Kratom Edibles

27 Dollar Friday (didn't start 'til midnight)
88 Dollar Saturday (didn't start 'til 12:30 AM)

The 50 Dollar Bill, Just As It Appeared To Me

I feel like, all summer, I have been a field of dry soil.
I have been plowing it, by practicing the basics of music out of the Mel Bay books.
I toiled in the sun, turning the dirt over and burying mango seeds; as I worked on my original songs; often for the entertainment of no one more than a nearby skeezer; but I planted the seeds.


And now, it is October, and the season has brought rain, in the form of tourists, it's starting to fall lightly and moisten the soil, and lo and behold, it turns out that the soil has been fecund, all this time, and there has been nothing wrong with my seeds; and they are plentiful, having been entrenched, one by one on Monday and Tuesday nights, very often.
Now they have germinated. I have been back to earning my average of around the price of one ounce of silver, or about 17 bucks, per hour.

A Meal Of 3 Chicken Thighs And The Sleep Of The Dead


I underwent another failure to show up at the Lilly Pad at an early hour. I didn't actually start playing until almost 12:30.


There was the rather large meal that I ate, to wit, 3 rather large chicken thighs, which I place into a 200 degree oven and let sit for the good part of an hour, until the meat was cooked to the bone at a pretty much inform temperature. There is such a thing as chicken cooked "rare" and the perfect temperature is just shy of the fear-of-salmonella recommended 165 degrees, or so.


I'm more worried about the karma that I am playing with by eating chicken thighs; and will I have to have my head chopped off at some point in order to satisfy the law of it.


It was an awkward beginning to the night, involving skeezers who had sat down on the stoop right by where I play.

Skeezer Etiquette


We walked up to the spot almost in step. They had just rummaged through the trash cans near Lafitt's and had sat down on the stoop, apparently to go through all the containers of alcohol, which would be ones that had landed upright in the trash cans, so that they could condense them into one single container.


But, I said something to the effect that I hoped they weren't planning upon camping out right there, to swill down their drinks and ask everyone who walks by with a cigarette for one, etc. I think I softened it to: "How long were you guy's planning upon sitting there?"


And the first skeezer, who is kind of Latino looking and who I almost think is a guy who Leslie Thompson used to associate with called "hector," and whom I also knew as Hector.


Leslie complained that Hector was an inveterate liar, and I complained that, within the first couple weeks of my setting foot in New Orleans, when I was still 2 years away from seeing Lilly's face for the first time, this Hector and this other guy, who would turn out to be Steve, a guy who would ride up and down Bourbon Street in a wheelchair even though he didn't require one, and would "wheelchair skeeze" tourists. Steve claimed that he had a bonafide gift for talking people out of money. "All I gotta do is get em talking," said Steve.
He had told me this after he had folded up his wheelchair at Leslie's front gate and was walking behind the contraption, pushing it into Leslie's apartment.

But, I was newly arrived in the Quarter, and there were Hector and Steve, sitting by a parking garage, dressed in button up shirts with their hair freshly cut, and Steve called out to me, asking me to go over and play them something with the guitar that was on my back. Steve had presented the offer in a manner consistent with a well heeled tipsy tourist in the mood to hear some music, with money being no matter.


I played one of my better songs, and was just beginning to doubt that either one of them was going to give me anything, as Steve was gushing some pretty suspect flattery, and Hector was sitting there with a dopey grin on his face, and a few minutes went by with no motions being made towards any wallets.
It was then that Steve played the practical joke on me of telling me that Hector was some kind of world renowned Spanish guitarist or some other b.s.
Hector could demonstrate his proficiency on my guitar, if I was so inclined.


I handed the 100 dollar Yamaha guitar to him, more out of curiosity than anything, and technically, more because Steve is a very convincing con man than anything.


Hector hit a couple of chords that sounded like they might be the intro to something. But it quickly became apparent that he hardly knew how to play the thing, his fingers fumbling for strings, and I quickly became bored with his "music" and wanted my guitar back.


I wound up having to stand up in front of him and take a martial arts style stance and say something like: "Listen, man, I'm about to kick your fucking head in if you don't give me my guitar back!" after x number of times asking him for it back, as he continued to strum with a goofy kind of bemused look.


That's actually the Hector whom I think was sitting there, consolidating drinks that had landed upright with the other guy.


And I think that he thinks that I don't recognize him.

Or it's possible that he may have forgotten who I am, since a lot of drinks that landed upright have gone under the bridge since then.

Most likely it's a product of each of our having half-forgotten each other, with the sum of our lapses in memory being equal to the two of us being pretty sure we think we know whom each other are, but not sure enough that we would act upon the premise.


I should have just asked him if he didn't indeed know Leslie Thompson. Then, I could have refreshed his memory to the fact that, besides asking me if I had any weed that he could get for free at my expense upon sight, he generally treated me respectfully.


