Eve Of Departure?

The guy who probably owns the condo across the street,
holding his $2,000 Dean guitar, after bringing me a 6-pack
of Harpoon IPA, which I wasn't too impressed with but drank anyways,
so as to not look a gift horse in the mouth...
My harp looks like it is mangled and laying on the concrete, but
it is actually in good standing (note its shadow). I was using my
"Street Musician Stimulus Package" sign on that night
and made about 55 bucks, to include a 2 dollar bill that someone threw.

• 25 dollar night could have been better
• Howards Headache delays exodus

Yesterday, Sunday, was not a typical one, as
There were a bunch of Kentucky and Vanderbuilt University people in town for the SEC Tournament.
It was with some anxiety that I woke up this morning.
It had started raining sometime in the middle of the night, and I made a run for the Simon Bolivar statue spot, as claps of thunder seemed to be saying "you'd better!"
Waking up this morning under Simon, I thought: This was supposed to be the day of our departure from New Orleans.
I also felt a little bit of guilt over the way I had treated a certain oil painter the night before...
I was at the Bourbon Street spot at around sundown Sunday (last) night, where I was immediately greeted by one of the guys from the condo across the street, the one who is an oil painter and a guitarist.
He is a pretty decent guitarist and can play some J.S. Bach pieces that I would have to study and practice for a few hours, in order to duplicate.
We had jammed once in the back room of their condo, about a month ago, with "mixed" results. He had a tendency to play softer, the louder I played, that time.
He seems to do pretty well selling his paintings (I think he gets hundreds of dollars for them); at least enough to be able to rent a condo on Bourbon Street.
He acted as if he had been waiting for my arrival.
"Hey, do you want to jam?," he asked. "I need to make some money, I haven't sold anything all week."
I agreed, without having tried to come to an agreement about how that "money" would be distributed between us. Normally, I would argue that, since I have two voices (harp and guitar) to his one voice (guitar), that the money should be split at 60/40 ratio (to make the math simpler) but I didn't mention that; thinking in the back of my mind of the times that they had supplied the the gin, cigarettes and other things while I played. "If I can sell my painting, I'll break you off something," he said.
"Cool," I said.
His roommate, who owns a very expensive Dean guitar (partially shown in photo) that he has only begun to learn on, and who probably owns the condo, was sitting on the front steps with the door open behind him.
He is the one who came out Saturday night and told me that, for the past week he had been sitting in the front room of the condo with the window open, playing along with me, and had finally "found the courage" to approach me to ask if we could play something together.

He's even left handed....

He gives the impression that he would trade all his wealth for a little tallent, and it is funny how deferential he is to me -I'm the one that should be kissing his ass, in order to be able to sit in front of his condo and (the past three nights) make about 11 bucks per hour- but he almost treats me like a celebrity "There were a couple kids playing earlier, but I ran them off; they weren't up to your standards at all," he told me one night, for example.
I sat down next to the oil painter, whose guitar was a bit sharp to mine, and since mine was fine-tuned to the harmonica, it became incumbent upon him to tune to me. I offered him my electronic tuner, which he used to at least get him in the same pitch as me.
I started jamming away, just doing what I normally do, while he tried to follow along. I was soon in "the void" and was hardly aware of his presence, hoping he wasn't feeling ignored.
He had leaned one of his paintings against the wall between us "If I sell my painting, I'll break you off something..." It was a bright-orange-dominated acryllic, which I later felt rude about not having appraised, beyond the cursory glance that I took at it.
With him being further removed from me by the extra distance of the width of the painting, it became hard for me to even hear what he was playing, without decreasing my own volume.
I finally just did what I have been doing the past month; played in certain keys and wailed on the harp, learning and earning.

Shortly after "My Favorite Mule," came the straw
that broke the camels back...

