Time To Go Out

A Year Ago Today

A year ago, today, I had just started hanging out with Leslie Thompson, after having been acquainted with him for a while, but never having hung out.
We had our first jams with guitar and 2 harmonicas; which had gone well; but then for the ensuing ones, Leslie showed up too drunk, and wound up laying on the sidewalk, while I played; my tip jar suffering from having someone laying on the sidewalk next to me.
Tuesday (today)
This morning, I woke up to my alarm, which was set for 8:38 AM.
I had $1.75 in my pocket; and a prepaid debit card which has a balance of $15.51 on it.
I stuffed my extra clothing into my pack, cleaned the trash from my spot; folded the cardboard and put it up in the trees; leery of southern flannel moths the whole time; and then headed for The Rebuild Center, to check the mail.
My replacement food stamp card had arrived with about $195 on it.
Karrie was there.
I came to the library and ripped some CDs to my hard drive, such as "2013 Grammy Nominees," and Marvin Gaye "Super Hits."
Now it is the evening and I am about to go out. I ran into Bilal, who gave me a few dollars.

Second Sober Day

Yesterday morning; I woke up around 11 a.m.

There were no southern flannel moths in sight; and I had about 17 dollars left of the 19 which I had made the previous night (I had spent $1.29 on single serving instant coffee packs).
I would have studied music for an hour or two, but I had to run to a restroom. Instant coffee is a good laxative.
I See Karrie

There, standing by McDonalds was none other than Karrie, with a shavened head and complaining that she had eaten too many doughnuts that morning. I gave her a hug, but could glean that she felt un-huggable. She showed me a radio which she had just gotten, and said: "You probably don't want to touch it because it's been in my ears (the ear buds) when I went to inspect it.

I think that she felt like I rejected and abandoned her when I left Jacksonville for Mobile without her; and doesn't blame me for it.

I'm glad that she is back in town. Neither one of us drink, for the moment..
Blogging Til The Sun Went Down
I blogged until about 6 p.m. at Starbucks, lamenting that Downtown Music (and their 6 dollar packs of guitar strings) would be closed -a rare tactical misstep in my sober state- and I would have to walk all the way to Louisiana Music Factory (11 dollars per pack) and would only be able to afford a single string or two.
I stopped at The Unique Grocery and paid Sam back the 2 dollars which I owed him from the last half pint of vodka that I bought from that store 2 days prior.
David The Water Jug Player
But that was not before running into David the water jug player on the corner. He had the Indiana Scout across his back. Bilal had scratched (yikes) onto the back of it:

Bilal 2014
From Bilal > Daniel > David

I told David that I hadn't drank the previous day and wasn't going to that night, either. I told him that I had only spent $1.25 the entire day.
He was visibly disappointed; and at that point I became convinced that he was another Leslie Thompson. 
He probably was short of his next pint of vodka and hoping that I would go in on it.
"So, you kept yourself some money; Good! I like to wake up every morning with at least 10 bucks on me, myself..."
It was the classic set up for a skeeze: congratulate someone on how well they are doing, and then ask for some.
Before I walked off, he laid a hand on my shoulder and asked "Did you give up weed, too?"
I had kind of decided that I would, and hadn't gotten any. I surmised that, had he 5 dollars, he would have had some.
"I'm going to try to play completely sober tonight," I said, to his further disappointment.
As I walked off, I felt the strongest urge of the day to drink.
I almost went to get some weed, so I could return as a hero to poor David. But then caught myself in the thought process and continued on towards my playing spot. It was too eerily similar to how Leslie T. "made" me feel.
The two can spot a "people please-er" a mile away; and prey upon them. ...look at poor pitiful me with no booze and no weed; darn...I guess nobody loves me....darn...
Jay The Loud Singer

