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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Dividing Up Territory

• Lilly Pad Encroached Upon
• Card Sent To Mom

The zip code of my mom; I memorized off of a label that has been sitting on my bureau since I tore it off the envelope that the Christmas card she had sent me last year came in.

Every time I have ever mailed her anything, I've double checked that label, once having had to change her house number from 817 to 871. My memory being more trustworthy after almost a year sober, I committed her address to memory and then made a beeline for the post office.

I had about 40 minutes to make it there when I woke up.

I had about 35 minutes as I laced my boots while the coffee heated up in the microwave. I wasn't going to bring the cup with me, so draining it before I left would be the biggest time consuming activity, one that I would have to multitask other things with.

I pulled off the three shirts that I had slept in, and put on clean dry shirts, not wasting time to make sure they were the colors that I wanted to wear in order to express myself; grabbed a pen to put in the pocket of the jacket that was going to go over everything else, regardless of its color; put the card in another pocket of it, etc, and was "soon" on my way.

I had about 8 minutes to make it there at the time I finally began pedaling.

Before I left, I had thought "Oh, yeah, take a few photos of the card before you send it off. You don't have to post any on this blog until after mom has gotten the original..." which I did.

Then, I remembered that I had locked my bike in spot A, rather than B or C, and had to walk across the parking lot to get it. All these activities run time off the clock, of course.

Then, I encountered Bongo who was walking along the sidewalk about half way to the post office, whom I had to tell that I had four minutes to get to.

Biblical Proportions

I made it through the door and got in the back of the line, to write my sentiment on the card, while the line inched forward.

"How much more would it be to send this Express?" I asked the mail lady who had locked the door behind me.

"About twenty one dollars," she said.

"OK, thanks."

I had figured that it would be at least ten times as much as a stamp to get a card there by Saturday.  I guess I'm not surprised that it is forty times more; I always did wonder how the post office could get a letter to Elilakok, Alaska (zip code 00001)* and charge just 43 cents. Those sled dogs must eat at least a couple cans each of Alpo, plus you have to pay the carrier.

And how many post cards "...Still well below zero and dark all the time; miss you; wish you were here..." would she have to be carrying to defray the cost?


My attempt the previous (Wednesday before Christmas) night to make enough money to send my mom's card by express, priority, super mail fell short.

I arrived at the Lilly Pad at around 10 PM.

As soon as I did so, I heard the raucous sound of an acoustic guitar being played through an amp coming from about 10 feet from where I have been playing "for four years."

I walked over to discover a rather pleasant, kind of oddball white guy of about my age, perhaps, who, upon seeing me standing in front of him holding a milk crate with a guitar strapped to me, seemed to pick up the intensity of his playing. He might have thought that I was a local musician who had stopped to check him out because I had never seen him before.

I had never seen him before, but given the difficulty that I have in memorizing faces (the ones that I see for the first time seem to be becoming more and mores like composites of people I already know) plus the fact that I really can avow to having seen another guy "just like him" in the Quarter, I thought I might have seen him before.

He put his nose to the grindstone, not stopping to chat with me, but rather continued to flail away on the guitar, playing a rhythm that was half interesting, one of those "easy guitar" progressions that uses open strings.

"I'm giving some new equipment a test run," was all he said to me, with a smile.

He continued to conduct the test, and I continued to stand there holding a milk crate. At one point, after I realized that the simple chord progression was not going to vary, I went and placed the crate where it has sat almost every night the past four years.

I needed to get a word in to him, somewhere.

He started singing along to the now boring progression. This helped it slightly, until it was evident that his scratch, slightly out of tune guitar was making his lyrics unintelligible. Not a good match for the Lilly Pad.

I considered calling Lilly, but first decided to talk to him.

"Oh, so you're saying that this is your spot? No problem. I can understand how it takes a while to work into a spot. I'll move. I just wish I hadn't set up all this already, I wish you had gotten here 15 minutes ago..."

Yeah, I had taken an excursion to get a bud off of a weed guy. If I hadn't done that, I would have been set up and playing when he had walked by.

Any further utterances that I tried to make were met with: "You don't have to explain, I'm moving."

He seemed like perhaps a retired guy who was busking for some other reason than making a living or getting his art "out there."

I was glad that I didn't have to take the "next" step of calling Lilly.

He said he had just arrived in New Orleans (he didn't even know where Harrah's Casino was, after I had suggested that he and his amp might do well there) and was only staying until the day after Christmas.

I tried to tell him that Christmas has not been, in recent history, a really booming time of year here.
Bourbon Street faces a lot of competition from open sleigh rides, chestnut roasting, lighting of trees and the malls. Probably most notably, the malls.


I was thinking, looking at his amp, which really was too loud for Lilly's block that his time there was going to be short, whether I did anything, or not.

It was an unusually quiet night on Bourbon Street.

I started playing. He slowly packed up his stuff and listened to me for a while, complemented me on one of my songs and then left.

He may have been hanging around to see if I would be suitable to jam with; if my music was "up his alley." I had tried (musically) to disappear into my own alley and out of his sight.  