During "My Favorite Mule," which I wrote when I was missing the "g" string and which I had no idea at that time that it was going to become "my favorite harp" song; three guys sat down on the green steps on "my" side and listened.
I thought I did a compelling harp solo (if I can say so, myself) and when I finished the song, they threw a balled up bill, which landed in between my backpack and my leg, where I let it rest, while I thanked them for it by jamming hard for a few seconds on a flurry of riffs.
It is a common practice of buskers to play close to 100% throughout the course of the evening, saving their "105%" for the rewarding of people who tip. It's kind of like having an "after-burner" in your trunk. Ricky the Clarinetist, for example, will execute a flashy turbo charged, "jazz from hell" riff at double speed, as soon as the money lands in his case. He can't really say "thank you" with the horn in his mouth, otherwise.
A Jamacuum?
During the jam, I couldn't even really hear the oil painter guy. He had gotten softer in volume and was holding his head down next to the strings of his guitar, as if trying to make sure that he was in the right key before increasing his volume. He may have just stopped playing and sat there listening to me.
After the three guys had walked off towards Lafitt's Tavern, I took a break.
The oil painter guy jumped off of the steps to my right and bounded over to where the bill lay against my leg. "Look, we've made 20 bucks, already!" he said, before unfolding what indeed was a 20, and tossing it in my case. He sat back down with renewed vigor, as if thinking "This might be a pretty good night, afterall..."
I thought that he showed a lot of nerve in staking claim to half of the money, based upon what he contributed musically. I was able to control my ire by reasoning that the three guys may have been accounting for his presence by throwing 20 bucks, instead of 10 -but I couldn't help wonder why they seemed to be aiming it at my pocket when they threw it; putting it in the case would have been a clearer indication that it was for both of us. And, maybe they had been here for the whole SEC Championship Tournament and had walked past me each of the past four nights and on this, the last day of it, were "tightening me up," so to speak...I couldn't help wonder.
I played some more and the oil painter guy picked what I couldn't hear some more, and the next few groups of tourists all threw at least a buck. When I could hear him, he was gingerly playing up and down scales, as if looking for one that "fit."
After the third or fourth group of them (tourists) -the group which was like the proverbial blade of hay which injured the proverbial camel- I said "Do you want to just split this 20 now? I need to use the restroom and then go to Sidney's for another beer; but I'll be back..."
"I have a ten," he said, producing one.
As I walked off in the direction of Sydney's the owner guy, who had been sitting on his front steps and listening asked the oil painter if he/we were "quitting already."
I couldn't hear what the oil painter said, but I heard the owner guy reply "OK."
I returned about a half hour later and they were nowhere to be seen. I played another hour and made about another 15 bucks.
I almost feel like I owe the guy (painter) an appology for the way I took off, my main motive being to carve some fat off of my "operation," and go solo. We hadn't worked out any songs together, and the sum of the parts was almost indistinguishable from my part alone, in my opinion. I need to come up with a "snigglet" for a guy who benefits from anothers playing while barely adding anything. (a "jamacuum?")
I hope that tonight they don't show up and say "We've bent over backwards to accomodate you playing here. Did you know that the lady in 2504 was ready to call the police but we convinced her not to. We've given you expensive gin-based drinks etc...the least you can do is help our little buddy here out" or words like that.
They could just as easily say "My buddy didn't mean to ruin your hustle; we felt like crap afterwards."

Looks like New Orleans is the only place getting f****d,
right now...Texas looks fine...

Howard's Headache
The reason I even mention seeing them tonight, rather than seeing mile after mile of scenery roll past, is that our trip has been postponed one day due to Howard feeling that it wasn't a good day for travelling, due to the overcast conditions, and the fact that he has had a headache for a couple days and thinks that he might have to see a doctor tomorrow. I still have 9 days to be out of here, or give the judge a very good reason why I need to stay here. Having found a spot where I can make 50 bucks a night is not a very good reason.
I need to remember that I can make the 50 bucks (or more) per night in other places; places where you don't typically get punched in the eye for not giving some punks girlfriend a cigarette.

Fools Russian, Where Angels Fear To Tread

From Russia, With Love

• It's Easy If You Try...
• Jasmine in need of repair
• Sue and mine's tumultuous relationship
• Courtdate Set For 2/29
• The Two Man Band
• Goodies From Gilroy

