Don't Say Anything At All...

Learning To Hate

I have reached a nadir in my Mobile experience.

Yesterday, leaving the library with only the 41 cents in my pocket, I walked through the 96 degree heat to get an energy drink off of my food card. I drank it, and then thought that I might augment the 41 cents by playing at my spot.

Getting there in the early evening, I sat and tried to play anything. I wasn't feeling resourcefull, and could only come up with music about how Mobile is God-forsaken and I'm not makin' any bacon....

There was hardly any foot traffic.

I left and walked further up Dauphin Street, and sat in a park, feeling disgusted and depressed.

The Petty World

Along came two black guys who were apparently drunk, and wanted me to play a song for them. I told them that I had just put on new strings and was still adjusting them. They were persistent. I finally played a few songs, and then they told me that they were on their way to get a 6 pack of beer, and offered me one of the six. At about this time, we were noticing that it was almost time for the Thursday night meal at 15 Place. We decided to hurry to the beer store and then, to eat.

They weren't prepared for the higher prices at The Dauphin Store. They were short of a 6 pack, and so, got a 4 pack.

As we left the store, one of them argued that I shouldn't get my promised beer, since they only came up with 4 of them. The other one, the leader, overruled him, though it seemed like it was an act of self discipline and sacrifice.

I got my beer and proceeded around the back of a building in the direction of 15 Place. The first one followed along with me. As soon as we were out of sight of the leader, and I had opened my beer and taken a long drink off of it, he wanted a sip, before opening his own. A class act.

The leader came around the corner holding a 5 dollar bill, which he had found on the ground, telling us that we both had walked right past it.

I probably would have seen it if not being hounded by the second black man. The second black man probably would have seen it if not busy hounding me for beer which was given to me, in exchange for playing music.

This is the petty world which I find myself thrown into. I actually felt bad about missing the 5 bucks on the ground, having only 41 cents, and all.

Why don't I sell my soul to the Devil?, so sick I am of this poverty and pettiness.

The Girl Who Thinks She Is Black

At 15 Place, the only empty chair was at a table with a large, dumpy looking white girl, who pays no attention to white men, is always seen with black men, has a black boyfriend, and tries to talk like a black girl; cutting the ends off of every word, so that "door" becomes "dough" and "floor" becomes "flow." Also, "There's some salt over there" becomes "It's some salt ova they."

It took all I had, not to just look at her in disgust and ask "What is your problem, anyways?"

The meal was chicken, which had people acting like sharks with blood in the water.

All I thought about was how I could have been out trying to make money, instead of wasting an hour on a meal which I didn't enjoy, with company that I enjoyed even less.

Then, back at my spot, the traffic was almost non existant. I became more annoyed. The serenity prayer wasn't working.

I made not a dime there.

A black guy came along and wanted 28 of my 41 cents, because he was that much short of a pack of cigarettes. You got 41, all I need is 28, why are you trippin'?

Mobile On 41 Cents A Day

I took a break and went to the store. On the way back, a man in the park gave me two Steel Reserves, which had been given to him, though, he didn't want them. I drank them quickly, and then moved to a spot near the clubs.

By then, I was so irritated (even after being blessed with 211) that I was singing about how ugly Alabama girls are *, and backwards and ignorant. The only person who heard me, though, was the guy with the hot dog cart nearby.

One (white) girl gave me a dollar.

(*does not include Porsha, and a certain bartender at Veets)

After a while, I couldn't take it anymore. I was so pissed off at everyone, that I knew I was going to go off and offend someone. I took a break and walked the mile to the Exxon to spend 87 cents of the only dollar I had on an Earthquake Lager.

It's No More Earthquake; They Out

Getting to the store, I found that they had no Earthquake Lager. I grabbed a Steel Reserve and brought it to the large black girl, at the counter.

"Did you guys stop carrying Earthquake?" -A blank stare, as if I wasn't speaking the native tongue.