This particular guy who looked like Hector asked me if I had any weed the moment I sat down.


"If I had any, I'd be smoking it as I tuned up," I said.

I was certainly hoping that they would leave; and that perhaps they had just hung back a second so Hector could see if he could get some free weed at my expense. It was a white lie. I wasn't going to smoke the bud that I had until after they had left and I was tuning up, ready then to play.


I'm not sure how I phrased it, but Hector took as a peccadilo,  my attempt to ask them If they could not sit on the stoop that was destined to be sat on by a guy who would tip 5 dollars, and then leave a 50 dollar bill behind, and another couple who would tip me 20 dollars, and who probably wouldn't have stopped if I was "busy" with my "buddies" at the time.

Plus, I wouldn't be playing any heartfelt renditions of "Golden Slumbers," by The Beatles (which I sing to Angelique, the younger of Lilly's two daughters, whom I believe sleeps in the room right behind me) with them there.

I would feel like I was casting pearls before swine, and would have a chip on my shoulder because part of me would be trying to drive them away with "sucky" music. This is why every busker should have something like "Afternoon Delight," by The Starland Vocal Band, at the ready.

Hector was making a big deal over the fact that New Orleans was his city and he will sit wherever he wants there, and nobody will be able to move him. If he was going to leave, it would definitely not be because someone ran him away.


So, I explained that that was the only spot that I could play at "I can't move down to that other stoop; but you guys could sit there and do the same thing there as you would here."


The other guy seemed amenable to them just moving on, but Hector seemed to be staying put on principle.

I wound up sitting there for about 5 minutes, not playing, and then started packing up my stuff.

I thought that I would walk around the corner and take 10 minutes to smoke the bud that I had gotten for 5 dollars outside the Banks Meat Store, and would watch them, to see if, they would deem that they no longer needed to defend their right to sit wherever they wanted to, and would leave of their own volition.

I could call Lilly from that vantage point, who might come out and make short order of running them away. It was almost 12:30 AM, though, and she may have had to do that from out of Angelique's bedroom window, which, I suppose would leave them being too loud, as her only reasonable complaint against them sitting there. But, Lilly never ceases to impress me with ability to gauge a skeezer and take the right tack with them.


At the sight of me packing up, "Hector" said "You don't have to leave man, we're gonna go in a minute.." They probably did have other trash cans to hit. The early bird gets the Montezuma worm...
I need to compose a speech for such situations, perhaps "You're blowing up my hustle; nothing personal" might be my best bet; especially when dealing with hustlers. I usually go with "Hey, I'm trying to get some rich tourists to sit where you are, that's kind of my hustle, and it helps when I'm sitting here alone, because otherwise they might think that I already have a customer who's tipping me..."
This implies both that they are taking up space, and that they are not tipping.

I can usually tell by the tone of their ensuing: "So you want me to leave?" how effective it has been.

"Well, thanks for checking me out, I could hang out if I wasn't working..." to remind them that I'm working.


I most likely could have said: "I'll tell you what; I will roll a joint and smoke it with you, if you promise to let me get back to my thing afterwards..." with success. But therein lies the danger that, once stoned, they will really start to dig the music, and linger.

A Skeezer Savy Sassy Socialite


A couple came along, with the young blond lady being from somewhere not far from here, and the gentleman accompanying her from some faraway place. They wound up tipping me 20 bucks.

A skeezer came along, midway and, after giving me a thumbs up and saying something like: "Rock on, man;" tried to work the couple.

I was was hopeful that, since the lady grew up around here, she would be skeezer savy and would see right through the guy's attempt to ultimately get something for free at their expense.

He had planted himself between them and myself, basically blocking most of their view of me. I was praying that the lady was just having some fun with him, pretending to indulge his skeeze, maybe just to see how ridiculous it could be: "My house burned down last night; I lost everything..."

The guy wound up giving him a cigarette, but no cash (serves him right for blocking me) and the lady then had the right words to make him quit while he was a cigarette ahead, and walk off. This was precipitated by the gentleman having turned his attention away from the skeezer and back to me.

While the guy was skeezing, they had both been still kind of half listening to me; probably sensing the rudeness of starting a guy off on a song and then turning away in the middle of it. I was trying to substitute for the lyrics of what I was singing ("Imagine," by John Lennon) with things like: "Imagine all the people; leaving a musician in peace," etc., as kind of a hint to the couple of how I felt about "A'ksin' Jackson" (a'ksin' everyone he see for something for free).


And, it turned into a pretty decent night, aided by the 50 dollar bill that was on Lilly's stoop.

The bill was folded into a weird kind of acute triangle, not straight in half, which might be why it wasn't investigated by any of the people that walked past during the 20 minutes or so that I played, after the guy who had been sitting there left, and before I found it.