Imagine making 50 bucks for playing one song, five times...
Well, that is just what happened Saturday night, into Sunday morning.
Sue had shown up in the middle of my set on Decatur Street, and feigned to grab my backpack and run off, like she has done before. My head was turned the other way at the time, and it caused my heart to skip a beat, when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The transition from horror to bliss when I beheld her was pleasant, as I had thought that she made the 2 mile walk just to see me.
Soon, it became evident, as she pulled out a bowl of excellent "gumbo," that the Asian lady had encountered her, making me wonder which one of us she is actuallly trying to feed, if not both of us.
Sue had gotten there before me, on an errand to retrieve or stash stuff at her super secret hiding place near my spot, and I guess she turned it into a double errand by including her visit to me.
I made about 13 bucks, as she clapped along, and then decided to knock off at 11:30, three and a half hours past the "curfew" on street performance on that street. I have noticed that the cops only ticket us on Mondays and Tuesdays, when other heneous crimes are slow.
We went to Bourbon Street and I set up at my semi-quiet spot, a little ways from the circus which is on the Canal Street end.
Soon, a couple arrived.
He was from Alaska ($$$), very lonely, and tired of the -37 degree weather.
She was from here, a photographer, heavily tattooed and on disability for a drug addiction (yes, you can get paid here to be a junkie!)
They sat and talked. I played some music and there was soon a 10 dollar bill in my case to go with the 13 which were already there.
They invited us to go for drinks. We found a trendy, hip and happening bar, where shots of good vodka were $20.50; a little pricey (I thought the extra 50 cents was "over the top").
Even the guy from Alaska thought it was a little too much oil-pipeline money for one shot of booze.
We headed for another bar, but, before we got there, we were accosted by a group of what turned out to be Russians, sitting on the steps in front of a condo. One of them wanted to play my guitar.
What I saw were a group of bums that wanted to bang on my guitar for their own amusement. I figured that if they loved the guitar that much, they would own one.
What the tatooed photographer girl saw, and explained to me later was "money" ("They're staying in a condo on Bourbon Street, and they're drinking out of glasses which are tailored to the exact kind of wine which is in them; and, did you notice the Dom Perignon on the table inside?")
Before she could communicate this, I rudely said "Nobody touches my guitar, dude!," which played right into their Russian hands. Russians are customarily rude to each other, as I suppose they feel that it is more honest than false pleasantry...
"I'll give you 10 bucks, if I can play your guitar," said one.
"Mozna!" (you may), I said. (I lived with a Russian lady for over a year, once)
Soon, 10 bucks fell into my case, quickly scooped up by Sue "I'll be the money holder," who was leary of it being snatched by someone. Very considerate of her to look out for "my" money like that...
Then, one of them asked my if I could play "Imagine," by John Lennon, John Lennon!!
That being one of my masterpieces, I played it. Another 10 bucks went to Sue.
"Again!," said the same guy, when I was finished. I fought back the exasperation over repeating the same song and repeated the same song. 10 more bucks.
"We need to stay here untill six in the morning," whispered Sue in between renditions. "Keep playing!"
Easy for her to say...
"Imagine" was performed 5 times, for a total of 50 bucks. Glasses of Dom Perignon and red wine were had by all, even Sue, who doesn't usually drink, but knows when the value of something is commensurate with her lady hood and not below her dignity...
Then, the couple, who had gone off to eat and drink, returned, and invited us to eat and drink with them, just as the Russians were finally tiring of the music of John Lennon.
We were led to a bar, where we were each handed shots of bourbon in test tubes. Sue "accidently" dropped all 12 dollars worth of hers. "You don't know what they might have slipped in it, you can't trust people!"
The Spat
Sue and I are now batting about .500 when it comes to us argueing after we both drink.
The couple invited us to crash at their hotel room, rather than our usual bed of mulch. Sue didn't want to go.
I appologized for her skittishness and assured them that it had nothing to do with lack of appreciation for all they had done for us.
We walked back to the mulch bed.
"Can I have the money now?" I finally asked, after I became curious about its amount and had an unsettling feeling about Sue being the "keeper" of it. I envisioned it becoming "our" money and subject to being spent by committee. I also knew that Sue was prone to walk off at the slightest provokation, such as a comment that I might make, which would offend her. I can remember times when I thought that she was walking a step or two behind me, only to turn my head and see her a quarter mile off and heading in the opposite direction, after I said something which she misinterpreted.
"No," she said.
"Are you just going to steal it from me?" I asked, which turned into a very good illustration of the above.
She emptied her pockets and threw money at me and said "Here. Here's everything they gave you!" and then grabbed her stuff and walked off. "I'm not a thief!!"
I haven't seen her since.
She has my mp3 player. I guess I will find out how honest she actually is, by weather or not I get it back.
Jasmine Holding Up
Meanwhile, I wait for the guy at the music store to get in some tuning machines, so that I can fix the Jasmine guitar before the string which I can't adjust snaps. While I have the money to do so.
"Not Guilty"
I got up this morning, in time to catch the 8:30 bus to arrive at the courthouse only an hour late.
I was determined to be indigent and referred to a public defender, who had a pen out and a form used to plead "guilty," which outlined all the rights to be given up by doing so. He pushed the pen towards me and told me to sign.
I remembered what Mary Howell, the civil rights attorney had instructed me to do and I politely refused the council provided to me at no cost by the Public Defender's Office.
"Good!" said Attorney Howell when I went to her office afterwards and told her what had transpired.
My "trial" date has been set for February 29th. It seems like events are conspiring to keep me here at least through Mardi Gras. After that, any number of things may happen, including catching a ride with the One Man Band, Joe who has a van.
Goodies Picked Up
I am almost out of time and don't want to slight this portion, but, I got a box from Alex in California which contained the pleasant surprises of pepper spray and tea bags, along with the expected guitar strings of which I was notified were on the way.