"They might have discontinued it, because it's so strong. People who drink it like regular beer, not realising that it is 12% alcohol, could wind up wreaking their cars, or something..." -Another dumb look, and then she hit the buttons on the register, and said "87 cents."

I said "Do you think they'll get some more Earthquake in?"

She handed me my change and said "Thank you," nothing more from her.

Do you understand English? This is what is called 'making light conversation.' People do this in order to be pleasant towards each other in a civilized society. What you just did was rude; can you say "rude...?' Try not to cut off the 'd,' there, you go...

I drank down the 211 behind a bush, and then emerged, stewing and fomenting, and cussing; hating "every damned one of 'them'..."

Back in town, things were still "hopping." It was 2:30 am.

While just walking towards the spot near the hot dog cart, carrying the bucket that I sit on, a young white guy handed me 5 bucks. He said "I play guitar, too." That made it possible for me to wake up with $5.41 this morning.

I played by the "colored" clubs for another hour after that and wasn't thrown anything like a tip.

I sat and watched young black guys, come out of the clubs and shamelessly approach the white girls, holding their genitals, and trying to win the girl's hearts, using descriptions of their automobiles, and talk of their educational plans, as pertaining to the acquisition of material wealth.

One conversation between two young black ladies, seemed to center around the fact that a man was trying to woo one of them, but the fact that she saw his car and "it was some Chrysler," made it too hard for Cupid's arrow to penetrate.

Meanwhile, I sat and was ignored, except for some "tough guy" looks from the crotch holders with their boxer shorts half exposed, and a few sarcastic comments. Of course it bothers a street musician to be ignored, and we are supposed to accept it as part of the territory. It was just a little overwhelming, along with everything else, plus the 211.

I am becoming a racist very fast.

[Google: Homemade Backpack Bombs... LOL!]

I planned upon playing at the offramp this morning; something that I do out of desperation, when I really want some money.

After washing up in the park, I emerged to see a cop sitting directly across the street from where I play, as if he read my mind.

I wanted to play then, because the forecast is for rain the next two days. It was drizzling lightly already.

The Trolley Driver From Hell Again

I went across the street to catch the free trolley to the library. It came by and went past me, but had to stop at the corner. I walked up to it and the door opened and it was the same black lady from a previous post, and she said "I thought I told you you can't get on with that guitar!" She wasn't cutting the ends off her words, because I am white, and to suit their purposes, a lot of them can use complete words; especially when trying to get jobs -easy jobs like driving the free trolley...

"I was hoping for a different driver," I said, before she slammed the door and drove off.

I was overcome with anger and I gave her the finger as she drove off. Then, I held my hands together, like an imaginary gun and fired several shots at her. I imagine that she won't let me ride the free shuttle now, even if I don't have my guitar.

I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't call a black cop friend and tell him that I threatened her. The cop would love to be a Black Superman, I'm sure. A lot of them are like that. Obama is like that, I think. He wants to be a big hero to dark skins everywhere, even if (or especially if) it abolishes the America that our forefaters fought for...

When It Rains....

I started walking towards the library, carrying my pack and guitar, and trying to decide what I am going to call the black trolley driver, if she tells me that I can't get on the free trolley, because I gave her the finger. I guess I didn't "fast and cleanse" long enough for the Holy Spirit to inhabit my mind and soul for very long...obviously...

I'm thinking of embarking on another one, before New Orleans...

As I walked, the wind picked up and the rain intensified. The trolley had been almost empty, with plenty of room for a guitar. Someone told me that this particular driver has been seen to park the bus and "just sit there" while on the clock; and that she was heard complaining about how all she does is cart around the homeless, (as if they are harder to drive around than people with dwellings.)

I am trying to think if anything else went wrong in the past day; I may have missed something.

(Short) Positive Note

On a positive note: I found my copy of Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding. It was at the abandoned convent spot, on top of an air conditioning housing thing. I almost remember putting it there.

The Artwalk, Definitely, This Time

Tonight is The Art walk.