Now it is Sunday. I haven't slept yet, but I have done this blog post along with the drawing of the 50 dollar bill on Lilly's stoop above and below.

I have the notion of showing up earlier than usual at Howard's to watch the Patriots on television. [this just in: cancel the notion, it's 5:23 PM right now, and I'll be lucky if I can get there by the 7:30 PM kickoff).

Berta, one of Howard's housemates, said that she was going to give me an avocado plant, or two. I hope to start buying "grow" lights soon, and turn my apartment into a regular horticultural wonder. Let the artificial sunshine in!
I'm going up to the Uxi Duxi, where I should just have to post this up, since it's already written, and then I guess I could take the buses straight to Howard's; arriving there whenever the buses get me there.

I had made about 35 bucks, including the 20 dollars from the couple, when it started raining just hard enough for me to worry as much about the guitar as what I was trying to play on it.
Angela, the waitress from Lafitt's, who takes her smoke breaks on the stoop next to me, was doing so, at the time. She was protected from the rain, there.


I was all packed up when I heard a guitar and a bleating, croaking voice coming from the direction of the bar, and looked to see a rather ragged looking guy, sitting in one of the chairs provided for the patrons, especially the smoking ones, right at the front corner of the place.
"What a great spot," I thought to myself. Imagine how much money a busker could make on that prime spot of real estate, right where the tipsy people, who may have chosen the bar due to its having a sing-along type of piano man inside, would step out for a cigarette. They would feel safe in breaking their wallet out.
I knew that he probably wouldn't last long there; he was butting heads with the piano guy, who can still be heard from out there. But I also knew that, if the rain stopped and I decided to do another set, I would have to out-croak him. Or worse, people would be like: "Darn, I just gave that guy in front of the bar twenty bucks; I wish I would have saved it, because you blow him away!" type of thing.



"Do you have any pull, as far as getting him to leave," I asked Angela.


She didn't know what I was talking about at first, but, after I pointed out the guy to her, she stood up stiffly and said: "Oh, I've asked that guy to leave like 3 times already!" and then went off in his direction.
It crossed my mind that whoever it was would see her make a beeline from me to him, and might associate himself being run of with my having asked her to.


But, as I walked by the bar, she walked past him and went inside. It wasn't until I was crossing the street to the next block that I heard the croaking stop. Angela has got some street smarts. And good taste in smoke break music...


The rain stopped, as I was at The Quartermaster getting a can of cat food and a coffee, and so, the manager within told me: "Well, the rain stopped; come on; back to work; it's only 1:50 AM!"

And so, placing my coffee down next to me, I began to play a second set at 1:50AM., and played for an hour, during which the highlight was one guy, who sat on the stoop and threw me a 5 dollar tip as he listened.


This brought me up to about 38 dollars for the night, or so I thought.


I had packed up my stuff and taken the the spotlight down from the vines when I saw something laying on the stoop. It really didn't look like money. But, it was a 50 dollar bill.


It was probably  mleft by the last guy to have sat there, who had tipped me 5 dollars. I wondered if he had left it there so I would find it; in order to avoid my embarrassing him, should I have brimmed over with gratitude. I thought it might have been from one of the tourists who aim for the tip basket from far enough away so that an errant shot could very well wind up the 5 feet away from me that it was.

But, it would take an obscenely wealthy person to cavalierly flick a 50 in the direction of a street musician, and just assume that he would get it.


It will remain a mystery.


It brought my total to 88 dollars for 2 hours and 20 minutes of playing.
I can't reasonably count the 50 dollars as busking proceeds, nor adjust my expectations of future earnings, based upon getting it.

Most likely, the guy felt that he had gotten 5 dollars worth of fun out of me, and had accidentally dropped the thing.
Without it, I would have averaged the $16.28 per hour; that I have become accustomed to, the past couple years (since becoming proficient on the harmonica).


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Let's Drink Ourselves To Death

Every Banana

Last evening, I had 7 dollar bills on the coffee table in front of my bed...should I move my bed...is the arrangement of the furniture contributing to my depression?..maybe more open space...Do I even want to go out and play on a Wednesday night?

I had 5 cigarettes and one little bud of weed, and was considering staying in.

But while I stay in, I continue to "consume."

Every banana that I smear with peanut butter and eat probably costs me 40 cents. With coconut milk and jam, it probably sets me back a dollar. Add a 10 cent cup of coffee and a 35 cent cigarette afterwards, while Harold munches down 50 cents worth of cat food as my radio drains pennies off its batteries; and it is easy to surmise that it may just be the "night off" that has been sinking me financially, lately. That, and having 9 dollar nights.

Another 9 Dollar Night

So bad it has been for busking that, I left the apartment feeling like I was gambling that I would make at least enough to cover the expense of the outing. My goal was to wake up the next (this) morning with at least the same 7 dollars, 5 more cigarettes, and a little bud of weed.