I passed Jay, who was upset because The Clean Guy was set up across from the Hotel Monteleone and had his amplifier cranked up. He was looking for another spot to play.
Then, I stopped at Rouses Market for a gallon of distilled water, which would be all that I would have to "eat" that evening.
John The Classical Guitarist
Carrying the water down Royal Street, I came upon John, the classical guitarist, and his dog "slick."
"Well, I'm averaging 5 dollars an hour, so far. The past hour, I haven't made anything," he lamented.
John is the real deal on classical guitar. He complains that his thumb "crapped out" on him; otherwise he would be playing more Bach.
He is about my age, maybe 5 years older, but has a head of long silver hair (and I'm going to try to find a picture of him, rather than put a thousand words here) and was an accomplished french horn player; playing with a Symphony Orchestra at one time until -you guessed it -his lips crapped out on him.
He plays genuine classical guitar by the worlds best composers and tourist, by and large, walk past him as if he is just the background music for whatever they are doing.
"Oh, that's beautiful!" said one lady, as John was playing a beautiful passage. She, of course was talking about the plant draped balcony of the hotel across the street from where John sets up regularly.
"I hear that all the time....'Isn't that pretty?' -and then I look up and they're getting ready to take a picture of the hanging plants" said John.
I left my gallon of water with John and then headed for Louisiana Music Factory, another half mile further.
I bought a single string for 2 bucks and then headed for the Lilly Spot with 8 bucks left over to start my tiposaurus out with.
I was a bit disheartened to hear John say "It's dead out here," when I retrieved my water jug.
48 Dollar Friday
I got to the Lilly spot, fixed my strings, hung my spotlight, set the tiposaurus atop 3 one dollar bills and in front of the sign which states: "The tiposaurus rarely bites."
From there, the night was almost a carbon copy of the ones that I was having the last time that I stopped drinking.
I was still tuning up when a man sat on Lillys stoop and said: "Still tuning up, eh?"
I made conversation, trying to hold his attention as I quickly tuned; accepting that it wouldn't be perfect lest I take too long and lose his interest.
His phone rang, and I heard him directing someone to where he was "I'm hanging out with a street musician..." I tuned frantically while that stalled him.
I played "Best of My Love," by the Eagles -the latest song that I have put into heavy rotation (3 times per night) in order to drill into my memory. He sang along.
When his wife arrived, as per his directions, he said to her: "Give him some money; he sounds good!" and smiled at her.
She smiled back and the guy threw a 20 dollar bill next to the tiposaurus, as he was getting up; and what would end up being a 48 dollar night; (on 2 and a half hours of playing) was off to a good start.
Two Guys From Paris
A couple of guys from Paris stopped and asked me to play "anything" and they were going to improvise in French, which they did.
They returned about an hour later; not wearing shirts and more drunk; and we repeated the performance.
Being sober gave me command over my facilities, and they listened in cross-eyed fascination to what I was playing; especially the harmonica.

I wound up making close to 10 bucks off of them.
The F harmonica was starting to stick a bit and I really had to brute force it into pitch; or thereabouts.
Another 10 Dollars
I made another 10 dollars off a guy who works at Rouses Market by doing him the favor of running to his car for something; before spending $1.19 on a pomegranate juice drink and then taking a circuitous route to the sign spot.
Having the Takamine on my back and 65 dollars in my pocket caused me to heighten my senses, and I made sure I wasn't being followed.
The Anti David
Just as I had decided not to hang out with David the water jug player; a guy, whom I have often seen, because he walks his dog right by the sign spot in the early mornings; has started to leave gifts like a carton of finger sandwiches, a can of Coke, and this morning, another can of Coke next to me as I sleep.
I was awake when he came with the first can of Coke. "Oh, I'm glad to see you moving; I didn't want to freak you out," he said as he gave me the soda. He introduced himself as "David."
It is so easy to imaging New Orleans having David the bad spirit; and David the good spirit; fighting over my soul. As long as I avoid the bad David and his alcohol, the good David will reward me with soda...
Shopping
Today, I was up around noon. I went and bought a new harmonica (key of C) for 13 dollars; and a set of strings ($6) and a set of headphones at the half-price of 13 dollars at Radio Shack; and have 30 bucks left over, minus the coffee that I am drinking.
The headphones sound great; I'm sure the harmonica will, too. I just need batteries for my spotlight and I should be good to go on this Saturday night.

Prepare Ye

It is the day after Christmas....

Exactly one year ago, today, I had slept at the same spot, under the Natchez dock.
The weather was even colder (32 degrees with the wind chill) than it is today (about 55 degrees with no wind) then.
I had had "the worst Christmas ever," the day before.
Luckily, a year ago, I had made a 50 dollar tip a couple days before that holiday; off of a tourist who wanted to play alongside me as his wife shot a video; and had the freedom to lay bundled in blankets waiting for a warmer day to come along.
Low Expectations
Having experienced last years Christmas, I was able to avoid topping it and setting a new standard for "the worst Christmas ever," as all of the ingredients were there in abundance.

