Blessed Leisure

It was so nice to get back to the apartment after having watched the Patriots defeat the Falcons, 23-7 at Howard Westra's house.

Leisure time to sit and draw; and not feel like I'm shirking responsibilities...

Early Monday morning, it was, and myself with the resources (after the 88 dollar Saturday night) to take the rest of that day, as well as Tuesday, off to do anything other than busk.

Howard is pretty well, for a 67 year old Dutchman. He has recently gotten the results of a battery of medical tests performed on him at the Veterans Administration hospital. All of them "negative," he said.

He still experiences stiffness in his joints or muscles, making it hard for him to hoist his leg over his bicycle. He thinks this is due to hardening of the arteries.

He came up with a solution to the problem, which didn't require surgery; in the form of a "girls" bike, that he doesn't have to lift his leg over the seat to mount.


It wasn't as easy to arrive at that solution, as it might sound, given that he was raised by his Dutch father to be a man's man; and no sissy.


He told me once that the biggest division between he and his father was over the fact that he (Howard) was a conscientious objector who went to Canada instead of Vietnam, back in '67.
Or, if he didn't go there, he wrote an essay articulating his objection to the war and sent it to Lyndon Johnson, or something; I forgot what he told me exactly.

"Whatever, sissy." -L.B.J.

Considering the big picture, his dad had concluded that, no, it wasn't because Howard was a coward that he didn't go to fight. I guess the lad had demonstrated ample chutzpah throughout the rest of his life, to warrant that assessment.

It would have been a disgrace,
had lack of courage been his case,
but on moral grounds, he was able to save face.
Let's not, though, stir the pot, he might have thought,
by riding a girl's bike past him.
For that, the old guy might have thought he ought to surely lambaste him.

I'm reminded of the times when Howard and I were train hopping and we often had to walk great distances, often at a quick pace, in order to catch up to a train that may have stopped a distance away.

He never once complained or asked me to slow down; he just trudged along behind me, determined to keep up, even if he was short of breath and/or drooling a bit.

I think it was kind of mean of me and I felt bad, especially once I got to know him better, and realized that he probably would have dropped dead before crying uncle. It felt kind of like senior citizen abuse on my part.
But, I really did want to gauge whether or not the guy was going to hinder my progress; towards California or wherever; like, could he hoist himself up into an empty boxcar? What if the train was moving? etc.
But, he was a trooper, and 15 years my senior, to boot. His father didn't raise no sissy...

He hadn't gotten his pictures of Alaska back from Photomat as of Sunday, by the way...


11:48 PM, For Future Reference
.
I walked about a mile and a half to the bus stop where the 115 and 114 stop; both of them bound for Canal Street, on the other side of the bridge that it is illegal to walk across.

It was 11:48 PM when the 114 went right past me, but then pulled over about 100 yards up the road, to allow me to jog up to it and hop on.

I had been standing at the right spot; but wasn't jumping up and down and waving my arms over my head, I guess was the problem. It was also being driven by the same black driver who had left me stranded that one time who may have decided, after a hundred yards of thinking, to stop after recognizing me as such.

The Studio

I am psyched to record vocals somewhere that I can sing full volume. The apartment is just too musically claustrophobic.

At the Lilly Pad, I sing as loudly as I can, at times. There are usually enough extraneous noises in the area to make it seem like that is what is required in order to be heard from the other side of the street. In the "when life deals you lemons, make lemonade" category; when the trash truck stops in front of the bar, I use the opportunity to test out songs that I might have a notion to perform, but aren't sure I can hit the notes without my voice cracking. Amidst the din of the hydraulic hopper, I can try a few bars of "The House Of The Rising Sun" in order to determine whether or not I can sing it in The Animals vocal range, or if I had better Lou Reed my way through it.

The harmonica functions like a horn -an automotive horn- in the sense that it can attract attention. I can use it over a song that otherwise has vocals that don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of being audible from more than 50 feet away, such as "Something," by The Beatles, making it possible to do it and its ilk. If tourists think they recognize the song, and want to come closer to me to satisfy their curiosities, then I can jump to the lyrics. That might produce a "Oh, hell yeah; The Beatles!" out of them; along with a tip.

Better stick with me, Daniel...

Oh, Yeah, The Studio

I am ready to try to find an inexpensive auger.

5 bucks @ Pawnshop?

