A Blues Bender

35 Dollar Thursday

Overcoming bad strings and a harmonica which is finally shot 13 months after I had gotten it; I eeked out a 35 dollar night. By the time I stopped playing, I had reached the mark of 4 days without a drop of alcohol.


24 Dollar Friday


I woke up at about nightfall, after having slept most of the day, after having gotten to sleep after sunup, after having stayed up all night, drinking coffee, soaking in the tub, working a bit on a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle, and reading almost the entire newspaper (a 2 hour project) and some.


Having blown out my harmonica the previous night, though still making 35 bucks in 2 and a half hours with it; I was determined to get a new one.


When I first woke up to the alarm that was set to give me time to make it to Music Exchange and get a new Stagg harp for 25 bucks; I felt very tired and with slight flu-like symptoms.


I knew this was due to the fact that I was on my 5th day of the juice fast, which had turned into a water fast. My body was expelling toxins.


I decided that I could sleep longer and still make it to Louisianna Music Factory, where I would buy their next step up from the "New Orleans Special" harp that they sell for about 10 bucks; the last one of which I bought having come out of the box with a note that didn't sound; and myself having tossed the receipt out, figuring that, once I put my mouth all over the thing, I wouldn't be able to return it.


Leaving the apartment an hour before they closed, I got there with about 8 minutes to spare and bought a Hohner "Blues Bender" harp, which was marked $18.99, but which rang up at $15.19. I calculated this to be 20% off.

The guy at that particular store (who conspicuously ignores me whenever I go in there) conspicuously ignored me -it was one of those deals where I felt like clearing my throat loudly to divert his gaze from straight ahead, directed at apparently nothing in particular, to myself.


After getting him to open the glass case where the harmonicas are, I asked him how much the Blues Benders were. He said nothing, but rather, flipped one of the boxes over and showed me the $18.99 sticker on the bottom.


In hindsight, I think he was trying to keep mum about some 20% off sale that they may have been having, for some reason.


He may have been hoping that I didn't have that much money on me; and would have to leave empty handed and disappointed; and he might derive even more satisfaction from that than he does from conspicuously ignoring me.


When I had told him that $18.99 would be fine for the harp, and that I also needed strings, he offered no help there, either. I had to lean over the counter and squint at the packs of them on the wall in order to pick them out of the mandolin, banjo, ukelelee, and electric guitar strings, and then squint even harder to see the prices.


One has to wonder why someone like him would develope such an apparent disdain for someone like me. I think I could stand over by the harmonica case for at least a half hour before he, or the young lady that works behind the counter would come over to ask me if I needed assistance, even though I have needed assistance every time I have gone in there, because I only go in there to buy harmonicas, which they keep locked in the glass case.


I had only been buying the 10 dollar ones, though, and therein may lie the rub. They may consider me a nuisance and a waste of their time, since the bulk of their business is in vynyl records, the cheapest of which, these days, is almost 30 bucks, while their business with me has sometimes involved a single 39 cent guitar pick, with no harmonica to go with it.


Their ignoring me is not in line with them thinking that I am a shoplifter; if that were the case, wouldn't they follow me around, repeatedly asking: "Can I help you?"?


Maybe I am not seeing the forest for the trees, and it is just another instance of a merchant that has seen one too many backpack wearing, guitar toting skeezers and has developed a prejudice against them.


This hypothesis is advanced through the fact that, when they had been located on Decatur Street, across from the House Of Blues, they had been nice to me.


Now they are located katty corner to Checkpoint Charlie's, which is traveling kid/skeezer Central.


Since I was on my 5th day of juice/water fasting, I didn't have the energy to become too irritated over their attitude; neither could I muster up a polite: "Um, it seems that you all are a bit distant towards me when I come in here; have I done something to offend you?" Maybe such an unskeezerly demeanor would give them pause to take a second look at me; and they might come right out and say: "We've been having problems with guys coming in here wearing backpacks and guitars, and buying only a 39 cent pick. Some of them stink, and their dogs crap on the sidewalk out front."


