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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Ash Wednesday

It is Ash Wednesday.
On the way to the little Algiers Point Market, to get one pack of cigarettes, the Catholic church had its bells ringing and a modest number of people were getting out of their cars in the light drizzle, which began in the middle of the morning, as it has been doing for the past 3 days, and making their way into the building.
I wondered if I should say "Happy Ash Wednesday," to them, or not.
Something tells me that this day after Fat Tuesday is when people mark their foreheads with ashes to remind themselves that from ashes they came and that there they will return.
Myslelf, I came from dust; but I can still relate.
E-Bay Order Goes Through
I think that I have succeeded in ordering both the USB cable for my Obama phone, so that I will be able to use the pictures that I have been taking, and the A/C adapter for the Samsung laptop, so that I can use it remotely, powered off the battery; and basically blog or record music as inspiration strikes.
The orders should be shipped "on or before" February 20th.
Mardi Gras Recap

The scene at Mardi Gras was very loud almost everywhere.
No stronger has the point ever been made to me that if I had an amplifier, I would have stood to have made pretty decent money.
I already knew that, of course, but needed to be reminded; again.
Walking down Royal Street and not even thinking of setting up  to play my acoustic guitar because of the need to shout back and forth from whomever is standing next to you, I saw some familiar musicians playing through their amplifiers and they all at least seemed to have the same 20 bucks or so, after just a couple hours with the exception of Kaleq, the clarinetist, whose 5 gallon bucket was filled to the brim, and Tanya and Dorise, whose baskets were straining.
I found that even my pet spot on Bourbon Street, across from Barnabys condo was being encroached upon by loud music coming from Laffits Blacksmith Shop (brewery) down the street; and Villiage People music coming from the gay club in the other direction.
I could have kept moving farther from the hub of activity, like a Yorkshire Terrier in the corner of the dining room, hoping some little crumb will topple off the edge as the big slabs are being sheared and passed around the table above.
I also could have played a waiting game; staying on my spot until even Bourbon Street starts to "slow down" at about 3 a.m. and a lot of the noise subsides, and then just played for the people straggling back to their hotels, but, by that hour I had usually eaten and gone off to sleep.

There was plenty of food and drink to be had; enough so that I was bringing Howard back Styrofoam containers full of the finest that New Orleans has to offer.
I guess that if I could go back in time and do things differently, I would have done whatever I could to have gotten an amplifier; and then let the amplifier pay for itself and then some...live and learn...

It is raining lightly; it is Wednesday; I need to wait another week around here in order to get the cables delivered.
Then, I think it would be a good idea to go to Houston, just to get moving in some direction...
I ran into the same kid that I had jammed with a couple of times; sitting by Sydneys beer and wine store.
He had a 20 and a 5 dollar bill in his case and noticably less enthusiasm for playing music; or a high amount of intoxication. His playing was sloppy, as we jammed.
One guy put a couple of bucks in my case and said "You're awesome," or something to that effect; and the implication was that he was singling me out apart from the kid, who was trying to play rhythm.
The kid soon realized his situation and took his leave; I played a little longer and then caught the last ferry across the river; choosing not to hang out all night and try to wring the last penny out of the tourists and bringing a miserable Mardi Gras 2013 to a merciful close...now what?

Skinny Tuesday

As for it being Tuesday, it is.
I slept until about 7:30 a.m., when I got up and determined that my immediate goal was to go to Rebuild Center to take a hot shower and wash out a couple pair of jeans at the same time.
I accomplished that goal and am now drying one damp pair on my body; as I walk around in the 70 degree air; with the other pair dangling from my backpack; gutter punk style.