The Sixties

Thursday, after waking up
with 63 cents in my pocket and spilling some of my energy drink on the muddy ground where I had layed, I went into the city.
The temperatures were to rise into the sixties this day.
I went stright to Save-A-Lot, to stash my bag and guitar.
Jennifer, one of the assistant managers (I think they are all either managers, or assistant managers; they may have one "regular" employee to boss around) gave me a pack of Marlboro Special Blend 100's, telling me that they were too strong for her.
I then had 63 cents and the means to sell cigarettes for a quarter each, to at least get one beer before playing that night. I blogged at the library until pretty late, and then made the walk down Dauphine Street, intent upon selling cigarettes and getting a beer. I fixed the two strings which had snapped on the Jasmine, one of which by using an ingeniously tied knot to join the two segments.
As I approached Cathedral Park, there was a black guy in a hoodie coming towards me.
"Hey, guitar man, let me borrow a dollar!," he said, as he neared me.
"I don't even have a dollar, I'm trying to sell my cigarettes to get a dollar," I said to him as he walked past me.
At the mention of cigarettes, he stopped and turned around and said "Give me one."
I really hate bums (like that.) I had just told him that I needed to sell them to get some money, but all he heard was "cigarettes."
One might think that, since I was given the cigarettes, I should be equally generous with them. I am, but I do it on my own terms. For example, if I see a guy picking up a "duck" from the sidewalk, I might offer him one of mine, but a guy who has clearly demonstrated that his needs supercede anyone else's does not get the cigarette.
*A "duck" is a cigarette that someone threw down without having finished smoking it; so named because like the mammal, it is often wet on the "ass end." They are also nicknamed "snipes," by some, which I think is derived from the fact that the eye of a sniper is required to spot them from a distance.*
I then walked toward Joachim Street, where I noticed that the lights of the Saenger Theatre were lit, and that there was a concert going on inside.
The American Dream
It was the band "America" (Horse With No Name, Sister Golden Hair Surprise) still at it; a band from the 60's, now in their 60's.
I knew that this was a good opportunity for a guy with an acoustic guitar to pounce. I believe that America is like five guys with acoustic guitars, anyways, with maybe a bassist and drummer.
I tried to sell a couple cigarettes for 50 cents to a guy outside HopJacks, which is next door to the theatre. He said that he had enough cigarettes, but gave me a dollar.
I went and got one Steel Reserve, then returned to the Saenger.
There were a couple of ladies standing out front. The one with the white hair asked me what I had in my case.
"An acoustic guitar, maam"
"A six string?"
Laughing: "Well, it is a six string now. Last night it was a four string."
She told me that she was 60 years old, and that when she is in a dark room there is a glowing aura around her head. "So, where are you going to sleep tonight?" she asked.
"Down by the railroad tracks," I said.
She then gave me a pep talk about never giving up, and about playing music from my soul. She hugged me, then asked me how I was going to stay warm.
I started to explain that I had a sleeping bag and...
She cut me off and said "I know what you have, you have a good soul but you're homeless and broke!" and then handed me five bucks.
Presently, the black guy in the hoodie materialised from somewhere and said "Oh, you got a blessing, huh?"
His implication was clear, now I could "lend" him that dollar that he had asked for, and maybe throw in a cigarette, or two.
Myself and the lady, who had once lived "all over" Vermont, continued to talk, excluding the black man in the hoodie from the conversation, and he soon walked away. If a lady who glows in the dark chose to ignore the guy, then, maybe my "read" of him was right.
Is This The Right Music?
I went back to the beer store, returning to the theater in time for the letting out of a seemingly very small crowd (unless most of them went out the side entrance).
As I set up and tuned my recently fixed strings, I thought about what kind of music I should play for people who had just heard America, with Jim Messina as the opening act.
I hadn't really settled upon anything, but started to play "Going Down The Road (feeling bad)," by The Grateful Dead, thinking as I did "Is this the right music?"
I got almost 10 bucks in one's from the two dozen or so who walked past. Most of them paused to listed for a minute before tipping me, which is intangible, yet as valuable to me as the buck or two that they threw me.
Then, there was just one guy left, sitting in one of the chairs that the HopJacks people use for their smoke breaks.
"What else do you play?" he asked, as I had transitioned into "Eyes Of The World," by the Grateful Dead.
"Well," I said, and then broke into "Sugar Magnolia," by the Grateful Dead, thinking oops, same band; might not  fit the criteria of "else."
"I can't believe you're gonna sit out here and play on this freezing night," he said, as he put a 20 dollar bill in my case.
After a trip to the Exxon, which has apparently unbarred me, after having barred me previously for no apparent reason, I went to sleep at the railroad track spot, cushioned by the 28 bucks in my pocket, and it was only Thursday night.
This morning, the sports section of the Mobile Press Register, had been layed at my feet by Howard, who seems to be adapting to life in Mobile.
I will leave here soon to take the bus to the music store for some new strings and I hope to play this Friday night. Somebody said that it might be an Artwalk night (If the first Friday falls early enough in the month, then the second Friday is counted as the first Friday, but only in months with 5 Fridays, or something like that) but I'd like some new strings, regardless.