I though to myself that I had probably just run a guy off, so that I could get the 7 or 8 dollars that might be all there was to be made, for myself. He walked past me a couple times, in each direction, toting his gear.

I had just about the above amount in my jar a couple hours later when, just after midnight, he returned, set up diagonal to the bar, and began to play with his amp way up in volume.

All I could think was that he was one of those "Jekyll" types of drinkers, who had gone off, made a few dollars somewhere, gotten drunk and was now returning with a vengeance. ...now that my head is clear with the whiskey and I think about it, I think I need to just blow the guy off the block with my equipment!

He was loud and stayed on basically one chord the whole time, E minor.

I was able to play the same thing as him, with his guitar sounding like he was sitting three feet to my left, and sing stuff like "Really, an amp? In this neighborhood, an amp?!? Really?!?" and made a few bucks that way.

Within 15 minutes of this display of apparent disregard for me, one of the cops in the little golf carts with the flashing red and blue lights on top stopped across from Lafitt's. He stood next to his cart, as the guy continued to blast away.

It occurred to me that he might just be positioning himself to pounce upon the first call of complaint that came in from a resident.

I was in the middle of texting Lilly about the situation when a police SUV showed up and parked behind the golf cart. The two officers then stood around while the guy played. The guy wasn't a great musician. I didn't see anyone cross the street from the bar to be any closer to him.

I sent off my text to Lilly: "The guy (she had seen him when she arrived home, when he had been packing up, and her and Angelique had paused and waved to me, as if to ask if there was a problem. I had just waved back, as if I was fine. He was leaving, after all) is back and he's blasting his amp across from the bar. The police are here but they are just standing there; maybe they need to have a complaint lodged by a resident before they can do anything?"

I hit "send."

Within about 10 minutes a second golf cart type cop thing arrived, out of which stepped a cop whose girth and the way he carried it said "Sergent or higher."

He walked over to the guy.

The "music" stopped.

I don't know what was exchanged, but he never resumed playing, but rather sat there and listened to myself, whom I thought was in pretty good form, albeit enhanced by some of Jerry's weed. After a while he walked past, not saying anything. I was in the middle of a song which I didn't interrupt to speak to him.

Him setting up like that and drowning me out was a pretty uncool thing to do. It doesn't surprise me that (probably before he drank) he was overboard in his deference to me and willingness to get out of the way "say no more, I'm gone, I'm gone" only to do a complete "180" like he had. I seem to recall more than one alcoholic to exhibit that type of behavior. It's almost as if they (such as Leslie Thompson) are conserving every ounce of their hostility. Their seeming to be so sweet and nice and deferential is actually just the lack of the evil that they are saving for when they will need it the most -in the middle of their drunken rage.

I left there thinking that it was probably a good thing that it had been so dead. Maybe the guy will decide not to even stick around until the day after Christmas.

Hopefully whatever the cops told him will deter him from trying the same thing tonight. It's almost time (right now) to go out there.

I called Lilly this afternoon. She hadn't texted me back.

"Tell me about it..." was how she answered the phone.

I told her about it. Someone else had told me that I could call the French Quarter "flash" patrols -the ones in the golf carts- anonymously, on a mobile phone; and could even snap a photo and include some text with it ("this guy right here is way too loud and disturbing me...").

"Someone told me that I could just call the...." I began to say to Lilly.

"No, call me..." she interjected.

Lilly sees police as a last resort.

*Yeah, the zip codes with the low numbers are in New England, with places in Maine having like 00500 as theirs. I can imagine that the U.S. Postal Service divvied out the numbers before Alaska and Hawaii were even sparkles in politician's myopic eyes. Thinking that California was the end of the line "nothin' but ocean after this..." they probably gave them the penultimate zip codes in the 99501 type of range.

Then, they were like, "now what are we gonna do?" in 1948 when Alaska became a state.
I think that they took the very low zip codes 00001-00120 from places in Maine and applied them to Alaska, sort of like spackling compound, after they realized that they had a problem. Condensing a whole bunch of Moose and caribou that are in different zip codes into one zone was probably the decision that they went with...

A Blues Bender

35 Dollar Thursday

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


24 Dollar Friday


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


"Well, but not I..."


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


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

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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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



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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... 

Natural Born Skeezers

Now

Light Rain

Temperature

33.0 °F

Feels Like 33 °F

Wind(mph)

3.0

This guy rakes it in when his 4 year old daughter sits by him...

Sunrise / Set

6:54 AM

5:30 PM

The Weather

It is 33 degrees outside; and it feels like it, as a matter of fact.

Last night, I left the library shortly before 6 p.m. and shortly after the sun had set.

It was cold, but not bone-chilling cold.

I thought about going to the Lilly spot to try to enhance the 14 dollars which I had in my pocket.

Instead, I went and got a pint of whiskey from The Toulouse Market, and then to Starbucks, where I sipped upon "Irish" coffee until 9 p.m. when they closed.

Walking down Royal Street, I spent my self down to under 7 dollars with the purchase of a pack of cigarettes, thinking that, if nothing else, I had food under the dock; and whiskey in my pocket; and plenty of fresh batteries for the radio; and some herb; and, with the addition of cigarettes, what else could I want for, sitting by a fire and then wrapping up in 4 blankets to brave the cold.

