No Crying Roast-Meat

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

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

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

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

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

A Lady Gives Me 25 Dollars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violence Breaks Out Over 10 Bucks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Say Anything At All...

Learning To Hate

I have reached a nadir in my Mobile experience.

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

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

There was hardly any foot traffic.

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

The Petty World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Girl Who Thinks She Is Black

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

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

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

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

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

I made not a dime there.

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

Mobile On 41 Cents A Day

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

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

One (white) girl gave me a dollar.

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

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

It's No More Earthquake; They Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am becoming a racist very fast.

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

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

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

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

The Trolley Driver From Hell Again

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

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

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

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

When It Rains....

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

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

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

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

(Short) Positive Note

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

The Artwalk, Definitely, This Time

Tonight is The Art walk.

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

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

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

A Dog To Prove It

I am on my fast and cleanse, now, having arrived at it by circumstance.
I just wasn't hungry this morning, and only took coffee at The Coffee Club.
This should help me to overcome the temptations, as I contemplate going to New Orleans.
I soon will walk the two miles to the Winn Dixie, to buy prune juice (the official start of the procedure, according to Dr. Christopher,) and a gallon of apple juice. A gallon per day, it will be, for the next three days.
The past three days have been forgettable, and so, I have gone ahead and forgotten much of them.
I remember that, Friday night, I didn't play at all. I had walked around all day, and had little to drink, and I think that I was dehydrated. I lied down early, and was up several times throughout the night, to refill my water bottle and guzzle it down.
Saturday night, I played, and did relatively well -relative to Mobile- but, as the night wore on, and the partying got more frenzied, and the music poured out of the clubs, and I was on my third Earthquake Lager, I didn't feel like playing any more. There is something missing and/or wrong here, after midnight in Mobile. I can't quantify it, but I hate playing late, when only the young gangsters are milling about. It just isn't fun for me.
I felt that I would have had a hard time finding a spot where it would be quiet enough for me to be heard by anyone who wasn't squatting down in front of me, and I wasn't in the mood to seek tips visually, as in, people throwing me a couple bucks because they SEE me playing and appreciate the fact that I am doing something, or whatever is the logic exercised by people who throw tips, even though they can't hear you.
I guess I have been spoiled by playing in the coffee house, where there is a microphone, and people have their ears tuned to the lyrics and music.
I stood there, on Dauphin Street, looking at the long line of people who seemed willing to wait an hour to get into Club 5' 4." The music spilling out of the front door of the place sounded like the music spilling out of the windows of the cars riding by. I couldn't imagine wanting to "socialize," so badly, in the setting of Club 5' 4," as to be willing to wait in that line so long. I couldn't motivate myself to want to try to play for the people who would ultimately come spilling out of the place. I wasn't feeling it.
So, today; out of money; I embark upon Dr. Christopher"s fast and cleanse and mucous free diet.
A Girl Named Korrie
Last night, I was going into the Exxon, to get an Earthquake Lager, when, a girl approached me and told me that she had heard that I was very good on the guitar, and that she wanted to hear me play "when you feel like it." She was pretty. She seemed pretty drunk. She said that her name was Corey. I am not sure how she spells it, but, by the end of the night, after I had played for her and her friends, lured by Earthquake and cigarettes, I wouldn't have been surprised if she told me that she spelled it "Korrie," as, the similarities between her and a like-named girl became eerie, especially once the Earthquake began flowing, and uncanny, after more cans were consumed.
She invited me to camp with her and her friends, saying that they are like a family out there, and even have a dog to prove it. One of the guys is kind of like her boyfriend, I gathered. They said they have an extra tent set up which no one uses. I declined, and walked back to my spot.
I woke up pretty depressed, even though I had become a hero to Korrie and company, for playing certain songs, like "My Girl," by the Temptations, (or someone...)