Rebuild Center

Howard was there. (He looks a lot better today than he did a couple days ago)
"Don't bother on Fridays; it's just a ham sandwich; but from Monday through Thursday; their lunch is pretty good," he said.
Howards Slashes Budget
So, now Howard who gets money each month depositied into his retirement account (enough so that he could float himself an apartment; especially at some "Senior Center" type of place; where the rents have been tailored to the fixed amounts that retirees receive; Howard, who could be sitting on his own little balconey with his coffee and his newspaper each morning; and who could run inside and slide the glass door shut behind him in the event of an approaching rain squall; and could thus keep himself and his books dry; but who instead, chooses to live the way we do; has apparently cut yet another corner and is coming out another 75 bucks ahead each month; by having slashed the $3.99 fried chicken dinner from Brothers Market, out of his budget, alowing him to accumulate more money; which he will eventually leave to his daughter as part of the disbursement of his estate.

There are no more parades scheduled until this coming Friday (ham sandwich day at Rebuild), when there will be 4 of them; including the "Daughters of Eve" parade (right). And, as my time is short; I suppose I will go and possibly play a bit and think about if I want to do the comedy thing at House of Blues tonight.

Super Bowl, Mardi Gras; Super Bowl, Mardi Gras...

Last evening, I played and made very close to 10 dollars, on a night when people were only throwing money in regards to whether or not they thought the musician stood a chance to make his way through the upcoming onslaught of activity which will be the Super Bowl, and then the Mardi Gras.

It felt like an audition.
There was money to be made along the parade route on Canal Street.

Just plop yourself down somewhere behind the lines of people; in front of some business but not right in front; and collect money from people who can see what you are doing and reward you for it; and for others who actually lean over so that their ears are less than two feet from your instrument and who also might reward you.

I stood by a guy who was doing just that and saw him get at least one 10 dollar bill from a guy who stood in front of him and listened to him for about 12 seconds.

So, I could have done that; but instead I went to do business with a certain Jamaican guy and then made haste to Decatur Street, where I played at a brand new, well lit spot on a corner where the corner has been cut so that the front door faces diagonally across the street.

I always considered that spot better for visually intensive acts; even gutter punks who want to display their dogs better. But, there I was visually demonstrating Grateful Dead music.

It will be hard for the Mardi Gras to seem like the biggest thing ever, after the Super Bowl, but that will be an observation which will be lost on a person coming into town for just those two events.

It will be like fishing, for us buskers.

Worms For Sale!

It will be like deep sea fishing.

The busker might as well dub himself "Ishmael" and just perch himself on some spot; preferably after thanking God in advance for leading him to it; and then just play your darndest; and wait for the big fish to come along.

He's the guy who is lubricated enough and in the very mood to astound another human being with a demonstration of his wealth.

Particularly his wealth as seen through the eyes of a guy whose face lights up and who utters a prayer of thanks (probably too late, by the way; almost like saying "thank you" after someone has prompted it; by asking "What do you say???"

But, I digress.

The big fish wants his companions to see just how drastic the lure of money is; and; "Watch this; I'm gonna get this guy to play 'Imagine' by John Lennon ten friggin' times; you watch me....

Every time he plays it; I drop a 20 in his hat; and then we keep saying "Again. One more time!"

...You see; now that guy might have more talent than I do; I can't play a guitar; but here he is; like a puppet; like a court musician whom the king can put into motion with a clap of his hands...*clap* Music!!!....

And I toss him a few crumbs, you know,  20 dollar bills -not enough to even park your car, hear me? and he starts picking away like Peter friggin' Frampton, huh?!?...stick with me; and I'll show you the ropes, fellas.  

And, so you hook the big fish and, after he starts to walk away; he stops and returns to you and hands you 100 more dollars, saying: "I'm gonna give you another hundred; because a hundred aint' much in this world; I wipe my ass with them....."

And so, that is why there is a guy with a musical instrument on his back for every 37 people that are out walking the Quarter.

...Did you guys see how he hopped to it and played that song over and over? That's the power of money, gentleman......

And, as I sit here on this Sunday; having decided to keep blogging; and maybe just change the focus; it will soon become incumbent upon me to go out and take out the guitar and play music. Somewhere. Anywhere (almost).