"Well, but not I..."


I went to the Lilly Pad, put on the brand new strings and broke in the brand new harp, and surprised myself by how much better I sounded than the night before.


I made 10 dollars less than I had the night before, but that is probably because I had gotten a 20 dollar tip the night before -blown harp and old strings and all...

Tonight, there were a couple of 5 dollar bills in the jar. These I see as "You sound good" tips, whereas the 20's, I suspect, are more of the "You look like you are homeless, let me help you out" variety, excepting when they are in Tanya and Dorise's baskets. In that setting, they are "You sound great" tips, as they don't really look like they are homeless; their $10,000 worth of equipment giving them away on that head.


I did inch 25 bucks closer to their status, though, with tonights purchases; and after I cough up another 7 bucks on a battery for my tuner, and another 15 for a capo, and then maybe another 9 for a slide, my enterprise will have been restored to where it was, prior to the last drinking binge, which ran about 40 days and 40 nights.


Mardi Gras is starting; and going through the whole festival sober would be a real feather in my cap. I would have about 30 days sober by the time Fat Tuesday rolls around, and who knows how much cash in my jar at home.


I think I will eventually enter the Royal Street market, with a microphone and an amplifier. The money is not so much the issue; it comes slowly and steadily there -unless you are Tanya and Dorise; then it comes fast and steadily- and it isn't likely that anyone will sit down besides you there, wanting to hear your life story and then leaving a 100 dollar plus tip, as at the Lilly Pad; but it is more of an ego thing.

I feel that any musician who never comes here will go to his grave wondering if he ever could have "made it" here (doesn't every aspiring actor move out to Hollywood; and every aspiring country musician to Nashville?). If a musician "makes it" in New York City, then he will probably feel like he can make it anywhere, as the Sinatra song suggests; but I think that as many have been "chewed up and spit out" by this place with the ironic nickname of "The Big Easy," as have by The Big Apple.


And, this drama plays out on Royal Street where success (Tanya and Dorise, Doreen's Jazz Band, Dave and Roselyn, Christina Friis, Brian Hudson and any half assed "Old Timey" band with washtub bass et. al) walks hand in hand with failure (the guys that can be heard to say "...19 bucks, not bad for a Wednesday ...I think I will go back to the abandoned building squat now).


Even though I have survived in New Orleans for more than 4 years, solely on music, I was blessed that night that I sat down across the street from the condo of Barnaby Chancellor, who happens to be a Deadhead; and then further blessed the night I was accompanied there by my then girlfriend Sue (the Colombian Lady) who was drawn into a conversation with Lilly (who is Portuguese) who then began to support me, perhaps as an indirect way to support Sue; and then backhandedly blessed when one of Lilly's daughters looked out her bedroom window to see travelling kids putting needles in their arms at the spot where I now play; prompting a small committee of residents there to echo Lilly's sentiment that it would be preferable to see me there every night, rather than whatever the cat might have drug there. I was a known quantity, especially on the decibel scale.


Lilly even rearranged it so that the heaviest sleeper in her family took the room behind me...


But, I still want to throw my hat into the ring (or at least put my iron in the fire) to see how I stack up against those heavyweights (excuse the pun, Doreen) on Royal Street. out of the same curiosity.


I have an idea, based upon what Johnny B. has been able to do, playing a very similar set list with a very similar skill set. He breaks 100 bucks almost every night (but has to play from 5 to 8 hours to do so).


I think I can outdo him if I play the same set list, but add some original material tailored to the typical audience there, plus improvise things based upon current affairs, or, of course; find a little Chinese girl to play violin alongside me....


I played from about 10 PM until just after midnight, making about 20 bucks, then took a break and a walk to Checkpoint Charlie's where "nervous Duane," a very respected local musician and his friends showed me a lot of respect for my 5 days of sobriety, and passed me a bowl of some killer weed.