We used to use an auger to drill one inch diameter holes in the maple trees in the woods behind our house in Massachusetts, when the sap was running in spring.

I'm running the risk that the steel grate which covers the window of the door that I want to get through, extends the length of the door, to include the area that I want to squeeze my body through. I guess I can save the receipt from the purchase of the auger, then return it for a refund, should it not prove to be effective.

And, incidentally, I guess I'm running the risk of being arrested for breaking and entering, too.
I might put an ad on Craigs List in hopes of finding someone who has more "office space for rent" than he does renters, and who might have some bare room with no electricity that he wouldn't mind  me holding a key to, as long as I keep leaving a ten dollar bill, but no trash, behind.
That would be the responsible law abiding way to go...

And, what am I going to do with an auger the other 364 days of the year? Ain't no maple syrup trees down here. Maybe I can start making rubber.

The Drawing

Some time Monday night, I grabbed a couple of pencils and a sheet from the drawing tablet that Alex In California sent me a little more than a year ago (I have this nagging feeling that I forgot to thank him for it) and made the sketch shown above and below. I had just grabbed a dark one (that turned out to be purple) and a lighter one (that turned out to be green) and an even lighter (orange) one to use on the thing.

The top example, I ran through the GIMP editor's "desaturate" filter to render it in black and white, the way it would have come out had I just grabbed a black pencil.

Not necessarily would it have, though, because I would have been forced to use variable pressure on the thing for contrast, and would have had to find my sharpener, which I've misplaced, to put a fine tip on it, for detailing. Of course, fine detail should be the least of my concerns, I'm lucky if the thing  comes out resembling a human face...

I learned through the exercise, that lighter colors can be used in place of different degrees of pressure on the pencil. Rather than easing up on the lighter areas, I can just switch to the lighter colored pencils and draw with regular pressure.
.

Rose At Ten

I guess I could call the drawing: "Rose, At Ten" since the orange wound up coloring some of the hair, and since, I may have been subconsciously rendering Rose in pencil on paper. I consciously didn't put all my cash on my AMEX card, sensing that an opportunity to profit from the lending trade may present itself, if Rose and Ed's monthly pattern plays out. Usually on the 24th or 25th of each month she calls, wanting to borrow between 30 and 50 bucks, offering to pay me back double.

I have, on the more recent loans, reduced their interest rate to a less exorbitant 50%.

Ginger Root (updated final draft!)

When The Comment Becomes The Post

Gotta admit, you're living the Life Of Riley for street bums. Free food, free booze, only get rolled once in a while, mostly every thing free-free-free until another bum takes the T-bird awayyyyy .... Only thing being sacrificed is ... musical progress and the respect of the kind of people who might help you attain that -Alex In California

There's Alex...

I am hoping to address the above comment from the garlic capital of the world, implicitly through the following post...
 
Start With A Penny...
Yesterday, I left the library after posting and drank an apple juice instead of a Hurricane Lager.
I had to use my newly acquired and activated food stamp card for its purchase, as I had a total of one penny in my rear left pocket.
I walked down Royal Street, stopping briefly at Rouses Market, in front of which were playing about 2/7 ths of The Hokum High Rollers.
It was the washboard player, upright bassists/singer and resonator guitarist/singer combo.
My Resolve Not To Smoke Or Drink
After walking past my habitual first stop, The Unique Boutique, sipping the apple juice, and not smoking, I started to sense a feeling of wellness welling up in me.
At Rouses Market, I decided to get an energy drink to set beside me at the Bourbon Street spot as a surrogate to the can of Steel Reserve Lager, which might "normally" be there.

Before I get to the part about the attractive young woman, a sidebar on The Hokum High Rollers...

Four Out Of Seven Ain't Bad...

You've Read Some Already...

I woke up this morning with some extra cash which I had gotten on Bourbon Street late the previous night.
I can't remember anything about it except the satisfaction that I had gotten after nailing a few songs to my satisfaction and the almost instant tips going into my case.
I was all around the Quarter and on foot, as the bike still has the flat tire and the shop isn't going to be open until tomorrow.
I plan upon putting the bike, flat tire and all, on the front of one of the city busses and getting it there, rather than pushing the thing with a flat tire; wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have the guitar and backpack fighting for my attention with the bike with the flat tire.
Avoidance
Saturday night, I continued to avoid Tanya and Dorise.
There was no reason to do this, as, it might indicate that I felt that they had wronged me in some way.
But, I needed to let some time pass between being told things like "Tanya invited you there; so it would look like they had a following; even if they had to kick you out it would show that there were people clammouring to hear them play."
I don't believe that.