It wasn't last week, as I previously thought. It's tonight.

The forecast is for rain, though, and that could ruin it for me. I like the art walk, because the majority of walkers are intelligent afficionados of the arts.

The few blacks that walk are the kind that act like intelligent afficionados of the arts. They are only a few centuries removed from grass huts, spears, drums and holding their genitals while talking to the opposite sex, though...

There Is A Space Between "Craw," and "Fish"

It is Saturday.
I woke up with $9.45.
I drank about, oh, 5 bucks worth of beer yesterday, so, think about how rich I could be!
Return Engagement At Hotel
They want me to play at the hotel tonight at 5pm. That should pay the same 30 dollars; a windfall for a street musician who got one 5 dollar tip last night in 3 hours of playing, to put him at about 15 bucks for the night...
Flying Pig
Before here, I was at breakfast at 15 Place. A woman there, who had spent all of her money, which she gets from the government to compensate her for being "mentally ill," allegedly on crack cocaine last night; threw her coffee on the ground, and then began throwing her food at everyone within her range. Her sandwich, eggs, and grits (which hard to aim accurately) all became projectiles, and nobody had amnesty. Someone had called her a "crack whore," provoking the attack. A piece of ham from out of the sandwich missed me by a mere 4 feet.
That was this morning's dining experience.
Invitation To Play Craw fish Place
Last night ended with myself being attracted to a restaurant which sells a lot of craw fish, by the voice of a young black lady, who was singing a Nora Jones song. I stood a few feet from her, listening. The manager, Chrissy, came over to me, during the singer's break and said that she had been trying to catch up with me about playing in the restaurant which sells a lot of craw fish. She had heard me on the street, she said, though she motioned towards a spot where I have never played, as she said this...
Go To New Orleans!
Before that, I had been playing pretty well at my acoustically sound spot. I may have made about 15 bucks. I drank 5 of it. One of my tips was a pack of cigarettes. One of my compliments came from a young lady, who came over and put her hand on my shoulder and said "GO TO NEW ORLEANS, YOU'LL MAKE MONEY; YOU'RE NOT MAKING IT HERE, RIGHT?"
She was "right."
First, I will wait upon my ID card to come in the mail. Then, I will renew my food stamp card (the shame of it all..) so, that, in any situation, at least I won't starve...Then, maybe New Orleans.
Nary A Sign Of Karrie
Karrie has not gotten in touch for whatever reason. Maybe it was all just an illusion. Maybe our separation was meant to be. You only live once, and spending life chasing after the next drink, could have one feeling someday that their life had been "wasted," if you'll excuse the pun..

I Hate It But I Always Do It

50 Bucks

Saturday night, I started playing early and racked up around 50 bucks. I had a 20 dollar bill and a 5 dollar bill in my case. Apart from these two, it would have been a typical, low paying, Mobile Saturday and I would have made less than 30 bucks. This boon gave me enough to plan upon going for my ID the following Monday. I would just have to survive Sunday without spending too much, or getting begged or robbed too much.

We Don't Carry Cash

There was a bum, well known to me, standing nearby at one point when I was playing, and a group of Christians came by and asked me to play "Amazing Grace."

I sounded out Amazing Grace to mine and their satisfaction, and they then prayed over me. One of them, I think, is the one who dropped the 20 dollars in my case.

I had been telling them about how I had had enough money for my ID, exactly, the previous day, but, getting the ID would have meant not spending a cent on anything else, and I had failed to do that.

They gave me a sermon about how God had given me just what I needed, but the devil had triumphed over me when I bought a pack of smokes and a couple beers. I was just being honest with them and answering their questions.

They prayed that I would make the 23 bucks that night and get my ID and get a job and do God's will. (God didn't intend for His children to be on the street playing guitar) All this happened while the bum stood 5 feet away, listening and watching as more than one of them threw money in my case, and someone gave me some pizza. As the group were leaving, the bum said something to them. I couldn't hear what it was that he said, but I heard one of the Christians say. "We don't carry cash with us" to him.