This inspired me to go back to the Lilly Pad, where I played from 1:15 until 2:30 AM, adding only 5 more dollars to my total for the night, despite having a small group come along and listen to and sing along with 2 Neil Young songs that they requested. The piano player inside Lafitts say's: "Requests are a minimum of 5 dollars," when people request songs; but I'm not sure that is my style...


I walked past Louise the tarot card reader who, for the second night in a row, "happened to" have her back turned and "didn't see me" go by.


Johnny B. is playing inside a club and invited me to duet with him, saying that it would pay us 50 bucks each per 3 hour shift and that, based upon our previous collaborations, we wouldn't need to rehearse much. I can follow along with most of his "3 chord" songs either because I already do them myself, or because they are 3 chord songs...


The advantage would be that, when it is 40 degrees and raining outside, the 50 bucks (plus tips) would still be there inside the warm club. The disadvantage would be that it would be "The Johnny B. Show," all over again, and he would be doing things like snapping his fingers at me and saying: "Give me a solo, Daniel!" so there would be no room for doubt that he was the big star (who once played with John Mayer) and I was just a sideman.


"You've gotta start somewhere," one might say; and he would probably let me feature some of my originals; but not many, as I can't see him being able to follow along with them, because they are not 3 chord songs, nor could I see him letting me steal the show, or even borrow it for a while...


The proposal came after I ran into him at the Family Dollar down the street, where I was buying 2 gallons of water on the 3rd day of my fast and cleanse.

Recap Of Johnny B. Story
We hadn't spoken since the night that Barnaby's girlfriend, Charlie ran him off of the Lilly Pad, where we were playing for the second night, after having split 160 bucks the night before after about 3 hours of playing.


Emboldened by that success, he had become determined to have an equally productive next night, only he thought that the formula for that involved him inching the volume of his amp up from where it had been (when we made the 160 bucks).


Johnny had become angry and toted his stuff off in a huff; stopping just short of cussing Charlie out.


Charlie said that she thought that he should have at least respected the fact that it is a residential block and that they just don't want amplifiers. "Plus, I couldn't even hear you," she added to me. "He's trying to take over your spot," was her opinion.


"My friends hate your guts," I told him when he called me later, prompting him to disconnect the call, and that was the last I heard of Johnny B. until a few days ago at the Family Dollar. I had seen him a half dozen times in the Quarter, but he had ignored me. I guess now he has a use for me, and we are on speaking terms once more...



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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).

Nice Try

I was determined to start a juice fast yesterday, and to abstain from alcohol.

I made it through most of the day, drinking expensive bottles of things like an apple cider vinegar drink and an organic white tea and ginger one; purchased at the big Rouses Market on Baronne Street off my food stamp card in the early afternoon; while I blogged using their wi-fi.
Then, I walked the mile to the Starbucks on Canal Street, where I had planned upon going inside and working some more on this laptop.
Having varied my morning "routine," by waking up at the residence of Jim (my friend who has Parkinson's Disease) and then walking to the Unity office; the big Rouses Market, and then into town; I found that it was easy to be unshaken in my resolve to stay sober.
Once I reached the familiar haunt of Canal Street, I started dying for a beer; and I felt a huge vacuum sucking me, along with the $2.65 in my pocket, across the street and to The Unique Grocery.

I had one more struggle with my inner self, and I walked across the street to in front of The Old Saint bar and restaurant, to think.

I saw that one of my number one excuses for imbibing, Monday Night Football, was an hour and a half away from kick off.

I decided to get a beer.

Turning back towards The Unique Grocery, I came face to face with none other than Leslie (who may just have materialized out of the ether, the instant that I opted to get a beer).

He was carrying his mandolin method book.

I told him that I had sneaked off the prior night because he was starting to become angry...
"...over stupid things," he finished my sentence.

He apologized again (the 3rd time, if you're keeping track) for being "out of line."

Then, he asked me if I was in a position to help him out with bus fare. This would indicate that he had not enough money (out of the 400 dollars which he had gotten 5 days before) to get one more beer, and then take the bus home.