Few businesses were open.
The library and other places to get out of the cold were closed.
Few people were out; almost all of them with bah humbug scowls on their faces.
I "started" my Christmas by waking up under the Natchez dock and noticing that the boat was pretty much idle; the calliope hadn't played; they hadn't warmed up the steam (for 20 minutes); and nobody had taken the microphone to welcome everybody to the Natchez and inform them that it was indeed a steam boat; can run in 5 feet of water; once raced against the Robert E. Lee steamboat from New Orleans to St. Louis in 1870 (and lost); has had Mark Twain aboard, who then wrote about it, like I am doing...etc.
It was just sitting there.
Idleness Depressing
One of the things that has been depressing me lately, is the idleness I feel in myself when I am waiting for the darned boat to launch, so that I can emerge from my covert sleeping spot, then walk along the bottom of the bank of rocks (far left in photo) where I can only be seen by those at the foremost edge of the river walk; picking up a few scraps of driftwood, so that about 100 feet from the dock when I climb up; people will be fooled into thinking that that was all I was doing.
The feeling of stagnation comes from the fact that the boat doesn't launch until 11:45 a.m. and, sometimes by then, I have been under there for 12 hours; only 8 of which I had made "productive" by being asleep.
The Remedy
Part of the remedy has been to acquire a couple of good books, which I can read by using the reflection of the sun off of the water at certain spots, yet remain invisible to the Natchez crew.
Another part might be the acquisition of a cheap AM/FM radio, which would give me music from classical to classic rock, as well as news and opinion from the Outside World -stuff anybody would know about unless they lived "under a rock" or under a dock, I suppose.
Another thing that depresses me is being broke; or being close to it.
A Very Karrie Christmas
But, the good news would be that I had run into Karrie, the evening of December 24th, at The OZ hostel for homeless men, which serves a meal each evening at 6 p.m.
We wound up walking together; towards the French Quarter.
She mentioned the fact that she had lost about 35 pounds by quitting beer drinking.
We were approaching Brothers Market on Gravier and Baronne streets; and I had about 32 dollars on me.
"Can you drink brandy; to warm up?" I asked.
"Oh, I can still drink liquor," she answered.
I bit the bullet and (over)spent about 9 bucks on a pint of brandy; which she wound up refusing to partake of.
"It's just going to make me fat," was her non sequitur response after I offered her some.
It crossed my mind that she may have undergone hypnosis in order to kick alcoholism; and perhaps the suggestion which triggered her aversion to it hinged upon self-esteem issues surrounding her weight.
She stayed by my side as I took her into the French Quarter for her first time.

I showed her a few attractions, such as the Unique store, where the employees gave me covert winks and nods of approval at the sight of Karrie by my side.

We made it as far as Rouses Market, which caused her to express delight over the fact that there was more than one of those stores.
I told her about the chicken bags and the sandwiches etc. which they toss out (the OZ had only served a bologna sandwich and a piece of cake and a cup of water) and that seemed to peak her interest a bit.
It was a very cold night (high 20's) and I was thinking about my "accommodations" under the dock; wondering how she felt about rats, and the like.
I kissed her a few times which seemed ordained by some subconscious reaction to the particular place and time; and she kissed back and sighed with pleasure.
She told me that I looked "so good," (especially in my hat??) at one point.
But, then at about midnight, like Cinderella she shot off in the general direction of where we had come; after a brief goodnight.
It may have been because she was ready to break down and ask for a sip of brandy; or it may be just because she is Karrie; who believes that brandy will make her fat.......

The Eagle Flies On Friday

...and Saturday, I'll go out and play...

• Leslie Gets A Job
• Karrie Encountered
• Full House A Losing Hand

"Hello, and welcome to Chris Owens.
My name is Leslie and I'll be your ID checker.
We cater to a very distinguished class of people and I'm sure you will fit right in.
Let me know if there is anything I can do for you..."

Leslie got the call Friday night at 9:30 p.m. from one of the dozen or so prospective employers whom he interviewed with, and after telling the manager of Chris Owens club on Bourbon Street that he could be there in 15 minutes, donned his one fancy suit (shown) and arrived there 12 minutes later.
He drew 50 dollars in cash for 5 hours of "Standing there looking at pretty women and checking IDs."
Meanwhile, I was up the street, making a 20 dollar tip from one man who said: "Wow, I've been across the street listening to you play for (looking left and right) apparently nobody; and you are putting so much energy into what you are doing regardless; just for the love of it; that I just want to tell you that it is humbling..."
That was humbling.
I made a few extra singles from apparently nobody; before taking a break, and running into Leslie, who was to get off at 3 a.m, and took these photos of him.
The black couple to his right, above, came out and said "You're taking pictures?!? That's not cool!" after I snapped this one.
There are people all up and down Bourbon Street constantly snapping pictures of everything under the sun (or the neon) even the strippers who stand in the doorways wearing lingerie.
I guess the tourists, and the Asians in particular, are expected to be taking pictures and are overlooked.
I was invited to crash at his place, as the temperature had started to plummet by that hour.
Leslie promised to start reimbursing me for all the drinks which I had bought him over the previous 3 weeks, and that began immediately after a walk to Brothers Market.
Steve And Selena
He neglected to inform me that Steve and Selena were already there, until we were at his gate.
Charlie and Sue (the wheelchair skeezers) have been barred from the premises by the landlord, due to their unpopularity with the nearby neighbors who have regularly seen them pushing their folded wheelchairs up Leslies walkway; without a trace of a limp; after taking their "removeable" casts off.
Steve and Selena seem to be their replacements.
"They are nothing like Charlie and Sue," Leslie promised.
I can't tell.
They basically make themselves at home there.
Steve is all cut up after being purportedly attacked with a knife, under the bridge where the two had been sleeping. He has stitched up scars on his forehead, forearms, and one across his throat which appears to be only a superficial scratch.
As Leslie and I were leaving the next morning, and I was the second one out; no sooner had he disappeared when I observed before closing the door behind me; them scrambling around; moving to Leslies bed to arrange their blankets there, flipping on the TV, etc. and seeming happy to have Leslie out of their way..