10 Dollar Thursday

I decided to go to the Lilly spot after that, where I soon felt inclined to turn my spotlight on myself and play for a while. It was about 9:30 p.m.

It was a couple from Canada who came by me first (not counting the skeezers who could be heard muttering under their breaths -which were like steam escaping their mouths- about the cold and about the lack of tourists out and about the "tightness" of those tourists who were out.

The Canadian couple asked me if I knew any Canadian music....Celine Dion, Rush, Neil Young, Triumph?

Playing a bit of "Jack And Diane," by John Cougar Mellencamp produced a 5 dollar tip; and then wailing away further for another half hour, another 5 bucks to go with it and basically replace what I had spent that day.

I waited around, walking randomly around the Quarter, sipping on a Tecate beer

A Tecate like she has...

until almost 12:30 a.m., when Rouses put out what materialized into some tin foil basting pans and a grilled salmon dinner, and some "milk buns" which I intended for the rats.

Once again the dock area was deserted, with the Natchez still absent.

The Rats Take The Cheese

Once under the dock, I discovered that one of the rats had managed to use one of the rocks which I had stacked up in order to block some of the morning sunlight (which reflects pretty intensely off of the river with the steamboat not being there to block it) to boost itself up and take a wedge of cheese which I had put on the girder; knocking down and breaking my bottle of hot sauce in the process.

I almost considered withholding the buns from them.

I managed to make a pretty good driftwood fire, with the smoke blowing out over the river and not in the direction of anyone who might report it; and heated up and ate some pretty good food.

Natural Born Skeezers

A softening of my heart led me to put the buns out for the rats, as I figured that they had no morals and weren't disrespecting me by stealing my cheese; they are natural-born skeezers, in that regard...

I listened to my AM/FM radio, which was acting very quirky in the frigid temperatures with the volume level jumping from high to low and the thing shutting itself off randomly. Maybe that is why I found it discarded by the railroad tracks.

Finally, I wrapped up as best I could and slept fairly well, although it was cold -not cold enough to freeze the water in my jugs, I noticed- but cold enough so that I stirred a few times to rearrange my blankets.

This morning never really warmed up, and was rainy, to boot.

Now, I leave the library to probably go to Starbucks and spike coffee with vodka and to read and write and contemplate "weather" or not (excuse the pun) to call Lilly and tell her "It's a ghost town out here and I am freezing," to see if she will let me crash at her place.

She said that she had TV and internet; oh, boy!!

I will have to flip a coin between that and cuddling up with the rats...

The Simple Life

• Staying Warm
• The Lilly Offer

The Goal of Life has been simple lately:
Stay warm.
The Starbucks gift card which the Lidgleys sent in a Christmas parcel has been instrumental in allowing me to hang out there until they close at 9 p.m. sipping 50 cent refills and loading some with enough cream and sugar to make meals out of them.
This allows me to read and write and stay warm; all of which are catalyzed by caffeine; and to leave there with only a short wait until the various out of date food is put out.
Busking is not an advisable option after the temperature goes below 40 degrees.  
Last night, I found some excellent uncooked steak along with a variety of garden salads (with turkey or some other meat and sometimes hard-boiled eggs added) at about 9:30 p.m.
Sometimes I wonder if some of my friends who work in there wait upon the sight of me at one point in the night before pushing the trash cans outside.
They have come out within 10 minutes of my appearance, the past couple cold nights.
I headed for the dock, as it was about 35 degrees outside.
There was nobody in sight as I sneaked underneath it.
Out Of Rats Reach
The Natchez has not been docked for the past couple of days; perhaps it is under repair at some yard...

Lilly

I made slits in the bottom of a tin-foil basting pan with my knife, and soon had the steaks (and some ham shanks which were mostly fat) sizzling over a driftwood fire; dripping their juices into it.
I'm trying to cut back on sushi because of its tendency to contain soy; but hadn't been able to resist grabbing one container, which I shelved up onto the cold steel girders, out of rats reach.
Keeping My Phone Charged
Lilly had tried to call me about a week ago on one of the nights which was forecast to go below freezing.
She was going to invite me to stay somewhere at her place; and I only had to bring my own food.
I don't have any pictures of Lilly and her two daughters, Chantilly and Angelique, but I have looked at a lot of stock photos online and have come up with some approximations which I will post here, and which I might use as icons until such a time that they overcome their shyness about being photographed.

Chantilly

Angelique

The Danger Of Forgetting
My mission now; on this Wednesday night which is forecast to go below freezing is to go shortly to Starbucks, where I will charge the "Lilly" phone and try to read and write; working on song lyrics and organization of things; such as the compilation of my "master list" of songs in hopes of printing out the 5? page document sooon, so that I can routinely pore through it and reacquaint  myself with songs that I am in danger of forgetting otherwise.
Then, I will don an extra shirt and sweater and sweatshirt and go out into the night and probably pretty much repeat last night; except I might try to make a pretense at busking by sitting on my spot with the guitar out and hoping someone will come by and say: "It's too cold to be out here; get yourself a room!" and hand me a large bill...

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...