"I have, like, 2 single dollars, and I don't even know how much change. I didn't play at all yesterday; just drank and watched football..."

Then, an amazing thing happened: Mr. Hard-to-get-rid-of replied: "Well, I guess you're headed to the spot to play," and then walked off.

I then went to get my first malt liquor of the night, over my own protests.

Dire Straits For Johnny B.

I walked down Royal Street, and past Johnny B., who was playing across from the Hotel Monteleone with a thin black guy on saxophone, whom he has been jamming with, lately (and reporting a spike in revenue; even after splitting 50-50 with the guy).

He called to me, and I returned.

He asked me if I was still outdoors; and after I replied in the affirmative, told me that he was in dire financial straits; having had a "terrible week" and having had bills come in unexpectedly. He said that we might be able to work something out.
I hadn't been pretentious enough to think that he had been offering me a chance to freeload, at least not for more than one night; but now he was laying his cards on the table.

Too embarrassed (or proud) to say: "Dude, I have $1.32 in my pocket," ...and it's Monday night; and as I look up and down Royal Street, I am not seeing just as many tourists as I'm sure you're not seeing... So, I told him that I had watched football and spent money the prior day.

Johnny B. has told me that he considers me talented, and told me that I "always sound good," (after I had mentioned that, with the stuffed up left ear, I couldn't hear myself very well and wondered how I sounded) and he probably equates this to my having an income level approaching his.

Again, the short answer is: Johnny B. has a Roland Street Cube amp, and a Shure microphone, and plays a $3,000 Taylor guitar (I looked it up on Guitar Center.com).

He is loud enough to stand up to the saxophone guy who plays acoustically (but, they are in an enclave which reflects the sound) and, turning the "effects" knobs to add reverb and echo also adds money to his tip jar; giving him about a 4 to 1 advantage over myself, money-wise.

I have never exaggerated the amounts of money which I have reported making; the times that he had been curious. Maybe the 136 dollar night which I had almost a month ago now, stuck in his memory.

I tried to hint at a ballpark figure of what I might reasonably be willing to chip in on his rent in the future by adding: "I would have to have at least a 50 dollar night, before I would consider breaking some off to stay inside....that would leave me enough for my daily expenses..."
He nodded, without hesitation, and said: "I understand" in a tone which at least indicated that he would charge less than 50 dollars per night. -minus "my daily expenses" he might be thinking around 20 dollars per night.

Economics 101

My rule of thumb; established when I used to rent.....um....circa 1998, is that 20% of my income was comfortable; 25% do-able, and rising above 30% began to put a strain upon my finances.



So, if I DID have a 50 dollar night; I would be comfortable giving him 10 bucks to crash on his floor; $12.50 would be do-able; and I would probably rather wake up at the sign spot with the whole 50 dollars on me than sacrifice 15 of it....

"Well, if you do get blessed tonight, I'll be here 'til 11," he said, as I walked off.

I walked towards the Lilly spot, stopping at Rouses Market, to get a second beer, knowing that it would mean that I would be starting out with no seed money

But, I had come up with a solution to that problem by tearing into dollar sized strips the cover to a pamphlet which I had found which was pretty close to the right shade of green, and had designs and patterns on it which were close enough, in the dim light of the Lilly spot.

I still haven't gotten batteries for my spotlight, as I am trying to get them while they're still on sale at Wal-Greens. (32 batteries for 10 bucks plus tax).

There were hardly any tourists out. The excuse was that they were all inside places, watching the game. The Saints were playing.

I took a couple breaks to peek in on the action, finding almost full and cold due to the weather, beers each time. The second one a...

The Curse of the Thompson Residence

My business really has fallen into disarray through the course of the 3 weeks spent at Leslie's house. And the recordings which I made are small consolation.

Reaches Even Deeper

Plus, the Unity worker at The Rebuild Center this morning, asked me where I had been, and reiterated that they were placing "just veterans until the first of the year" and that I had been "missing in action."