I think that Tanya invited me because she just wanted one more friend there.
I Accept Responsibility For Everything

"You wouldn't worry so much about what people thought about you if you knew how little they think about you" -Jesse

I have pretty much come to the conclusion that the music that I played there at Caseys just wasn't good enough.

For one thing, I got totally shit faced before going there, out of fear that I wouldn't be in the mood to play should the occasion arise; and out of plain nervousness and due to the fact that 8 p.m. is well after the "sundown" time when I usually have my first drink .
If I would have played something more entertaining; that might have made a difference.
I should have gone with the attitude like it was an open mic night and the people in the place were the ones to try to entertain; instead; I think I just wanted it to be fun for Tanya and Dorise; which in turn would have been fun for everyone; but I didn't get into my zone...
Alex In California Weighs In
The other thing is: I might have stashed my backpack somewhere and just showed up carrying a guitar and wearing clean clothes and not smelling except of patchoulli.

Alex

Alex In California, has the opinion that business is hindered by the presence of bums, who clutter places with their bags and offend people with their odors; and that Casey might be on high guard against the presence of anything similar in his bar.
Yeah, I thought about that; but I thought also about the fact that T&D are really doing the bar a favor by playing there; maybe in return for a favor done earlier when the girls were in Orlando and they were somehow hosted at Caseys then bar there. I thought that if having other musicians show up and hang around was part of their "persona" then, so be it. Their success speaks for itself...
And, about spending money in the place; I will have to just let that go. In my opinion, if people buy drinks for someone and/or food, then it is just as if the person came in and spent his own money, in my opinion.
Brian Hudson Weighs In
Brian Hudson, in a conversation which we had almost a month ago, told me something which I will paraphrase as::

"Just the fact that you are thinking about her (Tanya) so much; means that you are thinking of her for the wrong reasons..." -Brian Hudson

Paul (of Doreens Jazz Band) Weighs In (Out?)

Paul just smiled as I recounted the story of last Thurdsay with his lips pressed togeher in an expression which might have said "I could say something, but I'm not going to..."
He has been playing professionally on the street for 20+ years; Tanya and Dorise for 10+ years, and I'm sure that they each could say something but aren't going to...Adding Class To The Place

The other thing is that; my take on Casey is that:
He is from Detroit, which is in the North, which is a place that I understand.
He is following a proven formula for success in business.
It is one that I recognize and understand.
I just thought that, if he was a friend of Tanya and Dorise, then maybe he was on the same wavelength on certain issues, like them bringing in guest performers, hoping to add variety and maybe even help the guest artist along with their careers.
He has hired an excellent couple of musicians, who instantly set a standard in music as soon as they play, and that standard should carry over in that, a more "highbrow" crowd might be attracted there.
I told Casey that if Tanya and Dorise make it a habit to play there, then, within 8 months, the place will be packed and people will make reservations in advance to be there; and they will be turning some away. Then, I would understand myself not being allowed to hang around and maybe do a song or two...

I think Caseys intention is to "add class to the place," by bringing T&D there, and that is the well-spring of my problems; and supercedes the musical aspect of things.
He has basically given me the impression that he is looking for a reason to throw me out.
His assertions that I was taking space from paying customers (in a half full bar) and that I was bumming cigarettes (after I offered to buy one for a quarter) and that I was not spending money (though others were buying me things) all seem to be "politically correct" ways around saying "We don't allow homeless people here..." 
But, will the girls keep playing there; at a place that "big times" a friend of theirs because he happened to be broke on consecutive Thursday nights?
I happen to know that Tanya and Dorise are trying to be "greater than the music," and the fact that they have helped out a homeless street musician like myself is a testament to that.
I think they are set financially, and don't need to play at a bar on Thursday nights; unless they can make it something special in some way which will feed them artistically rather than drain them.

Saturday Night
An Asian Girls Face

"If you want to marry a Chinese woman, you need to accept the fact that she is going to be a little girl for the rest of her life; if you're OK with that, then go ahead..." -Howard

Out of the corner of my eye, as I crossed Royal Street, I saw the most incredibly beautiful face hovering in the semi darkness and seeming to be almost Photoshopped onto the black background behind her. An Asian girls face.
She seemed to be about 16 and the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen; including in my imagination.
I figured that it was a hallucination.

