Harold's Business

45 Dollar Saturday
20 Dollar Sunday
Special 20 Continues To Impress

Saturday night, I arrived even later at the Lilly Pad, 11 PM, than the previous 2 nights.

A good half hour could have been shaved off that arrival time, had I not tried to "pop into the computer room 'real quick' and post to the blog off my data stick" to find that the Sacred Heart computers had all been scuttled by someone who must have moved from one to the next, leaving them hung up and frozen in his wake.

Sometimes, I find a window open on the abandoned computer which has a misleading directive on it, like "are you sure you don't want our product?" and, without apparently having even tried to decipher the message, whomever it was repeatedly clicked upon "no," as a knee-jerk response to anything that obstructs freeporn.com, and became frustrated after a couple dozen such re-directs, and went to the next machine.

I made 40 bucks in about 3 hours total of playing. It was an overall slow tipping night, though the dollar bills came at a pretty much consistent rate. A couple that I met at the Quartermaster actually accounted for half of the night's take after I played a couple songs for them outside the place. I also have 3,000 "colones" in cash. From Costa Rica; each bill with an image of a presidente, along with his signature.

The sun is coming up on this Sunday, 16 April. My parent's anniversary was 2 days ago.

I'm listening to Anton Bruckner's choral works.

I put 35 bucks on the green plastic card, and have lent 45 bucks to Rose and Ed, which will come back to roost in a mere 14 days as 90 bucks, and have around 45 bucks in cash.

We seem to be within the season where I can go out and expect to consistently earn around my average of 18 bucks an hour, regardless of the night of the week.

I saw Tanya and Dorise for the first time in a couple months on the corner of St. Louis and Royal Streets, with the former giving me a smile, which is a departure from the quick turning of the head away from me that been the norm the few times that I had encountered her playing by herself, along with a backing track.

3 days ago...

They were in the middle of playing Pachelbel's Canon, and had a guest violinist joining them, a young, tall, brown skinned guy who was dressed up in a way that might indicate that he plays the violin "classically."

I didn't stop because I was running late, but I returned a wave to them and made a note to myself to send off an e-mail to Tanya, I guess apologizing for the way I had started to ride past without acknowledging her, which commenced after I rode away after having said something to her and gotten no response except her having hit the play button on her backing track and started playing.

I had to smile upon hearing Pachelbel's Canon, which is the equivalent of "Freebird!!" to any busker with a violin; i.e. a song that is a good song, nice melody, maybe starts off slowly (check) and then builds to a climactic refrain (check, check) but is not a nice enough song to warrant playing (in its 10 minute entirety) for every person who comes along and feels like shouting out a request, and is only skimming one off the top of his memory at the moment. Oh, and about everybody knows them (check).

To start to play "Freebird" only to have the requestee drift on, in an attitude of: "I was just kidding, yelling 'Freebird,' you know, cause everyone always yells 'Freebird,' just trying to be funny; I don't really know why they yell that, nor do I really want to hear 'Freebird' but, I guess you're stuck for the next 10 minutes or so with it now, 'cause here comes a group of rednecks with their thumbs up.." is something that a busker has to be leery of.

Tanya doesn't always seem to get my humor, and perhaps becomes offended after taking something literally.

For instance, one time I rode up to find her in the process of peeling some skin around the callous on one of her fingers. "That's from not playing enough," I joked; in reference to the fact that no other street musicians come close to the 15 hour sets that she has been known to endure, with the black and blue marks that have shown where the violin touches her chin and shoulder being legendary, etc. That is not just 15 hours of "playing" for her, it is 15 hours of playing while under the watchful lenses of smart phones, which calls for an effort worthy of appearing on someone's Facebook page in their "Our New Orleans Trip" section. And, it's going to be captioned with "These girls were AMAZING!" and so...

But, that time, she seemed to have taken what I said literally and, without saying another word to me, launched into the next song, as if to say: "Maybe I should be playing right now instead of talking to you." I can understand how she might think that a guy who plays an average of 2.25 hours a night has a lot of nerve to imply that she isn't playing enough (causing her callouses to peel off).

I have become a better musician in the past year since I last jammed with them in any way, and I have to admit that it would be a feather in my cap to hear Tanya and Dorise note the improvement.

But, the improvement in my playing is indicative of a more global improvement which stems from my mindset; and a creative state of mind is just a subsection of the hologram of a life that is in order, in general. For example, perhaps about 8 months ago now, I had a boon in my fortunes after I noticed that my attitude had shifted and settled into one of a guy who is playing for his own enjoyment, fore-mostly. It wasn't until about that long ago that I realized one night, at a point where I hadn't made much at all, that I was still in a good mood, having had fun playing whatever I just had, and totally understanding and forgiving tourists who didn't tip for whatever reason.

I had probably about 75 bucks in a jar at home, cat food, toilet paper etc., but was also stocked up with things like a fresh battery in my guitar tuner and plenty to go in the spotlight, an extra set of strings and basically stuff that can pile up behind one who reaches the economic level of being able to buy in bulk. When Harold the cat has 11 cans of his favorite food piled up by his dish, then it's easy for me to smile if a couple walks by just shaking their heads at a rendition of "The Carcass Song," for example. 

"The Carcass Song" is my fisherman's equvalent of that lure which is about 6 inches long, shiny on at least one side, maybe 2 pounds, and fitted with a large utility hook, designed with nondiscriminate eaters in mind. The tourist who wants to hear an original song by a totally unknown to them as yet musician -and the weirder it is the better- would be the, say, marlin, in the extended fishing metaphor. 