The food that I put in the refrigerator would be decimated; the stove would have its burners run full blast to take the chill out of the place; showers would be taken; soap and shampoo used; and there would be no toilet paper for the next hapless soul, by the end of Saturday evening.
Sunday morning, there was to be a Thanksgiving event at The Bridge House -yet another service center for the homeless, and the farthest one from Leslies apartment at about a 3 mile distance.
Steve declined to come along with us because he had a hole in the (hospital) pants which he was wearing.
"I can't go out like this; it's unacceptable!" he admonished Leslie, in a tone of voice which implied "And don't expect me to!"
"Yeah, Leslie!" chimed in Selena, in a tone which implied: "What's the matter with you?!?"
Selena opted out also: "I didn't get to sleep until 4 in the morning; I'm still dead tired!"
There was to be clothing and turkey dinners handed out; and Leslie promised to get Steve a pair of pants; and to carry those items the 3 miles back to them.
Leslie The Pacifier
"Is that OK? Is everything copacetic?" he asked them with his trademark smile.
Everything was fine; they weren't offended that Leslie suggested that they leave his place, tired and with a hole in the (side) of ones pants; to come along and get food and clothing for themselves. They would wait there.
"But don't take forever," said Selen.
"It would be a lot easier if we had our own copy of the key," she had the gall (in my opinion) to add.
I caught them again out of the corner of my eye, licking their lips and wasting no time making themselves comfortable before we were even out of the door.
Just like Charlie and Sue used to do...
Karrie Sighted
We were on our way back to the house; Leslie laden with 3 styrofoam containers of food in one arm and a bag of clothing in the other, when we spotted Karrie, sitting in the sun by a wall and drinking water -just water.
I introduced her to Leslie and we wound up walking together; and at one point I rubber her head and her shoulders the way she always loved to have done...
"I need to straighten my life out," she told me...

Oh, Wednesday Is The Worst...

The Continuing Story Of Bungalow Leslie
 And, by now, it is Wednesday afternoon, and I am on the Algiers side of the river.
Howard is sitting right over there, in the corner, reading the sports page...
Howard As Mentor

He has been tutoring/babysitting a young brown skinned boy of about 4 years old; who developed a curiosity about him one day; which led to conversation between he and the boy; followed by him meeting the mother; a skinny brown skinned lady in her thirties possibly Haitian (though I'm terrible with brown skinned island dwelling races) and eventually to him occupying the boy's attention and enriching him with story telling, coloring, block construction and board game playing at the library while the mother might run errands.
This seems to have had a rejuvenating effect upon Howard.
But it has meant that he is seldom seen at the New Orleans branch of the library; and so; I must cross the river in order to visit him.
I would like to continue our football prognosticating contest; after missing the past 2 weeks.
I basically blame myself (because I take responsibility for everything which happens) for missing the past 2 weeks of our competition; but I was hanging around with Leslie; crashing at his place and then finding us walking around together the entire day and as far into the night as his blood alcohol level would permit, before I would get a few hours of solitude at the ends of each day.
By then, I had neglected all of my planned activities.

In The Dark Again
Some of them, I deem important; like the acquisition of some kind of light; a reading light or a small LED flashlight (9 hours on 3 batteries) for my playing spot.
The house across the street; which owner had installed an extra spotlight to illuminate my spot, telling me the next morning: "I figured you could use some light; you're kinda in the dark" now has doused those* spotlights in favor of an elaborate Christmas display which consists of all kinds of lights but none of them bright enough to cross the street and illuminate the tiposaurus and its sign (Which I have changed from "The tiposaurus won't bite," to "The tiposaurus rarely bites," by the way; thinking it to be a bit more titillating to the tourists) and so, I should buy some kind of spotlight of my own; before I run totally out of money...right Leslie?
The Man In The Red Shirt
Saturday night, as Leslie and I sat on Lillys step playing guitar and 2 harmonicas; along came the "vagabond" who bangs on a drum and sings.
He had captured the attention and dollars of a small group of tourists.
He seized them right in front of the spot where I used to play, before the man who sleeps directly behind that spot in an historical house which predates soundproofing, came out one night and politely asked me if I would stop playing at 10 p.m. each night.
That was when Lilly had stepped in and said "Play on my step."
The vagabond got greedy and implored the tourists to hear one more song.
This was the song which broke the camels eardrums as (I was in the restroom at the time) the same man emerged, wearing a red shirt and said something to the vagabond; which led to a heated altercation, during which the vagabond responded with "That guy plays guitar here all the time (pointing to Leslie and my guitar) why can't I play here!" at one point.
Then the man in the red shirt approached Leslie, and said "Not again! If you play again, I'm calling the cops!"
I heard all of this from Leslie after I returned, though all of the parties had dispersed except for Leslie, who was watching my rig.
Leslie was happy to disperse quickly for another beer; having been shaken a bit by the mans threats.
I sat there by myself.
Soon the head of the man poked out of his doorway and looked my way.
He walked over and, in his red shirt, reiterated pretty closely what Leslie had reported hearing.
He said "If I see you here; well if I see you here playing; I'll call the cops"
But then he added "You're bringing the neighborhood down!"
I don't know if he thought that we were all banging on the drum and singing together; or if we had invited the vagabond to stop there and play (he usually does one song then keeps moving) or if he was referring to the presence of Leslie as being the factor which was bringing the neighborhood down, but he added that anyway.
I Am The Pawn In This Game
I sat there not playing and letting things sink in...first the spotlight gets turned off; now this...when happened to emerge Lilly from her gate on the side of the house furthest from the man in the red shirt.
"Oh, he's a lawyer. He's a jerk. Play on this side right in front of my gate. If the cops show up just ring my doorbell," said Lilly.
I played in front of Lillys gate for about another hour; made some money although it was pretty dark with just the Christmas lights; no cops showed up (at one point one drove past, uninterestedly) and that was how Saturday night ended.
Though it has already ended in this blog a couple posts ago, I thought I would go "back" and insert the lawyer anecdote; in case it comes to any import in the future.
Moving Out
I slept under the dock last night; woke up pretty depressed; but now I have full reign over my life, I don't have to answer Leslies' text messages if I don't want to, and I won't consider crashing at his place.