I got to the Lilly Pad at exactly 9:30 PM.

I knocked off an hour and 20 minutes later, after playing in 90 degree humid air that reminded me of the "C.O.P.D." attack that I had had a couple years ago. I was light headed and dizzy the whole time and just plain out of breath at other times. I did learn how to divert some air into my lungs through my nose during the notes when I am drawing air into the harp rather than blowing it out.

I had a brand new harmonica and brand new strings and really felt like I was wasting them. I gave the one tourist with the 20 or 50 or 100 dollar bill an hour and 20 minutes to show up, who never did.

I am basically right back to where I started last night, money-wise, but I did learn a few things.

I think I will go out and play "just because." I did get a 45 dollar tip from one couple last Wednesday...

I Think I'll Drink

I want to get a pint of tequila when I get to Broad Avenue a little later. 163 days sober is enough. I'll chalk up the experiment as a failure, in general.

I know that alcoholics often relapse at times when they realize that, despite their sobriety, their circumstances have taken a turn for the worse. It isn't a far stretch to wonder if it is actually because of his sobriety.

The tequila would take up just about all the money that I have and I will have to walk into the Quarter, something I haven't had to do in months. But I feel like I deserve that. Then, if I see Leslie Thompson I will tell him: "You win. Let's drink ourselves to death."

I'm not going to wait around for life to deal me my demise. I'm going to take control. Life is worthless now, in 2016.

13 Dollar Thursday

The Most Important Thing

Rain on Canal Street

The most important thing that happened last (Thursday) night was probably that, after blogging at Starbucks until about 7 PM, and then going to The Unique Grocery, for the first beer of the night, I encountered, in that establishment, "Mama Cat," who is a fixture in the quarter, and whom I have had dealings with, in the past.

She said "Travers and Mark were looking for you."

Travers is my Unity caseworker. It is December 19th, and for the remainder of the month, Unity is placing only veterans in housing units. "Everybody else," will be administered to, after the 1st of the year (2015). Just saying "2015" makes me think that we are all in some futuristic movie. Aren't we all supposed to be living in a colony on Venus, by now?

Travers had been looking for me around McDonalds, Mama Cat said. She hadn't said how long ago that was, though.

I hung around McDonalds, where David the water jug player often hangs around, and there he was.

After about an hour of waiting out the rain storm, and not seeing Travers, the rain stopped, and I repaired to the Lilly spot.

It was another very slow night, where there were intervals of 2 or 3 consecutive songs, when nobody walked past.

I know enough to keep playing through these times, for a few reasons.

Some tourists seem to hide in the shadows and listen, out of sight, maybe to see if the musician is really dedicated to his craft and will play for just his own joy; or to keep open their option of tipping  him without revealing themselves, and then hurting his feelings by just walking off (if he sucks that bad). Or to avoid interacting with him, in case he might just be a skeezer, banging on an out of tune instrument missing strings.

So, I kept up a pretty steady set from about 9:45 until just short of 11, and made 13 bucks.

At one point, Lilly's ex husband, who is a pleasant, soft spoken gentleman with a Portuguese accent, came out and nicely asked me if I would move further away from his bedroom window, which was right behind me; just as Lilly warned me that he would. She had told me that I should move down to the other stoop the night before.

I explained that I had only moved down so that I could be in a better lit spot, and that I planned upon getting batteries for my spotlight, and returning to the other stoop. After he grasped this, he said: "OK, play here," then appended "Maybe 45 minutes, or an hour?" To which I nodded and told him that would be fine, as it was very slow out.

The 13 dollars that I wound up making was largely due to one 10 dollar bill from a woman, towards the end of my set.

I spent another chilly night at the sign spot; frequently waking up to readjust the one flimsy blanket which I have to wrap around myself in my 3 tee shirts and 2 sweatshirts and a hoodie, but only a pair of jeans below the waist.

I thought about getting some thermal underwear out of my own money, rather than going through the process of waiting for some homeless assisting operation to be handing out clothing, at some time and place which I would have to arrange my schedule to be at. By Christmas, I could be dead from pneumonia, if I wait upon those organizations.

But, batteries for the spotlight are more important, as they will produce the money for the long johns faster than the long johns will produce the money for the batteries.


And going to The Rebuild Center to use their phone to try to set up an appointment with Travers trumps even that. He may have been looking for me last night to tell me to meet him today; maybe even to show me a housing unit which might be available and to ask me if it was feasible for me (given its location, or other factors, perhaps. At least I don't have a pet...)

It is raining outside, and has been since it washed me out of the sign spot, at about 11 AM. I will have to just walk the 3/4 mile through it, so as to get to The Rebuild Center before they close.

As I was foraging for food outside of Rouses Market, at about 1 AM, this morning (an activity which I can resume, now that I am not tied to the running of the last bus of the night out to Leslie's house) I found a trash bag wrapped around 4 large cans of beer -3 of them Pabst Blue Ribbon, and one Budweiser.