475 Days Sober

And, of course, the shift in attitude was part of the extended period of sobriety, which saw its different plateaus and milestones reached along the way, and was one of them.

It had been kind of a surprise, because about a year off alcohol, I was sure that all of the physiological fallout from quitting drinking had run its course, and I had stabilized to the point where I would have "good" days and "bad" days, with most of them clocking in at right around that average day; but I hadn't accounted for the psychological aspect.

That would be the gradual letting go of that part of the mind that had linked every action to the satisfaction of the addiction. It took almost that whole year to have it sink in that, as long as I have food and a place to stay, then I can come out and have nothing less than a very good practice session, or have it begin to pour down raining as soon as I reach the Lilly Pad, with few worries on my mind.

After I had realized this on the occasion mentioned above -that the "I'm not drunk enough, goddammit-you!" part of my brain had relinquished it energy and inclination to direct anger at the tourists, I went on to make something like 50 dollars more, to go with the 3 or 4 bucks, the sight of which having brought the realization to mind.

So, becoming a better musician, at least in my "school" involves a globally oriented "practice" regime. For example, laying in a hot tub and listening to Anton Bruckner's choral works is like practicing, it just requires the companion routine of playing the instrument, in order to reap the benefit. So is jogging, eating healthily, and basically life can be filtered through the binary check of: "Does this make me a better musician, or not?" which is at the top of the music directory tree.

I basically made a giant leap towards became a more laid back, care-free person, but only at that point of about a year of sobriety, and after having come within a razor's edge of drinking again during the prior stage, when I felt that I had seen what sobriety had to offer; it wasn't going to get any better; and it's not better enough to be worth going without fine whiskey for a lifetime, for.

I will throw this in, as it is related. Music is a great tool for gaging the sincerity of people in your life. A musician can purposefully play badly, perhaps detuning the instrument for further effect, or will have occasions when the bad playing is unavoidable, such as after having made the poor decision to start a certain song at too impossible a tempo, or from messing around in a key that isn't familiar, etc. Then, should someone come along and say: "You're really talented!," then, bam!, you have uncovered a duplicity, and can be on guard.

So, perhaps next Sunday night (which has always been kind of a "guest performer" night for Tanya and Dorise) I'll pop in and jam with them, and hopefully they will note how improved I have become, and that will be that.

It might have nice to hear the same from Brian Hudson and Christina Friis, who were sitting on the steps of the Supreme Court building Friday night/ Saturday morning, after having been out for 17 hours (but only having played 6 of them; I guess they were sharing a spot). They were effecting being very exhausted, but seemed somewhat content, as if they had perhaps exceeded their expectations, money-wise. They certainly weren't complaining about any of the things that plague street musicians, brass bands setting up 50 feet away, et. al.

I didn't ask them how much money they had made.

I imagine they can recall the times when they were embarrassed to tell me that they had made, say, $300 on a generally slow night when I might have made $23. My reporting of having made $45 that night wouldn't have radically changed that equation.

But there is the the general overtone of pity for me that lingers from when I would emerge from under the wharf late each afternoon and would walk Royal Street, where I would encounter them.

They said they had been back in New Orleans a month, but that this was the first time they had seen me, which was true.

The bike trail gives me a back way to the Lilly Pad, which circumnavigates Royal Street. They have gone from seeing me just about every night that they come out, to once a month, now it seems.

As I sat there, talking to them, I started to wonder what, in my repertoire, I might play if I were trying to entertain them. I was drawing a blank.

I also noted that my newfound carefree state of mind was being buffeted somehow.

From the questions they asked me, I could tell that neither has read this blog in a while. "Do you still have the apartment?" being one.

But, unless they have some kind of aggregate reader applications whereby an indication of a new blog post by me would at least show up as a blip on a ticker-tape, that is understandable.

Still, it seemed almost like they value my friendship to a large extent for the fact that I came along every night, and would listen attentively for a bit and converse, and, I would tell stories about the homeless busker's life; then they might even be able to come to this blog and read about my encounter with themselves the next day.

There was almost kind of an awkwardness, beginning with the fact that I sensed their tiredness, and felt that the appropriate thing would be of course, to stop and talk to my friends that I hadn't seen in a half year in Brian's case and a year in Christina's, but not to stay too long.

I'm sure that, on their end, they might have been thinking, "Oh, there's Daniel, what a terrible time to see an old friend whom decorum dictates that we greet, when we're so tired, having been out 17 hours. Maybe he won't stay too long.."

They seem to have such a "commercial" approach to music, that it is something that they turn on while they are "on stage," and then turn right back off, when they are done. I've never seen Brian just noodling around on the guitar, amusing himself with it, or trying to learn something new. After he is done with his show, it goes back in its case. He just does all that at home, I guess.

I had known each of them for about a year when I was invited to a barbecue at Brian's then residence near Frenchmen Street. At the party were several musicians, singers, and such. Not one song was sung or played by anyone.

Brian's guitar and mandolin and fiddle were just room decoration at that party. I remember thinking that was odd, and writing it off to the idea that they are so professionally minded, that they wouldn't want to just grab an instrument and play something half serious. There were people at the party who knew people who booked musicians for various things and they wouldn't want to besmirch their "brand" by delivering of themselves anything that hadn't been rehearsed, and with the equipment having been set up and throughly sound checked beforehand, with tackling dummies used to simulate the acoustics of a room full of party-goers, etc.

That might have been my "job," I'm thinking in hindsight. The homeless guy who sleeps under the wharf taking his guitar out of its rat poop stained case and playing his best song, with all expectations having been laid low at the sight of the duct tape holding the two halves of said guitar together...but probably not, because (see below).