Last night I didn't get him as drunk as usual with my money.
He was a bit irritable at the house; complaining about me opening the refrigerator (which I had stuffed with food) for a midnight snack; and he complained about cigarette smoke for the first time since I have known him; and he complained that he was sober.
I left to sleep under the dock at about 2:30 a.m.
Karrie, where are you??
He hasn't messaged me all day...

All My Exes Live In NOLA

• Tuesday's Cold Front
• Bamboulas Open Mic
• Xanna Sighting
• Karrie Is Here

I guess I will start with the most recent and work backwards:

This morning, I got to the library and noticed a woman sitting on the steps, who smiled at me.
I thought that she was a certain woman who paints her face and body white and who dresses like a jewelry box dancer and stands as a living statue on Bourbon Street.
It was not the living statue, but a woman who explained to me that "We used to live in the woods together in Jacksonville..."
A closer look revealed her to be none other than Karrie, whom I have not seen since May 31st, 2010, before I got on a bus for Mobile, Alabama and left her "crying at the bus stop" (according to subsequent reports) in that .
She has lost a lot of weight, 50 pounds of it ("I quit drinking beer) and shaved her eyebrows ("My face got burned") and seems to even have a different accent.
She had a pack of cigarettes in her purse, but wouldn't sell me one, not even for a dollar ("I have to pan-handle for them") and wouldn't give me her cell phone number ("I just don't want to get in trouble").
"You must have a boyfriend," I said, thinking that the cigarettes probably belonged to him and that having me in her contacts would be what might get her in "trouble."
"No, I don't have a boyfriend," she said, before she went off to The Rebuild Center to eat lunch at 1 p.m.
And that is the way it stands; I'm not going to rush into anything.
If I wanted to rush into anything, I would have reached for the 150 dollars that I still have left from the weekend; and offered to buy her some better food than what is likely to be the fare at the homeless center; and then; old habits might have taken over and the next stop might have been the liquor store...
She looks very good and healthy; and, if it is truly because she has stopped drinking, then I'm not going to be the devils advocate.
If old habits take over then, she will find me at the right times and places; like she used to do.
We need to take things slowly, to maybe establish a different kind of relationship than we had before.
I had been standing and talking to Leslie about 25 feet away from where she was sitting just 10 minutes prior to our meeting, and the subject of the conversation had somehow drifted to her.

Bamboulas Open Mic
I did all of my laundry last night, and dried it very well and put most of it on, as the weather forecast was for temperatures to drop to 40 degrees with winds strong enough that people were advised not to leave their empty trash cans by the street.
I saw that the new club, Bamboulas, on Frenchman Street, was having open mic night from 9:30 till 11:00 p.m.

A walk past my playing spot showed it to be deserted.
The wind was already picking up with cold breezes strong enough to blow tips out of a guitar case hitting my face.
Not A Good Idea
I decided to grab Leslie from his apartment and we would go to Bamboulas and jam at the open mic night.
I thought this would be good because Leslie knows the owners of that place, as they are also the owners of Last Call, on Bourbon, where Leslie does odd jobs.
I thought it would elevate his stature with them should they hear how well he plays the harmonica; and I thought it would be good to get out of the cold on a night when I probably wouldn't have made much money, anyways.
Leslie was in his apartment and had 3 cans of Hurricane Lager which he had not yet drunk, and a half pint of whiskey in his pocket, but couldn't remember where it had come from.
We arrived at the venue and I was greeted by Sal, who is a very good singer and guitarist who does old blues from the 1920's. "I'm hoping to get a gig here," he said.
He was scheduled to go on after the guy who was up there doing pretty decent stuff that sounded original; but who was a jerk when I tried to compliment him upon it.
Sal got up and played.
The PA system was set in a way that destroyed most of the effect of his voice.
He sings with a very wide vibrato and bends notes with a lot of dynamics; and has interesting lyrics; all of which was washed away by the reverb and echo on the sound system; and I realized just why people in the 1920's developed vocal styles like Sal and why they didn't need, and would have been annoyed by, too much reverb and echo.
Amp Search Continues

?