No Crying Roast-Meat

Thursday night, I ran into Terry, an elderly black guy, who reaffirms my belief that the color of one's skin is of no import, pertainent to the nobility of one's character; him being a very cool black guy.

We sat and I drank my first Earthquake of the day, which whittled my cash down to $2.87.

We were joined by a guy who's name I forget, but whom I see a lot at the library, and I am actually a "friend" of his on Facebook. We smoked and drank.

Soon, it was time to go into town, as it was nearing the time of the Great Feeding at 15 Place. I wanted to play for about an hour, before partaking of that Grand Feast. I could remember the previous week, when I had only 32 cents, and ate at 15 Place, then went out and played.

I had my second beer, waiting for The Great Dining Hall to open. I had 3 helpings of shepherd's pie. It was just about perfect, a Miracle On Joachim Street.

A Lady Gives Me 25 Dollars

I sat on my spot, the acoustically superior one, and played. My new "g" string rang out, and a new low "e" string did the same.

I can't remember what music I was doing, but, a lady came by and asked me if I wanted a snack. She was holding a bag, which she deposited next to me. It contained a muffin, a rice treat kind of thing, and three apples. She dropped 20 dollars in my case, next to the 3 which were already in there.

"Thank, you! Do you need change?," I asked, offering her the 3 bucks.

She said that she didn't want any change, and that, in fact, she was going to give ME more change. She dropped 5 more bucks in. She said "I love music."

The apples made me wonder if she reads this blog...

I had 28 bucks, and should have been set up for a productive night, but, people came along and gave me beer and invited me to go eat.

Along came Terry, the cool older black guy (because of whom, I can't judge anybody by the color of their skin) and asked me for beer money. I gladly gave him 2 dollars, and he went to the beer store, and came back with change.

Then came the guy, who's name I forget, and sat down and listened for a while. He had worked that day, and had 100 dollars. He offered to get beer, and did so; producing a 6 pack of Budweiser. He wanted to get food, also, but I advised against the out of control spending which getting food on Dauphin Street would entail.

I played more, and got two 5's, and a few more ones -not bad for a spot with light traffic, but excellent acoustics. I was eventually feeling pretty drunk, and only vaguely remember the rest of the night, except the following.