There would have been no sing-along because, when your latest demo is in the pocketbook of someone who knows someone who hires backup singers for Lionel Richie, why risk ruining it by trying to sing live at a party? Bobby Brown really embarrassed Whitney Houston once, at a party, doing that.

People expect life to mirror art, so that when Bobby Brown begins to sing, they expect a hush to come over the room and for him to sing using a voice that is compressed with the upper mids boosted, and with a 200 millisecond echo that repeats and fades, and for it to sound like he is in a room 4 times bigger than where the party was. And, certainly for someone to grab a ukulele that's sitting there (that sounds equalized and in a cathedral) and accompany him.

So, I can understand professionals like Brian and Christina not being on the steps of the Supreme Court building trying to remember and sing campfire songs from their youths.

I've found that one of the benefits of my late state of mind is that, at the times that I have no idea on what to play, even as I am tuning up, something comes to me, as if by inspiration, as soon as I start picking out a few notes.

"Let's break into a spontaneous duet!"

I took my guitar out of its case, baffled by the sudden damper that I felt was upon me. It was for no other reason than to explore why I had clammed up so, after having been at the Lilly Pad, with a free-flow of ideas, an hour earlier. It felt stifling.

"Daniel, could you please not play right now," said Brian. And that was my answer.

"I couldn't think of anything to play, anyways," I said, before I put the thing back in its case.

And that was true; even having taken the thing out and plucked a couple notes hadn't inspired anything. I guess I was picking up on their vibes, or at least his.

It could be seen as being shut out by someone who is playing an instrument.

It Was The Summer of '79...

When I was 17, I worked in a nightclub.

Scampi's Restaurant and Lounge, in Leominster, Mass.

This was cool in the sense that I was one year shy of being able to legally drink, so it made me one cool 17 year old, to be in there and all. It was mob affiliated (purportedly) and the fact that they had an under-aged bar-back, while cops (purportedly in their back pockets) occasionally sat at the bar and tossed them back, who was breaking the law, right along with his wise-guy cronies; hell yeah!
I had it going on back then, I must say... And I rode a moped?!? C'mon...



Scampi's had a "house band" that played Thursday through Sunday nights every week.

OK, "Survivors, LTD." they were.

They were very professional, and cranked out very well crafted renditions of all the popular songs on the radio, with the implication of their moniker being that, as this was the late 70's, they had survived the 60's.

Since their repertoire was not particularly full of guitar influenced songs, as they were then trying to survive the Disco Era, their guitarist only cut loose with a solo every so often.

I was an enthusiastic student of the guitar then, and I complemented the guy on one of the solos that he had played (on a Glen Campbell song, of all things). He was a guy of probably about Brian Hudson's age at the time.

"What kind of stuff do you play at home?" I asked him.

He gulped down the last of his drink, and then, before heading back to the stage for another set, said: "That guitar is nothing but a tool of the trade. When I get home, I hang the thing on the wall, and there it stays. I don't touch it, I don't practice; I don't even think about it until it's time to come here and play; It's like a chainsaw in a work shed ..."  

That kind of stuck with me, as a 17 year old. I thought of that guy when Brian asked me not to play.

I'm pretty sure he wasn't trying to disparage me; but it does make me wonder what kind of mental torture he envisioned would come from anything that I might have put forth.

Christina Friis also listens with a professional ear. She has sung in studios, backed by "studio" musicians (i.e. musicians who are paid more to not make mistakes or draw attention to themselves -Duane Allman's solo on "Hey Jude," by Wilson Pickett notwithstanding- than they are to "collaborate" with the singer) and so I didn't really feel like I had, at the ready, any kind of unique harmonization of a jazz standard that would have caught her ear and had her inviting me to "accompany" her to the studio, but thought that I might be able to amuse her with a tidbit of something that I might be working on.

I'm sure Brian would have said something like: "I think you're a very creative musician who deserves to be listened to more attentively than I had the ability to do at that particular time, in the exhausted state that I was in. I think it would have been worse if you started playing and I fell asleep, wouldn't it have been?"

The thought crossed my mind that he was afraid that I was going to play so horribly, that it was going to take more of an effort that he felt he had in him, in his exhausted mental state, to endure it; or to exert the extra energy to go so far as to be patronizing....I like the bridge chords....

I will say that Brian is one of the people that I've never actually played well in the presence of.

One time, he and a friend walked up upon me at the Lilly Pad. They had been drinking, and Brian asked me to play something. The problem was that, I had been drinking just as much, and only got about 2 verses into one of my originals, before deciding that I really didn't know it. It was a song that I had written when I was about 16 years old, and hadn't really played since then. Why I chose that song is a mystery to me. Maybe I was just testing him to see if he would say: "That really sounds like crap; you need to find another profession; I'm just telling you that as a friend..." whereupon, I would say; "Yeah, I was just messing with you. I'll play a real song now..."

Monday Night, April 17th, 7:50 PM

This is the time of evening when the decision is made to go out and play or not.

In general it is always good to go out and play. It is only asking 3 or 4 hours out of the day; the rest is free time, and how easily I can rearrange my schedule around those 3 or 4 hours.

Last (Sunday) night, I chose "yes, do go out and play;" got to the Lilly Pad at exactly 10:28 PM, and made 16 dollars in just about 2 hours.

But, I'm also a blogger and am working on a CD and studying Spanish, English Literature, Mel Bay guitar and harmonica methods, XML and Perl programming, and cartooning with the "GIMP" free editor.

The editor is esteemed as perhaps the crowning achievement of all things open sourced, and has been used at the highest professional levels by organizations that escape me right now, like some major Hollywood Studios, or something, so I think the fact that I can't even draw a stick figure with it right now, lies in my lack of education about the GIMP.