TueNight

Now, on this Tuesday night, I go out with one 25 cent piece in my pocket; the tiposaurus jar

The Power Struggle

• Electric Company Set To Cut Us Off
• Mom Calls
• Ear Infection

Leslie Bongo Jam (click here to hear)

The above is the last recording which I made Sunday night, after I had broken off from Leslie in the quarter and gone to the house without him, where I set up the Snowball microphone and was messing around with the quintessential New Orleans song, When The Saints Go Marching In.

It was not long before Leslie entered the house carrying his bongos.
Finding me at work, he joined in, adding bongos over what I was playing, and dashing any hopes of my being able to use any of the tracks constructively; as, the bongos are fixed in the mix of guitar and harmonica.
At least they don't dominate, as he was sitting in the opposite corner of the room as he played. I don't think he could have stood up and played them for very long, given the state of intoxication that he was in.
He can be heard uttering one of his catch phrases: "What do you want me to do now?"
Mom Calls
My mother responded to a message which I had left on her phone on Thanksgiving Day, telling me that she had been in Vermont (where she hails from) and that she doesn't carry her phone around "like a lot of people," and had just gotten the message, 4 days later.
She said that she would be in touch with me before Christmas.
She added that I may be doing a good deed, by being Leslie's housemate; him possibly being in need of a "caretaker" of sorts.
She chuckled over the thought that I could possibly be the "reasonable" one, of the two of us; or out of any two people anywhere at any time throughout history.
A Dark House?
Had I known that Leslie wanted a caretaker, I might have stepped in, earlier this week after he was paid almost 500 dollars and before he squandered it foolishly without having paid the electric bill, which was already overdue.
I couldn't have stopped him from ordering 2 large Meatlovers pizzas to the tune of 31 dollars on Sunday afternoon, because he placed the order on his cellphone on the way to the house.
We could have eaten much better using the combination of the Canseco's Market up the street and his oven and/or stove and the 31 dollars.

A 10 Minute Walk From Leslie's

Pizza is laden with soy oil and, if his intention was to treat me to a meal; his generosity was misplaced. I still ate a few slices because I was starving and drunk; and I have had swollen glands and dry skin lately as payback.
Ear Infection
Plus, I have contracted some kind of ear infection which has my left ear ringing and every sound seeming to emanate from the right side of me.
I went out and played and sang Sunday night in such a condition and the difficulty that I encountered would be understood by anyone who sticks a finger in one ear and then tries to sing on pitch.
Ironically, at least a couple groups of people stopped to listen, and after I made the excuse about my plugged up ear said: "You sound good"
One group threw 3 dollars and the other, 20 dollars; and I was on the last bus out of town, headed for Leslie's bearing the gift of beer, after just one hour of playing but not hearing myself.
Johnny Bavono (which, I finally learned is "The Clean Guy"s name) has been giving me a certain kind of ear drops, after I had run into him and he had told me that he had had the same kind of ear problem: stuffed up and ringing and full of the most sinister wax that Que Tips have ever encountered; kind of an orange-rust color and with a strong acrid odor of deafness to it.
 

Fill Your Heart

I woke up this morning at the sign spot; at about 11 AM.
I tried to gauge how tired I felt.
I remembered running into Johnny B (the clean guy) who was playing across from the Hotel Monteleone. It was about 1:30 AM.
He had a Russian guy pestering him to play music, but who wasn't tipping him.
The Russian guy spoke no English, and so, used hand signals to try to tell me to take my guitar out and play along with Johnny. I would have, if my guitar wasn't tuned one half step down from "concert pitch."
Plus, the Russian guy wasn't tipping.
He eventually went across the street and into the hotel where rooms are about $275 per night.
Johnny once again invited me to crash at his place, which is somewhere nearby, on Girod Street.
I once again declined, valuing my solace, and thinking about whatever food I had hanging in the trees; and about sitting up in the morning sipping coffee and poring through my sheet music magazines; practicing and writing and working on getting organized.
Johnny and I harmonize well together on songs like "Losing My Religion," by R.E.M.
He had made over 50 bucks with his microphone and his amp and the little button on the amp which is labelled "effects" and which might as well say "tips," with a slider to increase or decrease them, commensurate with the amount of reverberation saturation you add or subtract.
I think a lot of non musicians think that the really great singers have voices which just echo and reverberate naturally (that's how you can tell an amateur from a pro).