Friday Morning

It wasn't any of these; (I don't recognize
the dogs...)

Flashback Friday
I am keeping this short so I can try to finish a story for my Flashback Friday feature...
That being said.....
Departure Date Set
It has taken me 42 minutes just to read/reply to my email, yikes!
We are leaving here "Monday or Tuesday" (3/12/12 or 3/13/12) according to Howard. He is kind of "in the drivers seat" because if left to me the departure would be procrastinated away indefinitely.
He also has a steady flow of income; I'm not sure how much per month, but it is insurance against things like "Busking is totally illegal here in Anytown, they'll take you to jail and you'll never get your guitar back"
I Am Attacked By A Punk
Last night a guy punched me in the face because I wanted a quarter for a cigarette.
He walked by my spot on Decatur with a girl and a dog (of course, a dog). The girl said, "Hey, will you sell me a cigarette?"
I said "25 cents," wherupon the boyfriend got in my face and started yelling "How about I beat your ass. I'll take your whole pack!"
Then, he grabbed my "whole pack" (with about 8 left).
I tried to snatch it out of his hand. He punched me in the head with his other hand, sending my glasses and harmonica flying.
I stood up, mainly to protect my guitar from whatever he might do, wherupon he kept advancing upon me. As I backed up, holding my guitar away from him, I said "All I said was I would sell a cigarette for a quarter!"
Then, he wanted me to call him "sir," or he would throw me through "that window."
By then, we had the attention of the shopkeepers near my spot.
Three of them approached, saying "Let's see you talk to us like that!"
Rather than talk to them like that, the punks decided to walk off, with my cigarettes and the three bucks that I had in my case, which the girl or the dog must have snatched in the confusion.
The shop owners helped me locate my glasses and harmonica. They told me that I should have attacked him with my bottle of Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA. I told them that it was still half full, and we had a little chuckle over that.
I wasn't in the mood for busking just then.
I was mostly pissed off over the fact that he took advantage of my vulnerability, with me having the guitar and harmonica around my neck, and being like "a sitting duck," and the sleazy way that the girl (or the dog) grabbed my cash while he was threatening me.
I got my pepper spray (thanks, Alex from Gilroy) and a heavy flashlight and went looking for them. I was going to hit him in the eyes with the spray and then aim for his head as hard as I could with the flashlight -then backhand the girl across the face and say "That was worth three bucks and some smokes!"
I won't kick the dog, though.
Then, I was harassed by a cop on Bourbon Street, who told me that I was playing in front of a residence, and that it was 1:30 a.m. I told him that the residents knew I was out there and didn't mind.
He started with the all-too-common idiotic question of "Do you want to go to jail?!?" which, to me wasn't much different from saying "How about calling me Sir!"
The punks will be easy to find, tonight; I'll recongize the dog if I see it again. 
I can get him at a few spots where none of the witnesses will have seen anything at all when questioned, and have told me so much.
@Alex in California: Does the pepper spray completely expell with one use, or can you blast it twice? Do you have to aim directly for the eyes or does it fan out like a shotgun? Just wondering...
I will probably just point him out to any one of the people that have kind of "had my back" because of my musical "connections" and then just wait for something bad to happen to him. Something "French Quarter" bad...

The Simple Life

Yesterday, my needs were simple.
I was to find some kind of fuel to burn in the little stove, not much larger than an ashtray, which Alex from California sent in one of his "goodie" packages from there.
I feel like I am living in a third world country (Downtown New Orleans) and am getting humanitarian aid from a wealthy nation (Bay Area, California) sometimes.
A trip to Rouse's Market (the big new one) produced no Sue sighting, and no fuel for the stove, either.
I don't want to risk Kerosene fume poisoning, a campsite gasoline explosion, or losing the stove when it shoots off like a rocket and lands on the roof of the Roosevelt Hotel, by experimenting with flammables in the little stove not much larger than an ashtray.
Sue has been missing out on some good food, lately, in my opinion.
My Latest Brainstorms

Could have thousands of One Man Bands
working "under" him, using
"Mr. Jojangles" licenced gear, but
fears the competition that it would create!

Brainstorm #1. Dress up like Sony Bono. Find a competent female singer, who is willing to dress like Cher. Then learn "I Got You, Babe," but with her singing Sony's part, and myself doing my, servicable in my opinion; Cher impression.