I think that staying in tonight to learn the GIMP editor might be cost effective, in lieu of going out looking for another 16 dollars...

You've just read: 3,926 words. POWERED BY ↁ DANIEL-SOFT TEXT SOLUTIONS ↁ"

The Dumbest Song: Updated Through Sunday

• 5 Dollar Friday
• 28 Dollar Saturday
• Stayed Home Sunday

Spice Smoking Hinders Busking

Friday, I came into the quarter before nightfall.

I was en route to the music store to buy new strings, as I had about 20 bucks on me.
One of the first personages whom I espied was none other than David, the water jug player.
He was standing in the median on Canal Street, dangerously (for a tottering drunk) close to the tracks, and had his cellphone plugged into one of the outlets on one of the lamp posts, which I am now aware exists. Leave it to David to locate free electricity in the quarter.
I hadn't drank, nor smoked pot in 12 days, having walked past the pot dealers on my way there thinking: "I don't really need it."
David asked the question that has become customary with him: "...You don't have any smoke, do you?"
I didn't, mostly because a 6 dollar set of strings was going to take enough of a bite out of my 20 dollars, without further reducing it with a 5 dollar sack of weed, which I didn't really need.
I had really been enjoying my sobriety. Or, enjoying my sober brain, more specifically. 
Being able to remember all 9 verses of "Tangled Up In Blue," by Bob Dylan: priceless.
Waking up in the morning with a clear picture of what I need to accomplish, and the energy to do it: ditto.
Being able to read for 2 or 3 hours, absorb what I have read, and put it in perspective: priceless.
I have gone from being the stoned and drunk guy who gets an idea and say's to himself: "I should do (whatever)" to the guy who say's" "I think I'm gonna do (whatever)" and then goes about it immediately. 

Whether it be setting up the Snowball mic and breaking out the guitar and laying down tracks of the song idea that I had just gotten; or jumping on the computer to work on the Perl program.
Tit For Tat
David the water jug player gave me a brand new set of strings, minus the one which he had used to replace the one that he broke.
"I guess I can use my string money to go get a sack of weed now," said I.
I was feeding into a recent trend that I have become aware of and the corresponding philosophy that I have been experimenting with; whereby "what goes around, comes around."
It is similar to the time that I got 10 dollars worth of free food, and then turned around and spent 10 dollars on a phone charger from the Latina woman, who runs a family business, rather than getting it cheaper at another store.
David was delighted. I had to reassure him several times that I would be coming back to him, after scoring a sack of weed, should it happen.
I found that the weed guy only had "the good," which is 10 dollars a sack, a little more than string money, but he came down to 9 bucks, as I started to walk off. So, my tit cost a little more than the David's tat, which he had given me.
We chose a spot to roll and smoke, and were doing so, when I spotted on the sidewalk, right n front of the spot we had chosen; something which looked like either a stick, or an almost whole blunt.
It was an almost whole blunt, which looked like someone had lit, taken a few puffs off of, and then tossed on the sidewalk when the police came around the corner, perhaps.
"Put that in your pocket!" said David, about the sack that I had bought. "We can smoke this!"
I felt lightheaded almost immediately from the almost whole blunt -almost too immediately.
After we finished, I excused myself so that I could repair to the Lilly spot directly. It is too easy to get caught up in something like standing there for what seems like forever, staring at a flower or something, once the weed kicks in.
By the time I was rounding the corner to go to the Lilly spot, I began to realize that it hadn't been weed that was in that blunt.
Maybe someone threw it down after noticing, as I had, that it was kicking in a little too quickly; and had a most peculiar, almost "doctors office" kind of flavor to it.
I was feeling like I was on the verge of tripping, as if on LSD, which I haven't had since 1985, and I was praying that I hadn't just tried heroin for the first time in my life; if only for the fact that it would make me vomit soon, if that were the case; and that's embarrassing, even in the French Quarter; for me, at least.
I was worried, also, that I wouldn't be able to play; or that I would melt into my inner mind; curl up in the fetal position on Lillys stoop; and take a journey into "the land inside your mind," as the old song went...coming back later to a real world without a guitar nor backpack next to me.
I will have to finish the story later; Starbucks is closing; but, not to keep you in suspense; it turned out to be "the spice" that we had found and smoked.
It is a synthetic marijuana which was the rage about 5 years ago; being sold as "potpourri" and to be used only as "incense." It was sold under names like "Mojo" and "NOLA Diamond," and yes, "Scooby Snacks," was about 8 bucks per gram; a slight savings over the good weed.
Things Not Spiced Up
It didn't help me play any better; actually made me want to go stare at a flower instead of playing; and I felt I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, wearing the wrong color and playing the wrong song; and I only made 5 dollars the whole night; and didn't blame the tourists for not tipping me.
At least I discovered that it isn't the tiposaurus sign alone which garners me tips. I have to have some chops...
http://tindeck.com/listen/tfagg
Speaking of which, the above song, I did while staying home Sunday; It is called "The Dumbest Song," check it out.....of course it isn't totally finished; as always....
Note On The Above Song:
I have tried to use another mp3 hosting site; and I apologize if, after clicking on it; you were directed to the same websites as myself after I have just tried the link, here at the library.
The first one wants you to download and install a "download manager" type of program (when Firefox already has a built in one which works fine). And clicking on the direct "download" button, brought me to yet another page which wanted me to (insisted upon; and gave me no option to back out) upgrade my current media player.
So much for "free" mp3 hosting...they are the ones that randomly generated the "tfagg" to label the file, by the way....
You may be able to listen to it without adding software to your computer.
The Song, I have decided to add a lead vocal to; and retain everything that you hear as backup vocals, pulling their levels down, commensurately.
Then, I will put it back onto Kiwi6.com, which I have used successfully in the past....
Saturday, I made 28 bucks in 2 hours; alcohol and spice free (though I was smoking cigarettes after every other song).
Sunday, I stayed in, after noticing that the time had crept up to 9 PM, and it was a Sunday, which often dies down after 10 PM, and that I had made 28 bucks the day before and not spent any of it on alcohol nor weed.
8 Dollar Monday
to be continued; at library; out of time.....

