooner, after I made about a 45 minute recording of me playing the hybrid guitar along with drum tracks; might as well capture the kludgy combination of odd strings for posterity. I still had plenty of energy 'in the tank' after Jacob and I played maybe just an hour and a half, split 23 bucks, then split...
Not a bad start on the first real day of Mardi Gras. There was a steady flow of tip money pretty much evenly spaced, which gave the sense that, were we to absolutely need, say, $100; it would only be a matter of putting in x amount of time...
And, of course, had a few of them one dollar bills been twenties, it could have been $81 bucks. 
Maybe tourists are holding back their larger tips for those whom they will wind up seeing "out there" every night of Mardi Gras; whom they will drop a "Benjamin" on, come fat Tuesday....   

But, the clutter...

I have already done the Jordan Peterson thing of making my bed, "first thing in the morning," which means the black sleeping bag and the tan bean bag pillow, are no longer spread out on the rug, and Harold is outside, a warm spot on the bag;  his legacy...
Then it was the morning papers, "first thing in the morning," before doing the Joe Dispenza Morning Meditation, which he advises be done "first thing in the morning."
 The book on "the Japanese Art of Decluttering (and the magic of tidying up)" is in the foreground, most likely pretty disgusted at what is in front of it..
The battery pack is plugged and charging; the black sneakers I wore last night, I should have put away (chapter 2).
And, gosh, the electric guitar is leaning on the stool I would want to sit on to put the sneakers back on, with a long sleeved thermal shirt draped over it to dry; as my laundry card balance was just short of a dryer load; due to mismanagement of my life, spawned by clutter; and being blindsided by a flu for four days...
"It's Going To Take Some Time," to master the Carol King song in the sheet music splayed out by the decluttering book...
A box of about 40 albums that I'm going through, then organizing either onto a shelf or into the trash can (in the case of one's that skip).
Another darned box by the door of the food that I get every month from some charity that, bless their hearts, are unwittingly (I hope) poisoning the residents here with Vienna sausage and "process" cheese et. al.
They (the people of color here) still call the latter "government cheese." Maybe it was intended to be fed to a government mule, I'm wondering...
But, I only take a couple items from this "senior box" of food that rains down from heaven, subsidized upstream by the very industries that sell pharmaceuticals to those that the government cheese catches up to...but I digress...
I shouldn't leave the rest sitting by my door; lest I come home drunk as a skunk and say "screw it," I'm making a big plate of spaghetti with a wad of that there orange cheese melted into it!"
There's the bug trap. It only had a couple big ones and three or four pretty small ones in it the last time I set it in the closet. It might have been an entire family, going to the water jug for a cat treat...speaking of foods that are signs of danger...
The 1,800 watt space heater has been all I've needed to get through the winter to this point. 
It's 59 outside right now, so maybe I can unclutter the spot where that is sitting pretty soon..
My busking gear sits on the exercise bench; throwing a hurdle in the way of doing a set of bench presses "first thing in the morning..."
The kid's drum kit that Jacob gave me. Now that is not to be seen as clutter. It will be one of only a dozen things still in the room on that glorious day when I finally decide to declutter the entire place; and change my life for good...

It Was Fifteen Years Ago, Today...

 

A documentary I participated in 15 years ago is now back  in production, and I'm going to meet up with Russell, the director (shown) to put some kind of "where are they now?" cap on the thing.  He messaged me out of the blue. I just wish I'd had the wherewithal to get out of the blue hat I was wearing in Mobile, Alabama in 2011 (shown).

3 Day Flu; even Harold affected

I was as sick as a dog; as was Harold my cat, apparently, as we were both sneezing this past weekend.
In my fevered state I slept off and on and would wrap up against the cold and then wake up sweating and shivering simultaneously. The fever was 101.6 according to a thermometer I had forgotten I had.
After remembering I had one "somewhere," was confounded to not find it in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.
"Who doesn't put their thremometer in their medicine cabinet?!" I asked the perplexed looking reflection in the bathroom mirror..
"Beats me," the palmetto bug that was hanging around the sink area, for the water, I imagine, seemed to shrug.
He is one that I'm allowing to live, while continuing to deport all the illegal ones from the closet by the stereo.
I think I have documented that situation; and shown the trap that I made, which now has been upgraded to an empty water-cooler type bottle with a few cat treats in it..

The water jug, as well as being a ready percussion instrument, and all you need to lay down cool sounding "drums," using a digital audio workstation, is also a very good palmetto bug detention center, as the resonant properties of the vessel amplify the sounds of them attacking the internal cat treats, and a multitude of the creatures inside the thing produces a sound somewhere between popcorn popping, and... a sound I can only describe as palmetto bugs scurrying around inside an empty water jug, feasting upon cat treats; complete with crunching and chewing sounds...
With the temperature having gone as low as 28 degrees, over the past weekend, I thought about putting a halt to the deportations, as, dumping them outside seemed to be like a death sentence...

"No bug is illegal in your

stolen apartment, Daniel!"

So, I struck a compromise, with my "remain in the jug" policy, whereby I would put a cap over the jug, trapping less than 10 or so of them (lately) inside the jug with treats to eat and let the jug sit inside the apartment until the outside temperature was above 50 degrees or so. Billie.

Anyways, that's about it for Wednesday; pre Mardi Gras parade weekend.
As of now I still haven't gotten any "marching orders" from the parade cleanup job..
It seems like, after I tried to apply as tax exempt, and some proof of that was required of me; in the form of a "picture" of my military discharge status (give me a break; my 15 year old phone isn't capable of taking a legible picture) that I am being held up and not even given the chance to work as a "single filer" and have the $640 that I would make this weekend, taxed down to about $580...
I would settle for that, in lieu, of having to go get my discharge papers scanned and emailed from Office Depot; and all that...
So, that's how they deny a white man a job; throwing a bunch of hoops to jump through in front of him until he just say's "screw it, I'll busk my ass off with the not too far-fetched goal of pulling in $600 on my own terms...
A lot of the pay of $16.01/hr. is for just sitting around, waiting for parades to end...
I've been paid to sit around and do nothing; paid very well, actually, but went stir crazy after about 12 hours of it.
The power had gone out and I was offered double time money to just sit in the dark, guarding a property against looters; this was before the days of cellphones....
Anyways, I'm still hoping to investigate the cleanup job and I might have to make the 45 minute walk to the place; since the parades start in a couple days...
You learn something about yourself, I think, based on whether you would take a job of doing nothing..