Brainstorm #2. Take detailed espionage-ish photos of Mr. Joejangles, the One Man Band's apparatus, and make figures and diagrams and patent them, and by showing a video of Joe (with his tip jar within the frame, of course) playing the thing, try to get a bank to lend money and a shop willing to assemble the things.
Joe wouldnt' even have to recognise it as his design if it were "modified" a bit...hmmm.
Joe hasn't really expressed any interest in anything beyond the scope of himself just travelling around and playing the thing. He doesn't want competition where he goes, from another One Man Band, playing a similar rig, and that is what he fears would happen, if he were to go into the same business, himself.
That might happen anyway, to poor Joe. Even if he doesn't patent the idea and/or the exact design of his rig, what is to stop from someone else (me?) from doing it. Joe could find himself competing with a One Man Band on every corner, and every one of them playing a "Daniel" brand apparatus LOL!!!
Other than that, it has been quiet.
Today, I will try again to get fuel for the little stove.
I will also try to get a strap for the Jasmine.
Humanitarian Aid
Alex from California is sparing me from having to deal with Mr. Joejangles on a neck brace type holder thing for a harmonica. He has informed me that he is sending one, along with a harmonica which fits in it. The first harmonica that he sent is of an unorthidox shape and will not fit into just any neck brace holder type thing...

In Sue's Defense

• Sue Matters
• Friday night



Sue, alone, and awash in confusion and worry...

• Saturday Morning Blessing

I saw Sue twice yesterday.
Once, as she was exiting the library, and again that evening, as she was sitting in front of the Supreme Court building, flanked on all sides by her belongings.
Both times, I greeted her and got no real response.
As I walked past her on Royal Street, I was in good spirits and said "Guitar lessons, 25 bucks and hour!" and she may have been thinking about smiling, but didn't.
She is a different animal after she drinks, or, maybe it could be argued that she is truer to the real animal that she is after she drinks.
Her main complaint about me is that she doesn't like me as much when I drink "a lot." Neither do I.
The first time I drank with her, I was mildly shocked to hear her say things like "I should go into that restaurant and grab the waitress' tips off the tables," and "I hope I find a wallet."
The fact that she added to the first arguement: "They won't even see me, if I do it quick (sic)!" made me wonder just how serious she was.
About the "wallet," I told her about a time when I found a wallet with over 900 dollars in it; called what I gathered was his place of employment, based upon recent pay stubs within, and returned it to the guy (even though he was Mexican, Sue) and felt good about doing it, reasoning that I couldn't miss money that I never expected to have beforehand.
She acted as if that was the most incomprehensible thing that she had ever heard of. "No way, I'm keeping it!"
"You could at least drop the empty wallet in a mailbox, so they would get their licence back, and their pictures of their kids."
"No, that goes in the trash. I don't have time for that s***!"

Sue packs her bag, purple shirt and all, similar to
the way she did
Sunday morning, after she threw the
"at least a hundred dollars" at me.

Somewhere way in the back of my mind, I reserve the possibility of someday introducing these (present and former girlfriends) to my mother. I could save the 1,300 mile journey for two, and just give her my mom's disapproval in person.
Last Saturday night she reiterated her wish to "find a wallet" at one point in the evening, before we had run into the wealthy couple and the wealthy Russians, who had given "us at least a hundred bucks."
In Sue's defense, I think she is probably joking, or rather, testing me to see my reaction.
As I have said before, I believe that running into Sue twice in one day means that she had masterminded a plot to have me run into her twice upon that particular day. We are both creatures of habit.
Friday Night
Last night, I hit the streets at about 6 p.m., after coming back from the courthouse with my charges having been dismissed.
I went to Decatur Street, taking the Royal Street route, observing that latter street to be becoming increasingly populated by street performers. I think it is a prelude to Mardi Gras; musicians are claiming spots and are coming out now, more to mark their territory than to necessarily make good money.

I play in the doorway to the left, in the center of
the concrete portion of the sidewalk
(which seems out of place, juxtaposed to the historical
tiles, layed by the French).