Useless Leslie
By the time Sal finished playing, Leslie was barely standing up and wasn't sure where he was.
I told the guy running the thing: "I would get up and play, but my partner isn't exactly in playing condition..."
"I wouldn't have let him go up, anyways," he said.
 Leslie is useless after around 7 p.m. on any given evening, I am learning...
Xanna
Monday afternoon, I saw Xanna (another ex girlfriend; see 2001) standing by the off ramp of Route 10 holding a little sign begging motorists for money.
She had several items of luggage strewn around her along with a little kitten, which she said she has named "Captain Ghost" (another reference apropos of 2001).
I gave her a dollar, out of the 200 or so which I had left over from the weekend.
San Francisco Fans
This weekend, the Saints have another home game and we are expecting the San Francisco fans to be as generous as the Dallas fans were.
It shouldn't hurt me -the fact that I play in the gay district of the Quarter...
Another Cold Night
Another cold night is forecast; though not as cold as last night, and without the wind.
I will make an effort to play.
I have been invited to crash at Leslie's place.
Karrie is invited, too.

This Day In History

On This Day
1 Year Ago:

 I was in jail in Baton Rouge, serving 45 days for "disturbing the peace/public intoxication" after I had admitted to a cop that I had had a 24 oz beer after he asked me "Have you been drinking? It smells like it.."

The streets of that city were swept clean of all homeless types the second week in August in anticipation of the LSU homecoming game and the arrival of all the alumnus and fans from both schools.
One guy was serving 45 days for littering, after he opened a pack of cigarettes and then threw the cellophane on the ground.

  2 Years Ago:  

I had just arrived in New Orleans for the first time in my life and I had just met Sue, the Colombian lady; who would become my on-again, off-again girlfriend during the next year; for the first time in my life.

We had passed a couple nights in the marble stairwell of the Marriot Hotel, sleeping on (separate) pieces of cardboard, while a mean tropical storm raged outside.

I want to say that it was tropical storm "Lee."

Sue had her cat, Cookie with her in a cat carrier the size of a mailbox...

I had only been in New Orleans a couple of weeks at that point and the tropical storm put me out of work busking for a few days.
A guy at Starbucks let me use his laptop to e-mail my mother; asking her to send money.
Since I was in a new and strange (and reputedly dangerous) city; and had a new girlfriend, whom I wanted to protect and nurture (and who had a cat to feed), I was able to plead my case and soon 75 dollars was on its way. I wouldn't have to ask again for at least a year...

A picture from that era, which I will call  
"the camouflaged canvas safari hat" era.

4 Years Ago: 

I was in jail in Saint Augustine, Florida, (shown above) serving 76 days for a long list of atrocities; like trespassing and open container violations..

The cops in that city, especially the ones on bicycles, would actually follow the homeless people around, spy upon them with binoculars; and tip-toe around behind buildings trying to catch them drinking or urinating or smoking pot.

Out of the 7 violations that I had; most of them were from the same officer Caroll; who pursued myself and my then girlfriend, Karrie around.

We were given trespassing tickets for sitting one foot behind an "imaginary line" which the officer said ran around the perimeter of the parking garage..."this side is city property; this side is public..." 

I was busking and Karrie was sitting next to me, and at a certain hour we slid ourselves back a couple feet because the sun was hitting us.

The cop was up on the third level of the garage watching the shadows creep and waiting for us to either do that or to open the pint of whiskey which we had.

3 Years Ago: I was in Mobile, Alabama, and had just witnessed their Labor Day Parade and was disgusted by how selfish and greedy were the entire families who scrapped over the candy and junk which was thrown from floats...pushing and shoving and grabbing.

Goodnight, readers...

5 Years Ago
I don't know what exactly I did on this day; but I was in Jacksonville, Florida, where I started busking and where a Morrocan lady who worked at a certain Circle K store actually encouraged myself and my friend Larry to busk out front.
We split anywhere from 35 to 75 dollars per night, playing a couple hours each.
People were starting to tell us "You should go to Saint Augustine," (where all the street musicians go).

Self Healing

Health
My throat feels much better today; as does my upper chest.
I believe that I had a gland which was called upon to produce mucous to flush out my chest of a toxin, perhaps. 