30 Dollar Wednesday

Wednesday morning, after waking up with about 8 of the 9 dollars, which I had made the previous night ($14 total, after a black guy, who had a wad of cash, handed me 5 dollars when I was in the Wal-Greens, buying a bag of chips and a half gallon of prune juice at 2 AM, on my way to the sign spot; he may have seen the prune juice and felt sorry for me ...I've been constipated before, dude, and it's no fun...) I went to the Starbucks to blog.

I left the prune juice at the sign spot; effectively postponing my Dr. Christophers' 3 day fast and cleanse and mucous free diet project; for at least one more day.

I ran into David the water jug player, who had asked me if I had any weed.

"No, if I spend 5 bucks on a "nick," it will only leave me 3 dollars for beer."

Having at least enough beer money to get drunk is to me what that blanket was to Linus in the Peanuts comics -something which David understood perfectly. "Go about your business, man! To tell you the truth, I'm already high and have drank 2 half pints of vodka, already!"

Music

As I blogged yesterdays post, I was listening to one of the albums which I had burned onto my stick at the library, then transferred to my laptop.

It is convenient for me to check out 2 (my maximum) CD's upon each visit to the library, and burn them to the stick, while I blog on the library computer; then transfer them at Starbucks.

I am starting with the "A" section of the libraries CD rack, and working my way through the alphabet. Yesterday, I burned a Brian Adams disc, and a Greg Allman one.

Record Review

The Brian Adams disc, entitled "The Tracks Of My Years," is full of cover songs, which were meaningful to Brian, back in the 70's; and which had become "engrained" in him, as he put it in the liner notes.

I was immediately impressed by 2 things: The amount of energy the guy puts into his vocals -he really is a "belter,"- and the sound quality, which stirred up insecurity in me about my potential to approach his sonic level, even with the snowball microphone. It really is a "good sounding" album, even if you hate the songs and/or hate Bryan Adams.

A Sound Comparison

Johnny B.'s CD, which he played for me in his apartment, sounded as good as Bryans.

"I spent $30,000 on that CD; It'd better sound good. Plus, my brother is one of the top engineers in the business," said Johnny B., about it.

4 Out Of 5 Stars

The downside of Bryan's album is that, there are some songs which he belts out; where his voice sounds a bit cracked and, perhaps, damaged after years of performing. 

And, it is as the album progresses that the rasp intensifies, as if he recorded them all in that order, in one session. In fact, in the last few, he sounds irritatingly (to me) like Rod Stewart. I have hated Rod's voice ever since hearing "Maggie Mae," when I was in the 8th grade. It wasn't every schoolboy's dream to sing like him. He sounded (and sounds) "horse."

I never pressed Johnny B. for more information, to satisfy my mild curiosity about which famous artists his famous brother has engineered.

He once told me that he, himself, has had songs "on the radio." 

I keep asking him his last name; then keep forgetting it (probably because I brush by him at 2 AM, at the end of my night, and well into a "blackout" stage, often).

I started to show Johnny the snowball mic and extoll its virtues; and he cut me off with: "Dude, there are 15 thousand dollar mics out there; I'm not going to be impressed by any 50 dollar job, out of Radio Shack!"

So be it.

Nice Recording, Daniel!

Maybe I can aim for "1950's Chuck Berry" quality recordings to get me started. Hey, that was good enough to get The Fonz and Pinky Tuscadero Rocking at the hop...

I had stopped at the Veaux Carre Baptist church on Dauphine Street before going to Starbucks to blog; trying to get some more thermal protection out of their clothing room.

I got the two extra tee shirts, and the wool socks; and a barrage of questions from Luke, who was the one who had handed them to me.

He wanted to know if I was "saved," told me that I didn't sound too "sure" after I said: "Sure," and, I was eventually able to escape with the shirts and socks; after being prayed over.

I made a beeline for The Unique Grocery, and my first beer of the evening, feeling like an immoral heathen (the cost of free clothes from a church) every step of the way. Nothing makes you feel like a beer more than having someone trying to convince you that you don't need one for a half hour.

I drank the beer before updating the blog, and then another, as I walked down Royal Street.

The second beer had only cost me 25 cents, after I had handed the Ethiopian guy 2 dollars for a $1.25 can, whereupon he asked me: "Why did you give me 2 dollars?," handed one of them back to me, plus 75 cents, out of 4 quarters, which he (magically?) had in his hand. I normally would have pointed out the mistake to him; but being so broke....

He will remind me tonight, if he noticed; and I will unflinchingly apologize for my oversight and give him a buck.

Maybe the prayers were working...

I had 5 dollars left, and detoured to Sydneys for one more beer, before going to the Lilly spot.

The first hour or so produced no money for the tiposaurus at all, but rather, some sarcastic comments made by some types who reminded me of the kids I went to Catholic high school with. "You're awesome, man! Keep rocking!" Like a kid who is insecure and jealous.

I kept my cool, and tried to push any thoughts out of my head that I was being punished by God for drinking beer after having been prayed for.