I am playing well lately, bolstered by the knowledge that the Jasmine has been fixed with a new tuning machine for the "g" string, and that I have a new set of (the expensive kind of) strings as backups to any that I might break, should I decide to "all out go for it" on any song. Playing without regard for snapping a string is liberating, and, I find that I break less strings that way...
It was a slow night, but I did better than any of the others on Decatur, based upon my conversations. They all had made less than 12 bucks. I had been on my spot for two hours.
I knocked off 45 minutes past "curfew," then moved to the Bourbon Street spot, where I had continued modestly good luck.
The highlight of the Bourbon Street experience occured when a well dressed man walked past. He was alone and the only one within earshot at the time.
He looked straight ahead and gave no indication of having even seen me.
I decided to try to play my absolute best. I focused in and played "Norweigian Wood," by the Beatles, nailing all the subtle melody notes. He stopped about 20 feet past me, came back and put three bucks in my case, to go along with the about twenty that I would make for the night.

I am almost ready to begin...

Blessings
Then, this morning, as Howard and I sat reading under the sign, a car stopped and out got a lady, who walked over and gave Howard two 100 dollar bills and said "This is for you two to share."
And that's the way it is, Saturday, January 28, 2012.
I will get some fuel for the little stove that Alex from California sent, and a little stainless steel cup, to save about 2 bucks per day on morning tea and coffee.
Oh, and a neckstrap for my harmonica, which I might debut tonight, so that I can double my income -can't forget that.
I am trying to find out if I can plug a mic into my mp3 player (where it is labelled "mic") and get a decent enough quality recording so that I can start posting little audio snippets here.
Off to work....

"I'll Take It From Here"

The Guy At Lafitt's
Last night,

The stools were in about the same position last night,
as in this "stock" photo of Lafitt's

planning upon knocking off early, forgetting that my court appearance was not in the morning, but at 3 p.m., I played for a while on Decatur Street, thought I sounded pretty well, and scraped up about 6 bucks. This was 6 bucks more than I was expecting on a Wednesday night, well before Mardi Gras season is to start.
I then went up to Bourbon Street, just to see how busy it was, and just in time to run into a guy, who invited me for a beer at Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop, which is a falsely advertised bar (shown). (I didn't even see any horse shoing equipment in the place).
He bought us each a couple of Abita Amber beers, and told me, at one point in our conversation that he would be willing to invest in getting me a small amp, microphone and a pickup to go in my guitar, and a cart to pull it all around in, so that I could at least double my income, afford to live outside the downtown area, and eventually join the upper eschelon of street performers who actually make a "living" doing it.

"Mr. Joe Jangles," previously referred to here as "The
One Man Band," performing in Saint Augustine, which is
where I met him.
He will drive his van to Canada, for example, for a certain
festival, and come back a week later with almost a
thousand more American dollars than he left with,
for merely playing a 3 day stint.
He could teach me how to make a similar rig, and I
could make over 50K per year, just like him.
"A lot of people don't follow through after they realise
just how physically demanding it is," said the 58 year old
to me recently.

There are guy's who I am just as good a musician as, who sit and play right in the middle of Royal Street in the areas that are barricaded at each end, making the street like a "pedestrian mall,"on busy days, who reasonably expect to make about a hundred bucks for their efforts. They have little battery powered amps, microphones and harmonicas, if possible.
I was telling the guy this, when he suggested that I "sell stock" in myself, by coming up with a total dollar amount for the equipment I need and then dividing it into promisory notes of some kind which I could subsequently pay dividends upon. I don't know if he was speaking metaphorically.
It sounds a lot like borrowing money from whomever I can with the promise to pay it back.
I went out and played some more on Bourbon Street, taking my second Abita with me. The money was sparse and I went off around midnight, complaining that I had been "paid in beer" that night.
Harmonica Added
Yesterday, I tuned the guitar to the harmonica, which Alex from California had sent me, and managed to sound good using only the notes that my mouth was stuck upon. I hadn't tried playing it along with the guitar yet, for lack of a neck strap for it, but I got the notion that I could do something using only the left-most three holes as a simple accompaniment; and it worked!
I am really looking forward to adding it to my sound, the way a juggler might want to add bowling pins to his feat, to keep it challenging for himself, and to develope his abilities. And to make more money juggling...
Court This Afternoon
I go to court soon.
I'm going to make the 20 minute walk, in order to save the bus fare of $1.50.
I am hoping that I can pass the paperwork over to attorney Mary Howell, who will then tell me; "I'll take it from here, you won't even need to show up in court on the 29th of February."

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.

Well

I woke up this morning,
a little warmer than I had the prior morning.

There's Lane! No, wait; is that him?
I can't tell....