Howard Looking Haggard

Howard looked very pale and frail and shaking and sickly and pretty much disoriented this morning.
He is still reading 1,000 page books at the rate of a day or two; but it seems that his reading just allows him to totally dissociate with the external world.
He just read a book about F.D.R, who was the president (for 12 years!) back around the time of WW2.
Howard devoured (rhyme intended) that 1,000 page historical novel in a little over a day.
I asked him this morning: "So what do you know about Franklin Delanor Roosevelt, now?"
His initial response was: "Nothing."
Then, he caught himself, and seeming to suddenly recall the book that he just read almost non-stop during the previous day, quickly added: "Well, I understand why a lot of people thought he was just an amazing guy. He was amazing; dealing with Germany and all that...."
So, now I have to keep an eye on Howard. ..."keep him on a short leash"...

It made me briefly consider the possibility that Howard may be in decline from some kind of degenerate disease like Alzheimer's Disease or any number of them that they have; and that, at some point, I might have to alert Emergency Response personnel of him being in a state of mind which poses a danger to himself.
I suppose I will at least wait until he is found swimming in the Mississippi River and offers the explanation that he was trying to get to McDonalds, and save myself the phone call....
So, that would apparently be it, for now. Things are still shaky financially and I will have to put in a good solid nights work in the joyful hope that I will touch one soul; who has money.

What's This Guy Selling?

Just Get Out Of Here!

Funny how; of all the functionality intrinsic to Blogger; there is a "delete blog" button. I'm sure that a dialogue box pops up to prompt you to confirm that you actually want to delete your blog "are you sure?"

There is really no time to blog in New Orleans. Not now. 

There will be plenty of time to blog after Fat Tuesday is over with along with the Super bowl, and as the street sweepers vacuum up the last of the beads which broke when two people tried to catch them at the same time; that would be a time to blog.

I can't explain why I have lost interest in blogging. It might be related to my loss of interest in playing street music and in being homeless.

This city requires a strong mind set and a thick skin. People naturally look at you with a "What's this guy selling?" attitude; and staying positive is the challenge; and unfortunately; drugs and alcohol are not the panacea.

It can beat you down. I have gotten the advice from more than one concerned person to "Leave. Just get out of here!"

This particular trip to this city has brought upon me the discovery that there really are a lot of very good musicians, in the world in general, and many of them mark their calendars for the Mardi Gras; and, already it is hard to walk more than 100 yards without hearing at least one performer; blending in with the chaos.

Not everybody can have an abysmal outing and just take it in stride. It takes that certain mindset.

Competition was never a motivational factor for me. Trying to play "better" than someone else comes with the Catch 22 that, in order to play better, the music has to be filtered through the ears and mind of a listener, who will either deem you better or not.

Some musicians consider certain pieces of music to be the benchmarks of ability. To be able to play them, you "have to be good."

Not that there is anything wrong with having role models...

There is a Randy Rhodes song called "Dee," which falls into this category. 

The piece is awkward and requires tedious fingerings; is thus hard to play (and there even exist outtakes of Randy himself in the studio; flubbing the thing up) and, in my opinion; it isn't a great piece of music. It is studied by worshipers of that late great heavy metal god; who probably think that they are following in the fret steps of the master. If you were to ask them: "You like that melody, huh?" They might answer that question without answering that question by saying "It's friggin' Randy Rhodes, dude!"

Which begs the question: Does a good musician play poor music? Is it better to play good music poorly than to nail a song note-for-note which moves hardly anybody; like an experimental tone-poem where the composer is laboring under the rigid structure of having to use all 12 notes of the chromatic scale?

Yesterday started out with me waking up to realize that I had 8 dollars and change. I couldn't remember where it had come from but I had vague recollections of playing somewhere the previous night.

Click Away

I went and got a couple beers and then started to walk to the big Rouses Market to eat what would turn out to be a large salad and a couple seasoned potatoes.

And to wash it down, a Fosters Lager while connected to their wireless, where I posted yesterdays musings; giving voice to my inner argument over whether or not to continue this blog.

"Delete Blog? Are You Sure?" is always one drunken, moody click away...