Lilly came by and we talked for a while about where I had been; and I regaled her with The Leslie Thompson Story.

I took a break and spent myself down to almost nothing at Sydneys, and then returned, thus fortified, to play some more.

After almost another hour of being either ignored, or hearing more juvenile heckling, by people who all seemed to be of the same ilk from the same cheap country, and with the all the beer gone; my mood began to darken; and I started to slip lyrics like: "What if you worked all night and didn't get paid?," and "It's alright, I don't have to eat tonight" into my improvs.

The "Point Of Quitting" Effect

At the point when I had just about had enough, and had packed up the tiposaurus, but not the guitar yet; a kid of about 18 or so, sat down about 4 feet to my left.

I deemed him a "traveling kid,' by dint of his backpack and attire, though he seemed to have perfect teeth.

I grabbed my ax, and went into kind of a crunchy metal type rhythm and vented my anger lyrically; kind of feeling like I, at least, had the perfect audience, in him (and before he could ask me to play some Sublime or Radiohead).

It became apparent that he had no money; after he complimented my music profusely, and then added the: "I wish I had some money, 'cause I'd hook you up!" which every busker hears, every once in a while.

I played some more, venting more angst; and a guy came and placed 2 dollars on my backpack as, I had been so close to packing up and leaving, that I didn't even have the tiposaurus out, nor my case open.

"The Guy Who Wants To Play Your Guitar" Rears His Head

"Sure, if you put 10 bucks in my case..."

Then, up walked a thin young guy, who had dollar bills pinned to his black tee shirt; advertising that it was his birthday.

He asked me if he could play something on my guitar.

I hesitated and contemplated saying: "Sure, if you tip me 10 bucks, in case you break a string." That is exactly what Jay the really loud singer would have said; I've heard him say that after people merely request a song.

As I hesitated further, he appended: "...or sing along with you," whereupon I agreed, and we both sang "For No One," by The Beatles, as I played.

A lady soon materialized, who was on her phone, trying to locate her husband. She (almost absentmindedly, it seemed) threw a couple bucks to the tiposaurus, which was back out; as I had changed my mind about quitting after having gotten the first tip of the night, which was 2 hours old. The persuasion of 2 dollars...

Now You Can Play

Then, I ceded my guitar to the birthday guy; especially after he had asked a guy, who was wearing a shirt and a tie and carrying a Hurricane drink from Lafitts, and who had quipped: "Sounds good," as he walked past if he would (consequently) throw me a dollar or two. And since, by then, I had placed him with the non-skeezing population of the planet. Even the way that he had asked the gentleman if he would tip me was easy, not skeezy.

The guy threw 2 bucks.

The birthday guy played "Crazy Love," by Van Morrison on the Takamine and we harmonized, while more money went to the tiposaurs. 

Then, after a few verses, I recognized that the chords were the same as those to "The Weight," by The Band, and I broke into that; and the birthday guy knew it; and we sang and harmonized and a splendid time was had.

After he handed the guitar back to me, I played one of my originals, which he liked so much that he pulled one of the dollars off of his birthday shirt and gave it to me.

By then, there was another young lady listening, and I felt like I was playing and singing well enough to welcome her attention, and her 2 dollars. There

"Wow, You Weren't Even Playing!"

It slowed down, traffic-wise, as midnight approached, and the traveling kid and I had a metaphysical discussion about time and mass and energy and the power of love, etc. during which a guy came "from out of nowhere" and put 20 dollars next to the tiposaurus.

"Wow, your weren't even playing!" exclaimed the traveling kid.

Maybe he was tipping our conversation about the power of love...

Skeeze Not, Want Not

To his credit, the traveling kid never tried to skeeze me, and I ultimately asked him if he needed a couple of dollars (out of the 30 or so).

I saw a correlation between the disproportional amount of 2 dollar tips, rather than ones, and the fact that the kid was sitting by me -with perfect teeth; and looking like River Phoenix or Johnny Depp or one of those guys.

I'm not a good judge of beauty in other men; but the predominately gay part of the quarter where I play is...

He didn't need a couple of dollars.

That fact, and the perfect teeth lead me to believe that he was probably the kid of wealthy parents, who was sowing his oats, or going astray, depending upon ones perspective.

Now it is Thursday night, as I wrap this up; it is 6:07 PM.

It is lightly raining. And about 55 degrees. Darn.

The Recovery Is On

I bought razors, showered and shaved at the VA, and am on my way to get batteries for the spotlight; so that I can be illuminated, after 3 weeks of darkness (and ranting, raving lunacy).

The only thing I am missing is patchouli oil (Lilly likes it).

Past Week A Blur

As I sit here at the library, it is Tuesday afternoon at around 3:30 PM.
I am missing the "feeding" in the park across the street, served weekly at this time by a mostly vegetarian group from somewhere.
It is possible that they are getting paid through some non-profit "feed the homeless" organization; because they are pretty punctual and their food is of a consistently high quality; they know their cumin and their chipotle.
Leslie has called.

His next 504 dollars will not come for another 9 days.
So that means that the last installment has weathered 5 days of his reckless; impulsive spending.
He told me that he was coming into town.
I am curious about how much money he will have with him; I could hear faint reverberations of that particular tone of voice that he uses when he is broke. It the "I hate to ask; but I DO get paid in just 8 days...." tone.
On a Tuesday night there is not much for me to do except to try to put in a few hours of playing at some point during the night.
2 Dollar Monday
Last (Monday) night, after I had watched the entire Monday Night Football game from outside the Royal Sonesta, consuming about a quart of beer through each quarter of the game, I went to find the Lilly spot very barren of traffic. I made 2 dollars off of a total of about 12 people that walked past me between 10:30 and midnight.
The Leslie Conundrum
 I had a talk with David the water jug player about Leslie.