I had an energy drink, which I consumed most of (knocked the can over when pulling one of my bags down from one of the limbs of the holly bush; of COURSE I knocked it over...)and the sports section of the day's Press-Register, was laying at my feet, dropped there by Howard, the 60 something year old guy, who is hard of hearing (Howard of hearing? -couldn't resist...) and who left New Orleans after the Occupy New Orleans camp was "blown up" by nice, polite police officers; the same Howard who rode the train with me, to get here.
I had promised him that he would like Mobile "better," and he seems to be adapting. He has found the McDonalds, which is right across the street from this library. I think he lives off of Ronald's cooking. He sits and reads novels for hours on here at the library.
I was feeling slightly guilty over Howard, realising that I had encouraged him to come with me, and so I bear a small responsibility in ensuring his comfort and safety, as a compasionate human being, as well as as a compasionate human being who talked him into coming along with me.
It was cold for a second night, but the chill was no match for my attire, which now is embellished by an additional sweater, which I got yesterday (Wednesday) at the Catholic Social Service place, on a "voucher" which is issued every 90 days to the homeless and unemployed. I am also wearing a new pair of jeans, which fit pretty well and which allow me to go another day or two before I will be "forced" to wash clothes, to avoid smelling like a homeless, unemployed person.
Cold Shoulders
Before going to my sleeping spot, where I thought I would be bored, I considered playing my guitar with the two missing strings. I considered playing it at Serda's Coffee, as part of their Songwriter's Open Mic Night.
It's not that I couldn't have played in the 41 degree (according to Regions Bank) temperature. I have played down to 38 degrees before; never lower, because I can't hang on to the pick below 40, but thought it might be interesting to go to Serda's, where I haven't played in months, to show off the improvement in my playing which came about through my having had to compete with New Orleans musicians. I thought they would all notice the new "polish"* in my playing. (*polish, as in shine; I wasn't going to play polkas...)
Well, I got pretty much "the cold shoulder," standing out front in the blustery 41 degree night. None of them asked me where I had been, what I'd been doing; any new songs? None asked me if I wanted to play.
They were all 20 something year olds, still being supported (in one way or another) by their parents, and dwelling high up upon what Neil Young called "Sugar Mountain." They talked about their road trips to gigs, where the YouTube videos were made, which were going to make them famous, and they talked about how they acchieved certain digital effects using audio editing software, on certain songs, which were going to make them famous etc.
I finally went and got my third beer of the night, then returned under the guise of wanting to hear some of the performers, so that I could sit in the warm room for a while before going to my sleeping spot by the railroad tracks, where I hoped my sleeping bag would still be; and would be dry.
A guy got up with a Taylor guitar.
He said "Hi, I'm Lane. I'm gonna play some music." (Probably thinking that he was being original, but unwittingly taking a cue from David Byrne, who would say things like "We're The Talking Heads, and this is our music," before starting the show)
Lane started to play some music, without even strumming a chord to make sure that the Taylor was in tune beforehand. I think that he was under the impression that a 2,000 dollar guitar never needs to be tuned. It comes tuned from the factory and stays tuned for life. Besides, it's such a fine instrument that nobody is going to notice if a couple strings are flat, right?
Lane sounded like a John Mayer impersonator. Maybe I missed a notice posted somewhere which said "John Mayer Night -100 dollar prize to the person who we judge to sound the most like John Mayer," I'm not sure. His lyrics were also John Mayer-ish, which is something that is hard to quantify, but the kid had it going on.
I spent the duration of the performance trying to determine which of his strings was out of tune, by listening carefully, and noticed that the highest note sounded like crap when he played chords that had their highest note on the "b" string.
After his first song ended, and still nobody had asked me if I wanted to play, Lane said, "Here's another song that I wrote," and actually plucked at the strings, as if checking to make sure that the Taylor was still in the same fine tune as it had been when his dad bought it for him at Guitar Center.
After he strummed an E major chord, I became convinced that his "b" string was (way) flat.
He seemed to notice the disonance...I need a better guitar than this, dad, wtf!...but, to my horror, he tuned the adjacent string (which was in tune) to the corrupt "b" string.
At that point, I spoke up. I was sitting up front and didn't have to raise my voice. I said "I think your "b" string is flat."
I guess "nobody corrects Lane," player of a 2,000 dollar guitar (soon to be a 3,500 dollar one) who has videos on YouTube, and whose friends all come out to hear him play.