Tuesday night was about the 5th "break even" day which I have had in a row.
I have been waking up hung over and slightly depressed, but with the same 32 dollars and change which I had woken up with the day before.
It's a holding pattern fraught with peril as, all major purchases need to be put off; as time goes by.
I am listening to Hunky Dory, by David Bowie.

I left at about noon, to use a restroom somewhere; one of the drawbacks of the sign spot is its lack of privacy

My Own Water Jug

What instrument do you play?

After the debacle which was Wednesday night, when I had run into David the water jug player, who had passed me a bottle of vodka (in lieu of a handshake) upon greeting me; and whom I jammed with on noisy Canal Street, only to see the proceeds go towards more vodka and weed; I woke up Thursday morning with 38 cents in my pocket; and a resolve to go on (another) water fast and to eschew alcohol.
Blessings Flow Like Water
People who don't believe in "a higher power" believe in coincidences.
I had only a 20 ounce bottle of spring water (and 38 cents to my credit; along with a 2 dollar debt to Sam at The Unique Grocery) as I walked down Canal Street, towards my playing spot -do not pass The Unique Grocery; do not collect a beer.
I decided that I would alter my habitual route to get there, as I was trying to alter the habit which had been hindering me recently.
I knew that I had subconsciously made myself broke (and even run up the debt) to protect myself from myself. My greatest concern was what I was going to do with any money that I might make that night.
My Sole Is Restored
Before I had strayed from the habitual route; I came upon Alex Rainbow, the doorman at one of the swank hotels which name escapes me; whom I have walked past several times before, and whom I have had conversations with.
I told him about my resolve to stay dry that day.
I was detailing the previous evenings debacle, when all the proceeds from busking had gone towards dissipation; and about how I was going to take an alternate route to my playing spot, to avoid certain people and certain temptations.
"Some people think that; if they have 10 dollars, then, they have 10 dollars worth of booze and drugs; and if they have 20 dollars, then they have 20 dollars for booze and drugs, etc..." I complained.
This seemed to have attracted the attention of a black man, who was standing nearby, wearing the uniform of a bellhop or a valet from the same hotel, and sun glasses.
I went on to say that I had woken up slightly depressed; realizing, in the sobering light of day, that I could have used money to replace a broken string on the Takamine; and for a bottle of Gorilla Glue to repair the sole of my right sneaker; and for, "you know; stuff like that."
The bellhop walked over to me after I had mentioned the glue and, retrieving a bottle of Gorilla Glue from his pocket said: "I've got you!" and proceeded to glue the sole back onto my sneaker. I noticed wedding ring on his hand.
"There you go," said Alex.
Alex asked me what size shoe I wore; offering me a pair which he was "trying to get rid of."
I walked on, thinking that I would go easy on the busking when I got to the Lilly spot. I would drink my water and play as well as the mood that I could conjure up inspired. I didn't expect to feel like playing without the fortification of a couple beers to loosen me up.
I walked Dauphine Street, instead of my usual Royal Street.
It was about 7 p.m. and Thursday Night Football was close to kicking off.
I poked my nose into the doorway of the 801 Royal Bar to see who was playing.

I then walked a couple blocks to where John the classical guitarist was playing.
I talked to him a while; petting his dog; and telling him that I was back on a water fast and not planning to drink alcohol that night.
"The only thing is I only have a 20 ounce bottle," I said.
By that time the game had kicked off; and I decided to go around the corner and down a couple blocks to the MRB bar, where I could stand outside and watch for a while. I wasn't in a hurry to get to the Lilly spot to find out if I could summon up the urge to play music and sip water.
I went around the corner and was half way to the bar, when I saw, sitting on the front step of a guy who walks past my playing spot often, and who might even read this blog; a full gallon of spring water.