He was curious about why I "liked" Leslie.

I came to the conclusion that Leslie, if managed properly; can be an asset.

He hates to come home to an empty house (and used to imprison his friends at his former residence which was buttressed by fences and barbed wire).

I had a good time recording music in the empty room at the back of his place. He was at work, and it was quiet there; especially after I unplugged the refrigerator.

Quality Not High Enough To Warrant Staying At Leslie's

Listening back to the outcome of the first recording session there (which can be heard in yesterdays post) it became apparent to me that; until I get a better microphone than the one built in to this laptop then it is not worth the aggravation for me to try to use his house to record during the days when he is at work.

20 Empties In The Morning
While I was there; I washed all the dishes which were piled up in the sink; wiped down the counters and threw out the trash after gathering it up off the floor and the tables. About 20 empty Abita Beer bottles the bulk of it comprised....

He came home from work with about 3 beers in his stomach and 9 more in his insulated beer toting pack. Then, the challenge for me became how to escape graciously from his hospitality and come back in to the Quarter so that I could at least work a few hours.

Leslie would have preferred that I hang out there at the house and use "our" money to keep a constant flow of beer going.

David Kind Of Night

I took Monday night off, so I could watch football, but then was in the mood to play some, which I did and I broke even money-wise...
I tried to draw David the water jug player, whom I hung out with; and who was very generous with his liquor and weed.

Sobering Wednesday

A transaction on your Balance Financial Prepaid MasterCard account for $5.00 at UNIQUE GROCERY STORE NEW ORLEANS LA has been approved. The current available balance on your card account is $4.23.

The above was waitng for me in my e-mail box, as a gruesome reminder of the past evening.
Tuesday night was a farce.
I ran into David the water jug player, and wound up drinking and jamming with him and only making a dollar but letting him talk me into hitting up my debit card for the above purchase of a pint of vodka.
Then, he started bumming cigarettes, though he had never smoked them before.
Then, he wanted me to give him what was left of the pint of vodka as I was leaving.
It is almost time to stop drinking, once again. Drunk and broke is no way to go through life.
Answering Comments:
"A big problem with your page lately is, when someone goes to it, a huge ad loads that opens a 2nd browser window and covers the whole page.

They'd better be paying you plenty!"
The Ad
Yes, I have noticed myself that a second window automatically opens, at times, when I go to my own blog.
I have gotten it to stop doing so by disabling Adobe Flash (by clicking on the square shaped icon to the immediate left of "https:" in the address box on the main page, and then clicking on "disable.")
I believe this setting will be remembered by individual computers and the annoying second window won't pop up at the next visit.
Blog Not Flash Intensive
In my blog posts I have "included" Adobe Flash code only when I've posted a link to a video which is hosted on Youtube.
Youtube A Trojan Horse?
I believe Youtube tries to load Adobe Flash along with the video content; so that the video can have all the latest bells and whistles. Or, so they will be able to bombard the viewer with ads popping up which require Flash to run on. I think all the ultra modern ads take advantage of its functionality. Perhaps the ones which load themselves automatically and then start themselves, complete with audio (so that you have to mute your speakers, if you are in the library) run on it...

Disabling it will only cause the Youtube video frames to contain a dialogue box, telling you that Flash is "required to view this content" and asking you if you want to enable it.
If you want to watch the one stupid video of me practicing in a noisy locale, then, by all means enable Flash. But remember to disable it before leaving the blog, or you will be redirected to an ad the next time you visit...

I always get  an ad for a course in "self publishing," offering to teach me, for around 30 bucks, the ropes and the ins and outs of getting "that novel" off of ones hard drive, and into the hands of people sitting under umbrellas in lawn chairs at the beach.

Your ad may vary...
 I would be interested in hearing about what kind of ads pop up for different people, for the sake of trying to infer what the associations of the contents are to the person getting the ad.

I have generally ruled out the possibility that the ads are culled from the "search terms" used by an individual, to serf the web with Google.  I would be getting ads for Chinese dating services, and not for self publishing. *wink *wink


Maybe I see the self publishing ad because I am a blog "author."
Maybe I see it because, in my blog profile, I describe myself as a writer.
Maybe it's because in my Google profile, I list "writing" as an interest.
The ad is a pain in the ass; and I don't mean maybe.

This started within the past month.
Somebody might be trying to make money off of blogs in general, if it is happening to everybodys blog; or mine specifically; if I have perhaps exceeded some kind of threshold of hits (80,000?) or number of, and "range" of visitors (40 somewhat regular readers from Turkey to Taiwan; Big Flats, New York to Little Rock, Arkansas ...Orange, Massachusetts to Apple Valley, California...Las Cruces, New Mexico to Corpus Cristi, Texas...)

Your ad may vary...

It is Wednesday afternoon, and I am pondering selling off some of my food card money as, I had to wait 2 weeks for my replacement card to arrive intact and, during that time the money had been piling up so that I now have about 185 dollars with only a half a month left.

Off The Wagon

Thursday evening, I left Starbucks; walking past David the water jug player on my way towards The Unique Grocery.
I hovered around there like a hummingbird for a while before deciding to go in and get a Mikes Hard Lemonade.