"I like it that way," was Lane's "dis" of me, before he started into another song which sounded like John Mayer singing over absolute sonic garbage. Now he had 2 strings flat. Way to go, Lane.
I returned his rudeness (what do you know about Taylor guitars, street musician) with my own act of walking out the front door, before he even got through the first verse.
Familiarity Breeds Contempt
"I wonder if he's ever heard of John Mayer," I said sarcastically to those standing out front.
Their tacit message is clear. "You're a burned out, has-been street musician. You had ample opportunity, when you were our age, to make something happen but you obviously didn't. Now the ball is in our court, the future is ours, we are John Mayer Nation, stand back, homeless guy!"
They are a very musically "inbred" group. There is so much overlapping of style in all their music, it's as if they all took lessons from the same guy.
When I first arrived in Mobile in June of 2010, I was well greeted. I was so different from all of them, (like an exchange student from New Zealand,) they didn't know what to make of me. At first, they embraced my music and would actually request certain of my songs. They seemed eager to mix with a fresh and different "gene pool" of talent. Now, they seem to have changed their minds. It could be that they found out my age, which they originally thought was close to theirs, and abandoned any hope of having an older, more experienced musician in the band, who knows music theory, thinking "older, but not that much older, this guy remembers the Beatles!," perhaps.
For example, Miss Underhill, who works behind the coffee bar, and used to say things like "Good job" to me, after I had nailed an improvised song, said nothing to me.
Jimmy Lee Hanover, spoke only when I spoke to him, and then, very little, followed by awkward silence.
I guess this is another argument for moving on and finding new places. Familiarity breeds contempt.
If I ask any of them about last night, they will probably say something like they typically do: "No, you're always so tempermental, we wanted you to play but figured you were composing something in your head and didn't want to disturb you"
Future Uncertain
Then, I went to sleep.
I woke up with 65 cents, after having come to Mobile almost a week ago with 25 bucks.
I've spent a lot of time writing, and thus sacrificed opportunities to play. I have fixed the "d" string on my guitar, and I think I have a spare "e" string in my bag. I should be able to go out on this warmer Thursday night and at least make something, on a guitar with all six strings intact.
The success or lack thereof which I have this weekend will have a strong bearing upon how long I stay here.
Things are pretty bleak. I am down to about 10 bucks on my food card with 10 days to go in the month. The approaching cold weather doesn't bode well. I may wind up using the guise of trying to get "home for Christmas" in order to try to hitch-hike to somewhere warmer. I would, of course, have to attempt this right after my December 20th courtdate, over "obstructing the sidewalk."
I do have the comfort of the promise of receiving some Christmas parcels, one from a guy named Martin W., who is somewhere in the country and has read my blog, and apparently has the recording musician's dream job of "hotel front desk person." (I used to be a security guard at a huge James River machine shop. I turned the office into a recording studio nightly, then broke it all down and put it back in my trunk before the day shift came in. Some recordings from those sessions probably still exist in Massachusetts.)
Another might be on the way from London via the Lidgleys. Hopefully, I can get them, along with any other "Christmas" money that I might acquire, and get out of Dodge, at least until Mardi Gras.
In return, I will try to make this blog more interesting, which is one of the few things that I can offer at this point.

Wait until he turns his back....

Going back to New Orleans presents the problem of finding a new place to sleep, now that the Occupy New Orleans site is no longer available. It also presents the problem of doing so without the help of a bicycle, as mine was stolen about a month ago (see "They Stole My Bike," from about a month ago...)
I saw a guy riding around on it all the time in the French Quarter, when I was down there. He is a larger, black guy with a little bit of flab on him; probably in his late 30's.
My first impulse was to confront him with "Hey, that's my bike, I want it back!" But, like a chess player, I could already see his next move: "What 'chu talkin' 'bout, I paid for this bike! I bought it for 50 bucks! You need to talk to the dude that done sold it to me. I ain't no thief, don't be calling me no thief!" -easy to read a mind when it is in large print and mostly cartoons-
The suggestion of Helen, the artist formerly known as "the girl with the shaved head who plays the mandolin," was to "Wait until he turns his back on it and then steal it behind his back, like he did to you..."
She used to be a gutter punk "until I grew out of it," and said that, in their culture, if they think that you won't go to the trouble of fighting over something, they will just take it.
No wonder there are so many stabbings and shootings in the French Quarter.