I picked up the gallon of water and proceeded to go to the MRB bar, where I set the jug down and watched the game.
Karlie From Astoria
A woman named Karlie came outside and asked me what kind of music I played, and a conversation ensued.

She said that she is from Astoria, Oregon. She and her new husband, who was inside, were on their honeymoon.
I told her about my water fast and how I was almost reluctant to go and make money busking because I was afraid that I would run to the beer store at the first drop of a couple dollars.
I really think that she had been considering giving me some money, as we had had a pretty long conversation about ourselves; but she gave me a few cigarettes anyways. She also encouraged me to "keep doing good," as I walked off towards the Lilly spot.
The encouragement seemed to have an effect. I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to run to Sydneys at the first sight of money.
The First Sight Of Money
I rounded the corner at St. Phillips and Bourbon Streets and espied a couple people sitting on Lillys stoop.
From the distance of a half block; I couldn't tell if they were skeezers or not. Will I have to send a text message to Lilly, asking her to come out and sweep her stoop of them?
When I got there, I discovered a young man and woman whose status of tourists was confirmed when the young man asked me, in an Irish brogue, "Is this Bourbon Street?"
I get that question a lot as, people whose Google Maps had led them to the street from the Esplanade Avenue direction, wonder where all the neon lights and craziness is.
I gave them an overview of the layout of the street, then mentioned that I played at that more quiet end because I am not amplified, and because I had the blessings of the residents around me.
"Nobody ever thought of playing this spot because it is so dark, but, I put my spotlight up in the vines overhead, and turn it into a prime spot; right next to Lafitts Blacksmith Shop Tavern, which is the last 'must see' stop on Bourbon Street.

"Is this Bourbon Street?

Their names were Keith and Diedre and they were from Dublin, Ireland.
They were very curious about my lifestyle, and evinced surprise over the fact that I was homeless; and even more over the fact that I was homeless and had a degree in English with a Music minor. "Get out of here!!" said Keith after I had told them that.
We talked for about a half hour; during which time I played them "Best of My Love," by The Eagles, and during which time a skeezer approached and interupted the conversation by asking the couple if they could help out "a true homless man with a dollar." He was an older black guy; and seemed drunk; and the type who asks everything on two legs for a hand out.
Keith said: "Well..." and was reaching for his wallet when the skeezer appended "I really need a couple of dollars..." He didn't acknowledge me at all.
I was smiling inside when I heard the clink of a couple of coins going into the skeezers outstretched hand and Keith saying: "That's all I have, buddy."
"Thank you," said the skeezer, in mild disgust, as he went off.
"You're welcome," said Keith, to which I added my own "You're welcome!" a bit louder; as if he should have been thanking me too for allowing him to skeeze someone I was talking to at my spot.
I filled the two in on "skeezers," as they would soon be headed towards the skeezing side of Bourbon Street; and with the personal agenda of spreading my word overseas to Ireland.
It would be cool if I were watching a movie made in Ireland one day and heard someone referred to as a skeezer.
"Oh, we have skeezers in Dublin, too!"
Diedre asked me a couple times if they were keeping me from what I do; and if they were sitting on my spot.
"No, my spotlight falls over here..and it doesn't really pick up here until about 9:30."
They left 10 dollars with me, after asking if it were OK if they gave me "a couple dollars." It was the "couple of dollars" that the skeezer didn't get.

I was sober and played and sang well and knocked off after an hour with 19 dollars.
I walked down Bourbon Street; my gallon jug of water like a talisman; taking me through the mud and the blood and the beer.
I found just the right foods for staying sober at Rouses Market.
Clean Guy "Johnny B" Back In Town
I ran into The Clean Guy, who is back in town; and now has an amplifier. He had made 50 dollars. "You need to get an amp, Daniel," said the clean guy.

He still looks like Steve Martin with Jeff Gordons eyes (left) and was wearing a dinner jacket, slacks and leather shoes.