Then, I walked out the side door; and, gazing to my left saw a bottle of French "Brut" Champagne with only one sip off of it; sitting by a chair next to a food container which may have contained a meal with only one bite out of it; but I was full and so, didn't check.

I walked back to the Quarter; offering sips of champagne to everyone I met (with no takers) and got back in time to see crews sweeping up after some parade; and to talk to a bunch of musicians who all concurred that it was "slow."

My mood swung towards the darker side and I decided to take the ferry across the river; even as broke as I was; instead of trying to become a fountain of joy and music.

It was after I saw a blond haired lady of about 30 playing on Royal Street with an acoustic guitar through an amplifier; and I realized that I wanted to shoot her in the head, point-blank range with a pistol; and, of course I didn't even know her; that I decided that nothing good was probably going to come out of hanging around the "slow" quarter.

She sounded as though she had never gotten any criticism from anyone her entire life; and her lilting care-free melodies over simple chords transposed by a capo to keep them simple in any key; were those of somebody who has heard "you're so good," her whole life and has been coddled and nurtured and has grown to understand that a female can get away with the most simple arrangements and that their music is automatically "beautiful" as long as they can hold a note (the higher the better) and infuse it with a shaky (hence vulnerable sounding) tremolo which befits the inevitable subject matter of "If I could only have him then my world would be right," and if they are beautiful to look at, then the deal is sealed.

She wasn't especially beautiful; no more beautiful than Taylor Swift; to whom comparisons were no doubt drawn. Another artist who does so well; (for a girl). Females aren't held to the same standards; I get that. That is why a Tanya Huang is such a diamond in the rough...

Little things are bothering me. Dirty clothes; a pain in my right arm; the fact that I'm not in the mood to hear my own music...little things....

A Couple of Parades Tonight

I played last night on Bourbon and Decatur Streets.
At first, I was headed for the ferry and was going to call it a night; eat and sleep and wake up broke; drink coffee and start fresh in the morning.

But, it was relatively early and I hit Bourbon Street and played until I had a couple bucks; to go with the 12 cents that I started with.

Off to the Unique Boutique, which was a walk all the way across the quarter; during which I got to see a lot of other performers; one of which I overheard to say: "I wish I had a cigarette" and none of them seemed to have had made much of anything.

There are some very good musicians here; and bands playing in the street that sound like they have been playing together for years. "Hillbilly" music is prevalent up and down Royal Street; with washboards and tub basses and the usual banjo; guitar; mandolin; fiddle being noticeable.

A lot of musicians are trying to hold onto spots for the upcoming feeding frenzy; which might start within the week; and are occupying them all day for very little in the way of tips; so that they will have established themselves "Hey, man; we've been on this spot all week" by the time that the 100 dollar bills start coming down like confetti; in a week or so.

After chugging down two beers, I found myself on Decatur Street, where about 7 bucks somehow found their way into my case. I was just trying to play as well as I could; but decided that it would be "Grateful Dead night" before I even sat down (in a recessed storefront; so as not to obstruct any passageways).

I figured the only way to go about busking in between the countless others was to distinguish myself by playing what few others were.

Tonight will be Friday night and I should probably consider the very same spot.

I sure hope that the coming season brings enough money so that I can hook up my other laptop; get a USB cable for the Obama phone; so that I can use the photos on this blog; and then maybe enough to travel.

I am tired of seeing nice oak wood laying around in places and not having a nice campsite to enjoy cooking on it and sitting next to the embers of.

And I kind of miss Sue, the Colombian Lady.

The Coldest Night Of The Year In New Orleans

Lower the temperature about 30 degrees and make it
night, and this might be the parade that we saw...

Friday Into Saturday
By the time
1 a.m. had arrived and I had amassed Friday night's 55 dollars in tips, the wind had started to pick up from the west. It was blowing cold.
Forecasts were for the temperatures to drop Saturday into Sunday, as a cold front was to blow in.
Saturday Into Sunday

First priority: Just staying warm, as Howard
continues to read in his sleeping bag (third from left).