I stashed them in the trees, as I had drank enough for that night, and I don't drink in the morning; unless I'm hanging out with Leslie, who does.

I then hatched a plot to retrieve all the stuff which I had left at Leslie's house as I made my hasty exodus.

I will take the bus out there, and show up at his door sporting the 4 jumbo cans of beer. I don't think he will be able to form the words "You're not welcome here," and look at the beer at the same time.

And, he doesn't have to know that I got them for free, out of the Rouses Market trash cans..."Leslie, I went and bought you an early Christmas gift; as a peace offering....can I come in and get the rest of my stuff?"

But, first things first.

It is ironic that; in addition to probably missing an opportunity to be placed in my own apartment because I was staying at Leslie's and "missing in action" in the eyes of Unity; I left my phone charger there; my phone subsequently went dead; then, Unity had most assuredly tried to call me last night, to tell me to meet them in front of McDonalds. They may have even handed me a 5 dollar McDonalds "gift card," as they so often do when they go out in the field to find "clients" on the streets.

It is 1:30, and I will now walk through the rain so I can use the phone at Rebuild Center to call Unity; and will not have to bank on my phone charger still being at the Thompson residence.

Leslie has a habit of discarding items; and removing all traces of the people whom he casts out.

When I moved in, he went on a rampage of throwing out stuff from housemates past; valuable stuff, like a box fan, a huge bag of rice comes to mind; and he stopped just short of throwing out the large TV that someone left behind before they ran like hell from that hell.

That should have been a red flag for me...

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

Not Working Is Not Working

Watching Others Play

Yesterday (Sunday), I woke up at the sign spot (left), after having spent a second night there.
I had bought a bag of unsalted peanuts; which I fed to the pigeons that haven't seen me in almost 3 weeks, while I sipped cold instant coffee.
After the football games kicked off, I headed for Bourbon Street, to see which games were visible from sidewalks. I stopped for a can of malt liquor on the way.

At halftime, and on my second can; I went to Rouses Market where Doreen's Jazz Band were playing out front; showcasing Doreen's vocabulary of Christmas jazz riffs; and guitarist Paul's amazing consistency accompanying her.
At times it was just his guitar, her clarinet and a drummer.
Paul's job is to sink into the background, yet still be the "backbone" of the music. You are only going to notice him if he makes a mistake; and thus; he goes basically unnoticed.
Paul's Advice
His suggestion to me has been to "keep doing what you're doing; Elvis Costello songs and you're "Weird Al Yankovich type originals," and to get a used Telecaster and a decent amp and mic.

The latter is the standing advice to all who want to busk on Royal Street with an acoustic guitar.

Paul and I talked football for a while during their break, then I went off down Royal Street, to get my 3rd beer of the day; passing Tanya and Dorise along the way; and stopping to chat with Jay, the really loud singer.
Jay was just wrapping up one of the (8?) songs which he plays, "Turn The Page," by Bob Seger.
I have heard him sing it about 25 times as I have passed by.
He sounds like Johnny Cash on steroids (or crystal meth) singing in the same low register, and he always omits a certain G chord, which is kind of a "false cadence," musically speaking, and one of the "hooks" in that song, which is so simple that it can use all the hooks it can get.
It's the chord which falls right before the titular words "turn the page," as a matter of fact.

I am repeating from a previous post here, but, when I pointed out to him that there was one more chord at that point in the song, he pulled a wad of cash out of his back pocket and, fanning it in front of me said: "I don't need no extra chords, bro!"
So be it.
A guy who had been standing nearby walked over and put a 20 dollar bill in Jay's case, saying "Thanks for the song; that was awesome!" He never mentioned the missing chord.
"Business as usual," said Jay, as he scooped up the bill and pocketed it; leaving about 7 singles in the case. ...easy song, easy money...

He keeps arguing to me that an amp and a mic are the way to go on Royal Street.
I walked away, envisioning a time in the future when I might be playing that very spot with a mic and an amp and being thrown 20 dollar tips, and he might think: "I never should have given him the idea...darn it!"

On my 4th beer, and with the Sunday Night Football game about to start, I encountered Tanya and Dorise again; and we chatted. I hadn't seen them for almost 3 weeks.

I am always amazed to see them still playing after I might have been doing other things for 3 or 4 or 5 hours. Sometimes, after I play the Lilly spot for 5 hours or so (a long set for me) they are still at it when I walk past them; headed "home" for the night. They might have reached their 12 hour mark, at that point.
Is it easier to go that long when you are making enough money to take 4 days off and live in luxury? Probably.
Is it easier to go that long when you are playing a nylon string Bluebird guitar which requires hardly any pressure to get the notes to sound?
Probably.
Is it easier to go that long when you are totally sober, don't smoke anything, and are eating vegan food out of a health food store (and maybe some chicken or salmon in Tanya's case)?
Even more probable.
Is it true that China is a nation of a billion people who all work 16 hours, 7 days a week?
Possibly.