In case I have to do self surgery...

I don't know why it is just on one (left) side of my throat.
I think I might have breathed in just a speck of something which irritated the lining of my lung, and I've had to cough it out of me for the past week.
Someone might have had an accident while transporting a chemical weapon and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught just enough of a whiff to make me feel like I had a chest cold (though no fever and felt great otherwise) for three weeks and went through 5 pounds of tissue; and had a swollen sensation in the back of my throat when swallowing.
The River Run
I have maintained the exact same velocity on my 2/3 mile run along the river to the little convenience store which I make on most mornings.
Four consecutive runs of 4 minutes and 57 seconds...
Singing Only Slightly Hampered
My singing was only slightly hampered by the condition, as I didn't have as much oxygen at my disposal, my volume dropped off; but I was able to do alright by switching to artists whose works can be performed with a chest cold. Johnny Cash comes to mind...
A Day In The Life
I am thinking of adding "A Day In The Life," by The Beatles to my working repertoire, starting with a run through it after scanning the chords online to get an idea of them.
It sounds like it is based upon a descending bass line, at least in my head...
No Food For 7 Days?
Because of the fact that I have been pressured to get a new food card, one which can be swiped and read, by certain cashiers whom have complained about having to punch the 16 digit number into their registers; and the fact that it takes up to 7 days for a replacement card to arrive in the mail, and the old card becomes void; and given that my food money on the card has run out exactly 7 days before the end of "this month," I have ordered a new card sent.
In the interim, I will subsist upon the cash that I am able to make busking; along with whatever food falls off of the banquet table of Bourbon Street  
In the short term, I think a water fast of at least a day or two would be just the thing to make this throat and lung nuisance leave my body.
8 More Days In NOLA?
I have told Howard of my plans to try to travel; as soon as I have the funds to take the Megabus to Atlanta, where I will try to meet up with Karrie and will play music on the street in the hope that it will be easier there than here in The Big Easy.

A Cruel World

Yesterday, I received word from my mom, that she was going to wire me some money.

After checking the Western Union locations online, as well as their hours of operation, I set out on a 3 mile walk to the Piggly Wiggly on Plank Road.

Correction

• Daniel Posts Two Consequetive Gains



"Have Something To Say..."

• Just waiting on Howard's medicine

The Real Wednesday Night
I erroneously called the night before last Wednesday night
(referring to it as a notoriously slow business night) in yesterdays post when, in fact, that had been Tuesday night when I got the 35 dollar tip for playing "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan, and then "Dear Prudence," by The Beatles; both with harp solos.
Last night was the real Wednesday night, the notoriously slow one, and I made about 21 bucks in three sets of almost an hour each.
I thought I played like crap, though, as there were a few things on my mind.
One of them was the fact that the painter guy was out on the steps across from me, playing his guitar.
Brooding And Disturbing
I think that he was trying to busk for some money, and, if that was the case, it was a faux pas for me to sit right across from him. He was probably too proud to ask to sit in with me, probably having gotten the message that I had taken off a couple of nights prior, because I felt that I could make more money if I didn't have to split it with someone who wasn't matching my "intensity"...
He is a decent player, but there is something about his music that makes it seem like he is too shy to say something with it, if that makes sense.
One of the compliments that I got from Lawrence, who plays with Dorreen's Jazz Band was "I can tell; you've got something to say on that guitar." The painter guys music seems to say, I'm a quiet yet deeply complex person and you would never understand me, just like this minor 9th flat 5 chord, which sounds brooding and disturbing.
My goal when I started was to play "nice" music.
I had a creepy feeling that the gentleman in the condo behind me was still hosting his guest, the one that goes to bed at 10:30 p.m., and even though it was early (before sundown) my intuition told me to stick to nice songs, "smooth, light and easy so you can relax" tunes, or to make myself vulnerable by improvising lyrically intensive stuff about love lost and heartaches i.e. sing about Karrie, (the girl who was supposed to follow me to Mobile, Alabama almost three years ago and who never showed up...)
I didn't want to go balls-to-the-wall, full tilt boogie with the painter guy across the street trying to make a buck, if that was the case. Again, communication would have been a valuable tool. I stopped to listen to him during one of my breaks, but didn't think to appologise for the way I took off on him Sunday night..

Paul, the guitarist (far right) has become a good friend of mine;
"Yeah, San Francisco?...I don't know...you should probably stay around here,"
was his reaction when I told him that I was leaving.

This morning, I woke up about 8 dollars richer than I had started the day with; the second consequetive positive gain, after having come up about 40 bucks Tuesday night.
Tonight will be Thursday night and I intend to "behave" by avoiding Decatur Street and staying within the "6 p.m. until 10 p.m." Bourbon Street Residential Area guidelines..
Frantically Turning Knobs
I really seems like I have doubled my income by adding the harmonica, and in fact I rarely sing much at all now; or play guitar solos -unless they are "double solos" between the harp and guitar. That will hopefully change after I get a microphone. It is good to have a balance between singing and harp playing, but, right now the harp is louder than my singing voice on all but the "loud" songs, like "Have You Ever Seen The Rain," by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
When I switch from harp to vocals, it reminds me of when a band has "technical difficulties" and the soundmen are frantically turning knobs on the board, trying to bring the vocals up LOL!