I ran into Israel, who was bragging about the 8 dollars that he made at a busy (hectic) spot up the street. "That's a good spot," he said.

When asked how I had done, I didn't want to tell him that I had made about 37 dollars to his 8. I was thinking of something that I had read in Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding (which, by the way, is turning into one of the most excellent books which I have ever read) The quote has to do with not "foolishly bragging" about good fortune, when all it would do is "call forth partakers of what you intend to enjoy privately." He (Fielding) called it "Crying roast-meat." and I think it comes from olde English lore, (and the Lidgeleys may be able to verify this.)

I told Israel that I had done "alright, thanks to one generous lady." He probably thought that I was thrown 10 bucks. I don't think that he will try to play my spot, but, there is still a price to pay for bragging, and he might have spread the word, in the form of "I wish I made 37 bucks, like Daniel did," whereupon, I would be plagued by supplicants for money and cigarettes the whole night long.
Knowing that I had money, they would paint me as a greedy individual, were I to turn them away.

The mentality which produces notions like: One should take whatever he has and "share" it with everyone, because we are "all in this together,' and are all "out here, struggling," and we "all need to look out for one another, is prevalent amongst them, and well documented in this blog.

I don't subscribe to it, because I produce income. I believe that those fellows who trumpet the above philosophical point of view, if audited, would be found to have their balance sheets skewed drastically, in the direction of "money bummed," completely overshadowing "money given to others."

At one point, I took a break and walked with the guy who's name I forget, up to the store. I got an energy drink for the (this) morning.

Violence Breaks Out Over 10 Bucks

The guy who's name I forget was in a dispute with a young black kid, over 10 dollars, and at one point, got hold of the young black kids cellphone, as a securty against the 10 dollars. I was entrusted to hold the phone, being kind of a referee of sorts.

The young black kid was unable to produce the 10 dollars, and still wanted his phone back. Being fair and impartial, I told him that the phone was being held until the guy who's name I forget, got his 10 bucks. The young black kid wanted the phone back first, claiming that the 10 bucks would then be turned over. I told him that it would not work that way, as, the phone had little value to us, and more to him etc.

He swung his fist, hitting me somewhere in the cheek, I think. I felt hardly anything. I stood there, looking at him. The kid actually went and got a cop, of sorts (a Community watchdog type of guy who walks around in a yellow shirt and gives people directions and watches out for crime, or something) who told us to just give the kid the phone back, and swallow the 10 bucks and consider it a lesson learned (not to ever trust him again.) He went on to say that sometimes these young black kids will shoot people over 10 dollar cell phones.

Somehow, I woke up with about 24 bucks and the energy drink.

I remember going to the Exxon, very late, and spending about 5 bucks on cigarettes and one last Steel Reserve, and getting back to town, to find it pretty deserted. I remember trying to fool myself into thinking that I wasn't going to the Exxon, mainly hoping to run into Corrie.

This morning, I bought nail clippers, and hair conditioner. The lady at CVS gave me some elastics for my pony tail, as the "professional" ones only came in 12 packs, at $3.99 per pack...

Tonight being Saturday night, and the thunderstorm having already passed through, it might be a pretty good night. I will go to New Orleans, if I have more than 20 bucks by Monday, what the heck....

Now, I ponder getting a cell phone of my own, so that I will have a phone, an alarm clock, and a stopwatch all in one....

Friday

Friday, which was 3 days ago, was alright money-wise. One person came by and threw me a 20 dollar bill, which I didn't notice right away, and I probably gave them the $1 "Thanks," as is often the case. When I am concentrating enough to be oblivious to them, that is often when they will throw the 20's.
Karrie came by and, seeing the 25 bucks or so in my case, became preoccupied with going back to the camp and starting a fire, which is what she did.
I Return To CVS, The Site Of My Trespassing.
The night manager at CVS, who trespassed me, causing me to spend a long time in jail, no longer works there. The cashier who has always been cool informed me of this, when I went in and asked her if the b**** was there.
The cashier asked me where my girlfriend was, told me that she liked her; and then said "You take care of her."
I thought she was telling me to take care of Karrie.
She was actually making the statement that she could see that I indeed do take care of her (she had seen Karrie come in and buy the 4 pack of Mickey's Ice, fulfilling her needs.)