We talked about music; and I was able to sing a few melodies in Tanya's ear, to refresh her memory of certain songs like "Reminiscing," by The Little River Band, and "Taking It To The Streets," by The Doobie Brothers.
That was fun, but as I recounted my woes revolving around my living arrangement, and told them that I was back on the street ("and will probably be seeing you more often") I started to suspect that Dorise, who owns property, and is known to rent to musicians at reasonable rates, was holding her tongue on that matter.
Not Working Not Working
And the deciding factor was probably the fact that, for all appearances, I just didn't work enough.
I walked past them 3 times that night, a little more drunk each time.
Granted that Sunday is the one day of the week which I try to take off to watch football and had been doing just that all day; but I get the feeling that Dorise helps those who help themselves, and she was just finishing a stretch of 3 days when they had squeezed 40+ hours of busking into; and wasn't in the mood to be sympathetic to a guy who was walking around with a guitar on his back, but not playing it, and lamenting to all he encountered that he was homeless and broke.
Fair enough.
One of the carrots in front of my nose is the thought of her someday congratulating me upon an extended "dry" period, and noting that I looked better; spoke more coherently, had myself a little amp/mic rig, and was making ("75 dollars is good, for 3 hours") good money.
To The Present
I encountered Jim last night, as I was watching the end of the Sunday Night Football game, too drunk to entertain notions of playing in the almost empty streets.
He invited me to crash at his place; which I did.
Jim has Parkinson's Disease and his right arm shakes a lot.
He used to be a musician, and had 3 acoustic guitars at his place.
His place was not far from the Unity office; and so I went there this morning and left a message for my caseworker; telling him where he could find me and adding that I was a veteran; something which I hadn't thought important enough to mention previously.
I then walked here to the big Rouses Market where I am laying the groundwork for another juice fast and cleanse and period of abstinence from alcohol and tobacco.
The time is right; the writing is on the wall.

Leslie Encounter
I encountered Leslie last night in front of The Unique Grocery.
He was all apologies (again) and told me that he had bus fare for me, if I wanted to return to the house of horrors.
Twice bitten, three times shy, was all I could think of.
He was almost to the phase of intoxication when his Jekyl turns into his Hyde, and I could see it just under the surface. He became angry after I simply asked him if he had traded his bongos in on the mandolin.
"I would NEVER trade my bongos in; what are you talking about!?!" he yelled, a bit too loud and a bit too aggressively, and I started to think of a way to give him the shake.
He offered to buy me a beer; which I wisely refused; as that would imply some kind of contract between us to spend time together. It looked like he had very little money left of the 400 dollars which he had gotten; 4 days prior.
Then, the security guard, who is a large, heavyset black man who has been working there the entire 3 years that I have been in New Orleans, came outside and, standing nearby, kicked a bottle cap off of the curb. He then kicked another little piece of debris off the curb.
I believe that he was trying to tell me something.
He then began to lecture Leslie, as I stood next to him, about how sometimes a man just needs to kick someone to the curb, if that person is trouble, and to live life his own way and avoid the person who is trouble.
Leslie was so wasted that he just nodded his head in agreement.
Then, the security guard made reference to the mandolin method book which Leslie was carrying, drawing his attention to it.

Up walked Guitar Jimmy, a skeezer, around this time; who was most assuredly interested in begging Leslie for something; anything; further dividing the guy's attention and providing the "friend" which Leslie seems to sorely need 24/7.
Leslie doesn't have enough attention to be able to divide it, I have found.
This gave me a chance to walk off unnoticed and soon forgotten.
I walked around the block, returning to find no Leslie in sight.
I shook the hand of the security guard. "You gave me a chance to get away from the lunatic," I said.

Now, I need to try to get my phone charger and the little bit of clothing which I left at his house in my hasty retreat.

Infectious Grooves

The Ear or Sinus Problem
I am, once again, at the LSU Interim Hospital waiting room with a complaint of a stuffed up and ringing left ear; a condition which I have been afflicted by for about 4 days now.

The ear drops which Johnny B. gave me (he had "the same thing") did not do the trick; he said that they were given to him in tandem with antibiotics.
Hitting the ear with water in the shower, as hot as I could stand it, for "20 minutes" as suggested by the cashier at Sydney's Beer and Wine store did not help.
I didn't try Sudafed; as suggested by the other cashier ("they keep it behind the counter so you have to ask for it"); and I never did learn how to do the ear-popping trick which skin divers use to equalize pressure, as suggested by John Patton, the classical guitarist; I was always afraid that I would rupture an ear drum or force mucous into the canal, leading to congestion.
So, I came here to the ER and added "chest pain" to my complaint (as suggested by Johnny B.) and was whisked immediately into the EKG room; and then expedited to the interior waiting room; just a heartbeat away from being seen by a doctor, as Johnny said they would.
The "chest pain" is not a total fabrication, as I have been hurting "all over," lately, between the flu symptoms, which settled into the tendons which I use the most (my picking wrist and my fretting wrist, and my knees -after I walked about 5 miles one day).