A Breakfast Fit For Nero

The next morning, the bum was at breakfast at 15 Place. He was telling everyone who cared to listen about how much money "Guitar Man" had made the previous night. "Yeah, he was raking it in...he must have made at least 50 bucks; AT LEAST!"

I can't imagine what service he thought he was doing me; did he think every bum was going to be proud of me, and respect me?

Then, the bums of 15 Place, taking the cue, started The Barrage. "Hey, Guitar Man, let me get a smoke..." "Yeah, Guitar Man; break bread!" They can sound so biblical sometimes. Jesus would give us a cigarette...

I didn't give them anything. I told the loudmouth bum that, what I made was none of his business; though, it is everyone who walks by me and stares into my tip jar's "business," and that's a part of my business which I can't avoid. He accused me of "hustling" Christians, saying that I had manipulated them, and mentioned needing 23 dollars as a manner of begging. He asked me how I felt in my heart to have hustled Christians. Then, the knowledgeable historian referred to me as "Nero."

Up with the sun this morning. I still had some Vault energy drink in my bottle, despite having drank most of it in the middle of the night. This lead to a bizarre dream, in which my guitar strings were tuned WAY too high, causing the neck to bend. I retuned them in my dream, and then, I was suddenly making out with Anna Kournikova. Dreams don't always make sense; even though this one did perfectly (she tunes her racket.)

I walked to the main bus station and got on the right bus to go out to the Division of Licenses.

Upon getting there, I was told that, in addition to my birth certificate and my Social Security card, I needed a "third" form of something. I handed the official my expired ID. She told me that it had expired too long ago. She gave me a list of other acceptable documents. I told her that I had none of them. She told me that I couldn't get ID. I then said: "So, I can''t work?"

"No," she said.

I was ready to go off and make a huge scene. I was going to drop every expletive that I could think of, accuse them of trying to keep the homeless down, so that they (them) could divide the "pie" amongst themselves. I was going to call the President a piece of s*** and ask her how she would feel to have HER right to the "pursuit of happiness" sidetracked by a pencil pushing bureaucrat, who acts complacent and uncaring, to make matters worse.

I was pissed.

Then, I remembered the Record of Adoption paper, which my mom had mailed me. It was being used as a bookmark in a book that I am reading about Joseph Smith (the founder of the Mormon religion.)

I Adopt A New Strategy

I gave it to the official, who had just barely escaped being cussed out, and she was mesmerised by the gold seal upon it. She let me through. I pity all the guys who will never again hold a job because they don't have the right documents and have no way of obtaining the right documents, without the right documents. They will panhandle and pick ashtrays all of their days, or become outlaws, and I have a new found sympathy for them, (except for the one's who aren't trying.)

When the official had told me that, "no," I can't work, she said it with no emotion at all. People walk into places like that with automatic weapons and it's becoming less and less"shocking" and closer to being understandable. They are telling able bodied men that they can't go out and make a living for themselves by the sweat of their brows, because their ID expired more than 90 days ago...pathetic...

I Got The Thing

I paid the $23.50, out of the money which I made on Saturday night, this leaving me $4.75, an amount that I am getting used to being down to, and had my picture taken.

It was hard to smile for the photo, as I had originally planned upon doing, after what I had gone through. I had wanted to outdo Karrie with my photo. Karrie sports a big smile on her ID because, as she put it "I was happy to get my ID." Liquor stores occasionally card her, you see.

The ID will be mailed to 15 Place within 30 days. This is another layer of insulation for them against someone using a non existent address, or one where they don't actually live. Now, I must hope that 15 place extends my temporary membership until such a time that the thing arrives there.

The Garage

Tonight is open mic night at The Garage. I have not done my homework. I procrastinated upon learning the new material which I wanted to introduce tonight. I still have a couple hours, and seem to enjoy putting myself under the pressure of going on stage not sure of myself. I hate it, but I always do it.