I actually got it in the can, and not the bottle shown.
I stepped out onto the edge of the sidewalk and cracked it open.
The phone in my right pocket began to ring; so coincident with the sound of the can opening, that it sounded like the ring tone began with a "psssst!""
It was Leslie Thompson (shown above; the very next night; but I will hopefully get to that).
Leslie was waiting for his money to arrive; hoping that it would be electronically wired to his plastic card at midnight; as he was told it would; by his employers.
He was close by. I told him where I was. He showed up a couple minutes later.
"I just had my first sip of alcohol in 6 days," I said to him.
"Oh, 6 days....that's good!" he said; and I wondered what he meant was good; the 6 days or the fact that I was drinking again.
He was broke; and would be for the next 2 hours.
I bought him 2 Hurricane Lagers, out of the approximately 45 dollars which I had.
He was in a pickle. He had to be at an employee meeting with his company at 9 AM the coming morning.
The last bus ran at 11:30 PM.
If he waited for midnight, hoping to get his money; then he would need to take a cab back to his house; so that he could get some rest and be ready for his meeting.
36 Dollar Thursday
Well, I made my way towards the Lilly spot; Leslie in tow; but the mood to play struck me across the street from Rouses Market; where I took out my brand new C harmonica and played what I thought was some pretty cool stuff; with "Because," by the Beatles being a highlight.
Leslie stood by; periodically checking his watch.
Midnight came and I had not been thrown any tip money in the 30 minutes that I played.
Leslie checked upon his money. It wasn't there.
He checked again; and again.
After 1 AM, I went and got food out of the bins.
I had gotten another beer out of Rouses Market before they had closed at 1 AM, and I shared it with Leslie.

I began to walk in the general direction of the sign spot to sleep; Leslie at my heels.
I think that he was just at a loss for what to do and wasn't particularly following me with the aim of sharing whatever beer I might purchase along the way; as I have accused him of doing in the past.
We broke off, at a certain point. I had shown him a spot on Conti Street where a huge steel grate oozes warm air; and one can actually survive the temperatures of winter here by sitting on that grate. A dozen or more homeless people did just that, last February.
Leslie Obtains 504 Dollars
I had just gotten to the sign spot; after a zero dollar night when I had spent an extra few dollars on Leslie; when my phone rang and it was him.
"My money's there, do you want to party?"
I was then headed back to the Unique Store to rendezvous with he, and the 504 dollars which was then on his plastic card.
But, not before passing the Ritz-Carlton hotel, where a couple stood, who turned out to be from Canada and who gave me 10 dollars after I played a song for them; practically in front of the entrance.
The doorman came out and moved me away from there.
Note To Self: More Rolling Stones!
The couple wanted to hear more music, Bruce Springsteen; and Rolling Stones being requested. It occurred to me then that I hardly know any Rolling Stones music. The stuff I do know is their cover material like Little Red Rooster, by Howling Wolf....
I played some Neil Young, after I envisioned a "people who like this also like..." box in my head and matched Bruce and the Stones to Neil. It worked to the tune of 6 more dollars from the lady.
It only caused Leslie to have to wait an additional 15 minutes for me to arrive.
He wanted me to be there when the first 100 dollar bill came out of the ATM; momentous occasion that it would be.
Well, the money came out of the machine; Leslie gave a "whoop!" and then, he promised to call me the next (fri) day a little after noon, and we would trek together to the music store, where he would buy me a new harmonica, or two.
Skeezers converged upon him; one girl almost demanding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from him.
That was my cue; I went off to sleep; but not before Leslie had handed me 20 dollars to complement the Mikes Hard Lemonade which he had gotten me for a nightcap.
Waking up on friday and sitting at the sign spot practicing Travis picking; I wasn't surprised when noontime came and went without my having gotten a phone call from him.
He had basically been in the position of having to kill about 3 hours that morning, waiting for the first bus to come and take him to his house, where he would have about 1 hour to sleep before having to get up and shower and shave and go to his meeting.
I was here at Starbucks by evening; doing computer stuff and listening to music
Right around nightfall my phone rang, and it was Leslie.
He was on the bus on the way back from the music store; and would be on Canal Street momentarily; and he had a "gift" for me, he said.
100 Dollars Worth Of Harmonicas
When he arrived at Starbucks, he was pretty well lit.
He wasn't too drunk to hand me 2 brand new harmonicas, one a Marine Band (B) and the other a "Blues Special" type of Hohner (B-flat).
It was pretty cool; and a type of thing that one cannot talk Leslie out of doing. When he sets his mind upon buying something for someone; he just about forces them to take it.
I wound up playing at the Lilly spot; still using my brand new "Ol' Standby" in C; and I made enough money to replace what I had spent that day and gain about 5 bucks.
Today, (saturday) I hung out with Leslie a bit, after he had phoned me at the sign spot, at about 11 AM,  to tell me that he was on his way; on the bus from the new Wal-Mart in Gentilly.
Clean Mouth Key To Harmonica Playing
He arrived, carrying an insulated bag with a strap on it; designed to tote a 12 pack of beer.
It contained a couple of bottles of beer; along with a lot of hygiene items; some of which he bestowed upon me.
Razors, toothpaste, mouthwash and soap were mine to be had.
Then, we made the walk to the Unique Grocery where we ran into Jimmy the guitarist who looks and kind of sounds like Rick Neilsen of the band Cheap Trick.

Unlike Rick, Jimmy didn't have a spare...

Jimmy recently had his guitar and amp stolen by a guy whom he had entrusted to guard the stuff while he ran to the store.
"I'm gonna see the guy at the OZ center, or at Rebuild, it just a matter time...but I'm not going to say anything to him; I'll get another guitar and amp," said Jimmy.
At the point that we ran into Jimmy earlier today; I took the opportunity to slink off, leaving the two to become reacquainted.
Will Leslie buy Jimmy a new guitar or amp?
Stay tuned.