John Patton

Vocals Affected
Last (Thursday) night, I only made a couple dollars. I could hardly hear myself singing.
Plus, Leslie was sitting on Lilly's stoop next to me with his bongos, but wasn't playing them (they were still in the case).
Instead, he had hold of some tassels which he had found, like cheerleaders pom-poms, which were attached to a stick, and was shaking them along with the music that I was playing (cheering for me?) until the point that I was ready to ask him to stop.
It crossed my mind that he may have been trying to thwart my effort to make money; so that I would become more dependent upon what little bit he had left of his 30 dollar energy stipend; and would follow him around.. 
Hospital Skeezers
 I was in the waiting room at the hospital, and wanted to step outside for a cigarette.
"I'm going to go out for a couple minutes and smoke a cigarette," I said to another patient, a 20 something year old in a plaid shirt, wearing eyeglasses. "Would you let them know; if they call me?"
He didn't answer my question, but asked one of his own: "Do you have another cigarette?"
Instead of being in the waiting room, ready to tell the nurse that I just stepped out, he was coming along with me.
I reluctantly handed him one of my American Spirit cigarettes.
We had just lit them up; when up walked a skinny young black guy; who had noticed that we were walking towards the designated smoking area and had followed us.
He asked the guy in the plaid shirt for a cigarette.
"I just bummed this one," said the guy.
Then, he turned to me and looked at me expectantly.
"I just gave one away," I said; as if I had fished the limit of my generosity.
His expression seemed to say "Well, then why can't I have one, too?"
He sat down and began to leer at me; probably mulling over the fact that I had given a white guy a cigarette, but then refused a black guy one.
The guy in the plaid shirt said that he would save him a "short" (the end of his cigarette).
I wish I knew why such a thing angers me so much. Is it because I am too uncomfortable asking a total stranger for charity that I pick them off the ground; or pay exorbitant amounts for them; leaving me almost broke sometimes?
Is it because the first guy, after I asked him to do something for me; immediately dismissed it and turned around and asked me to do something for him (give him a cigarette) instead?
Or, am I angry at myself for being a slave to an addiction which puts me in the way of skeezers all the time?
The Living Arrangement
I need to get on my horse and pursue my own place to live; getting as much mileage out of my veteran status as possible.
It is common for people to wait "years" to get a place; and so, having about 2 years of waiting under my belt; I may be that much closer to getting something. I know that my caseworker is aware of me; but it wouldn't hurt to remind him that he is aware of me. Maybe I have been waiting longer than just about anyone else on their list by now...
5 Weeks Off For Leslie
Leslie is very needy of attention.
He has 5 weeks off from his job at the University of New Orleans; and this will be a test to see if one of us drives the other one crazy.

When we are together in the house, his conversation is basically uninterrupted; and directed towards me. Even if he is listening to the radio; he will say things like "This is my favorite song!," or he will tell me an anecdote about what the song means to him; or tell me about the time he saw the particular band in concert -and oftentimes I am hearing these stories for the 3rd or 4th time- instead of just quietly listening.
He wants us to do everything together. If I want to run to the store "real quick," it will be: "Wait, let me get my shoes on..."
One has to decide if this is a small or large price to pay for a roof over ones head.
I know that my plan to have a CD out by Christmas has been set back.
Even when I stay behind at the house, over his mild protestations and evident disappointment, I don't reach the same level of concentration, as I worry that there might be repercussions; like him bursting in drunk and ordering me to leave the house in the middle of the night.
The Wait

It is now 7:44 PM, and I have been here in the waiting room for about 3 hours.
Tonight, I could go out and play with my ear still stuffed up and ringing.
I have an appointment with the Healthcare For The Homeless people, who will be at the VA Center on Monday. Any drugs which they prescribe will come free; whereas, I might walk out of here in an hour or two or three with a prescription which I won't be able to afford unless I go out and make some money with the stuffed up ear.
But, at least I might find out what ails me; some kind of ear infection carried by night herons, perhaps...

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.
 