Tale Of Two Cities

First Day Back

Good To Sleep In My Own Bed
(far left yard)

The first day back in Mobile started with my hopping off the train which was chronicalled in yesterday's post.
Upon waking in the morning, I found that the day's itinerary was neatly laid in front of me, and didn't take me by the beer store at all. I removed the bag of dirty laundry and a couple books from my pack, thus lightening it.
I then walked to a spot where I used to sleep almost a year ago. I hung the bag out of sight in the holly bushes.
Then, I walked to pick the ashtray at the RSA Tower, where the federal employees have their smoking area. Then, across the street to Pollman's Bakery, where I was able to obtain a cup of coffee for just the remaining 90 cents on my food card.
Sipping coffee and re-rolling cigarettes, I made my way up Dauphine street. I was greeted warmly by some people who seem to have missed me, the past two weeks.
I then blogged yesterday's post.
I went to spend my last dollar on a beer, before sitting down to play at the acoustically superior spot, but not before running into Israel and his new girlfriend and their dog, "Updog".
Israel left almost a year ago, saying that his goal was to ride the trains "all the way to California."
At the time, I didn't give his scraggly, skinny ass much chance of succeeding in that endeavor, but; he did.
There was his hobo girlfriend and their dog and his tales of adventure to prove it. Amazing.
Someone stopped by and gave us all food while we talked. Israel and the girl said that Boulder, Colorado had been a very lucrative spot for busking, which was interesting news to me, since I think I can play at least as well as Israel on the guitar...
I then went and played for a half hour and got one gold dollar and one five dollar bill (something that had eluded me for 3 days New Orleans).
I then went and spent two of the dollars on beer at the Exxon.
On my way back to my sleeping spot, where I eventually would do my laundry, I ran into a black lady who offered to buy me a beer "because I've never seen you ask anyone for anything" which she did, and then she gave me a dollar.
I hung my laundry to dry in front of the hot air vent, and then slept like a baby in the sanctuary of the yard behind the Christ Church, waking up this morning with $4.93 in my pocket, and well rested with clean, dry clothes. Mobile has its perks...
Tale Of Two Latinas

In Tune With Spirits

As I was becoming acquainted with Sue, the Colombian Lady, formerly referred to as Sue, The Cuban Lady (-hey, I was only about 4,000 miles off), there must have been sent out waves of energy, disturbing the cosmos, which was picked up by one Karrie Porras. 
I had recently tried to reach Karrie (by calling the local liquor stores in places where I thought she might be taking her hermitage; half expecting one cashier to tell me "Just a second," and then put her on the phone..) and discovered that she was recently incarcerated in Dalton, Georgia for "public intoxication" (she was set up, framed, railroaded; of course).
Well, the undercurrents of the collective subconscious, referred to by some as "God," work in strange ways, because, as I was kissing Sue, the Colombian Lady in New Orleans, Karrie was dashing off the following e-mail to my mother, which my mom then forwarded to me.
Mom noted that the text was the original "word for word," off the fingertips of Karrie, and not a paraphrasing; which needed not be mentioned. I've never heard mom use the term "controling bitches" in quite the same context...
And now; Karrie's letter, via mom:
Hi


Letter from Karrie word for word: 8/18/11


Dear Daniel


I'm at the libary in Dalton, GA. the name is Pines


I got your letter and nice of you! thank you


Mostly I want to apoligize for my behavior in Florida.


You can call me at (706) 264 XXXX ?


I hope every thing is OKay the computer hates me I want to send a photo.


I'd better go their is controling Bitches around here


Miss you I think



Love

Machines hate her; bitches control her...
maybe she needs someone like me
back in her life...

Karrie Porras
157 XXXX
Dalton, GA 30721

A couple of thougts come to mind, besides how cosmic the timing of its delivery was.
I wonder if she really misses me. (I've always wondered if she thinks.)
She took about 6 months to respond to my letter, nice as it was, so I will take time to consider my response before calling her.

I have a suspicion that, probably, the past year, her quality of life was equal to, or better than the life we were sharing; but has now sunken below her threshold of tollerance of her circumstances, (what with the controling bitches and everything); thus prompting this (more coherent than usual) letter. 

"...As Long As We Don't Have To Have
A 'Drink-Off' To Compete For Him!

I also have an idea which is both frightening, and exhillorating:

Karrie in New Orleans!

Would a s-Karrie cat-fight en-Sue, between the two?

I haven't a clue, do you?

Maybe I could move Karrie to Mobile and then hop back and forth, having one in each port, like the real rock stars do...hmmm