The Thompson Residence

I am at the library, it is Saturday, late afternoon.
I wanted to come here to burn at least a couple of CDs to my data stick. It would be nice to have something new to listen to.
I woke up this morning on Leslie's floor. I had been having weird dreams.
Leslie is off for the entire 4 day Thanksgiving "weekend."
I am very cognizant of the fact that I had lived with Leslie on a prior occasion; one which ended in a violent separation; and I am vigilant of the same contributing factors in our current arrangement.
Leslie focuses all of his attention on his "housemate," when they are both home.
He woke up this morning and asked me what I wanted to do on this particular day.
I wanted to make it a very productive day.
I could see myself studying sheet music for a couple hours, then, coming here to the library to rip some new music, and then going back to the house to work for about 5 hours on my upcoming CD, and then going into the Quarter to play the Lilly spot into the wee hours of the morning, so as to reduce my dependence upon Leslie's money.
I told him that I wanted to run up to Canseco's Market to get some Goody's Powder to hopefully help beat back the last of a nagging flu which I have had the past few days.
He wanted to come with me.
I started feeling like I was attached to him at the hip; why would he want to walk to the store with me, when I was going to return?
We got the the store where Leslie informed me that he had 4 dollars to go in on a 1.5 liter bottle of wine. I put in the supplementary 4 dollars, and we walked out of there, before noon on a Saturday, with a magnum of chardonnay.
I tried to ascertain just what Leslie's plans were for the day and to arrange things so that I would have time to come to the library and then have the house empty, so that I could record some music, and work it around both of our schedules; but it started to dawn upon me that Leslie's plans might have been only to become inebriated and to have some other person that he could focus all his attention on and involve the attention of and basically usurp 24 hours from...
I am in the Quarter now, under 10 dollars on me; and ready to start making my way again, playing music and weaning myself off of the Thompson residence... 

Sunday Night Ghost Town

I woke up Sunday, under the dock, at about noon, after having caught up on all the sleep I missed Friday night.

Tori Amos

I emerged with 6 dollars and 60 cents on me.
I wanted to watch football, and was able to find the Patriots game on a TV and saw the last quarter of it. I know that watching football is almost a luxury that I can't afford.
Then, I bought a half pint of vodka and came here to Starbucks to do yesterdays post.
Leslie had taken the bus back to his house with the $1.25 which I had given him.
There he sat, totally broke and waiting for Thursday to come, when he will be paid again.
I'm sure he was on the phone all day, looking for a loan which he would pay back then; so he could be in beer and weed until that time.
I just didn't have the resources to take the bus out to his neighborhood to get him and then pay both of our fares back; it wouldn't have left anything for the half pint of vodka.
I said that it was doubtful that I would make it back on the last (10:15) bus out on Sunday.
Monday
This morning I woke up under the dock just about flat broke and with my chest feeling tight; reigniting speculation that it is something that I am breathing under there which brought on my respiratory issues of about 3 months ago.
Monday Night Football is in town tonight, with the Baltimore Ravens visiting.
Ironically, my last set of clean clothes which I donned consists of black pants with a purple shirt (the Baltimore Ravens colors).
I might have to do something about that before sitting down to play, perhaps put the semi-clean black shirt from my pack on, in order to stay neutral.
Baltimore Rock?
Are their any famous bands from Baltimore which I may be able to prostitute out there???
OK, I just Googled that, and it looks like I should have learned a Tori Amos song, how to croon like Billie Holiday; or play some Phillip Glass.
After the game ends; I might have just enough time to make the last bus back to Leslie's, where I could spend Tuesday and Wednesday recording while he is as work.
It would be nice to have the 4 dollars to give him each day so that he can pass out on 48 ounces of 8% cheap malt liquor.
I am going out soon; totally sober.
I'll be starting out the tiposaurus with nothing, and will hope to have the first dollar thrown to me quickly, so it will attract more.
Then, after everybody is in the stadium, I can run to the big Rouses Market for my first beer of the day...or an energy drink.
I can feel another attempt at sobriety coming on.
I am to the point where, half of the time, drinking puts me out of the mood for busking.

There is the conflict of values because in my heart of hearts I know that
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving morning, the House of Blues on Decatur Street will be serving their annual meal to any and all. Last year it was a blend of people from all walks of life; about 30% skeezers.
The food was brought in by a catering service and there were huge pans of all kinds of Thanksgiving fare.
I only ate a little bit of turkey, then, with very little gravy and avoided most of the rest, out of fear of eating soybean oil and waking up with a stiff neck and kinks in my back, swollen glands, etc.
Leslie looks forward to eating "a hundred dollar meal, for free," and has been talking about it for the past couple weeks now.
It is about time for me to go over to the Super Dome, and hopefully not encounter any resistance to myself sitting on a milk crate at my spot and playing one or two songs repetitively, hoping at least the harmonica will attract people from up to 50 feet away.
I have no idea how much, if anything, I will make.
I just don't want to be paralyzed by trepidation and not even make the effort.
If playing sober isn't fun; I should look for another profession.
The guitar has brand new strings on it, thanks to Brian Hudson, who gave me a set on credit the other night.
I can always walk the 3.5 miles to Leslie's house, should I not even be able to clear $1.25.
The 136 dollar night, 16 days ago, is becoming a fading memory...