Saturday morning, the dreaded cold front was blowing in.
I came to this library and blogged, deciding that there would be no busking that night, only trying to stay warm and hopefully getting some sleep (despite having a Colombian woman in the same sleeping bag as I).
The library closed early (2 p.m.) because of the Mardi Gras parades scheduled to run into the evening.
I went to the "sign" spot, to find Howard braving the elements and reading a book.
Adding the last of the clothing hanging in the trees to my wardrobe, I left to go into the quarter, thinking that I probably wouldn't busk, but curious to see how many tourists were about.
I ran into none other than Sue, the Colombian lady at the first intersection.
She was laden with her customary 3 bags, and also holding a white Styrofoam, which she gave to me after I told her that I indeed was hungry. "I'm full, I was going to give it to someone else," she said. I don't know how full she may have been, but I know how suspicious she is of food of mysterious origins.
Not prone to look a gift horse in the mouth, I chowed down on what turned out to be rice and beans -"gumbo" to the natives.
Sue then produced two Monster energy drinks, which she gave me. "They were giving them away off of one of the floats," she said.
"I wish I had brought my hot sauce," I said, which produced a couple packets of Tabasco Sauce from one of her bags.

I invited her to walk with me, towards The Unique Boutique, to check out the sights and, would she like a beer. That was the least I thought I could do in return for all that she had given me.
I was able to find two cans of NOLA Blonde ale in the 99 cent bin, which I grabbed and which Sue deemed "delicious," as I had done upon first trying it.
A parade was "about" to start, if an hour and a half away qualifies for "about." There were people gathering along the barricades, giving the impression that the wait would be shorter than what it turned out to be.
In the meantime, I ran to the store for another beer for each of us. Then, twenty minutes later, a third.
"I'll get this round," said Sue, handing me two dollars.
I found a fancy pair of Mardi Gras sunglasses, which were molded into a gold crown, sitting in the bin with the 99 cent beer.
I grabbed them and returned to where Sue was *still* waiting for the parade to start.
We were having a good time by then. When I had returned wearing the sunglasses and crown it took her a few seconds to recognize me, whereupon she burst into laughter. We took pictures of each other wearing the thing on my newly resurrected Sprint LG phone. (I will post them here, as soon as I get a new USB cable, which turned out to be the phones only problem).



"Every time I have a good night, something happens to screw it up" -Sue the Colombian lady

Find Out What Happened Next!!!

 And, as it would turn out; we weren't out of the cold yet....

Eeek!

Last night, I eeked out about 10 bucks, playing on brand spanking new strings that I thought I was wasting upon the sparse crowd.
The plan is to stay out of jail until Mardi Gras starts.
The cops sweep the streets and try to lock up "undesirables" before the toursists start to arrive. They have started to arrive already, as the Mardi Gras kicks off this coming Saturday, as follows:

I can't wait...

Krewe du Vieux



Date: Saturday, Feb 4, 2012
Location: French Quarter
Time: 6:30pm

Shedding Layers
As the temperatures have been climbing into the 70's lately, it is almost time to start thinking about jettisoning some extra jackets, sweaters, sweatshirts and such.
I wish there was a place to put them (in moth balls) for about 9 months. The good news is: Less stuff to carry when the eventual move away from here happens.

"I'll Take It From Here"

The Guy At Lafitt's
Last night,

The stools were in about the same position last night,
as in this "stock" photo of Lafitt's

planning upon knocking off early, forgetting that my court appearance was not in the morning, but at 3 p.m., I played for a while on Decatur Street, thought I sounded pretty well, and scraped up about 6 bucks. This was 6 bucks more than I was expecting on a Wednesday night, well before Mardi Gras season is to start.
I then went up to Bourbon Street, just to see how busy it was, and just in time to run into a guy, who invited me for a beer at Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop, which is a falsely advertised bar (shown). (I didn't even see any horse shoing equipment in the place).
He bought us each a couple of Abita Amber beers, and told me, at one point in our conversation that he would be willing to invest in getting me a small amp, microphone and a pickup to go in my guitar, and a cart to pull it all around in, so that I could at least double my income, afford to live outside the downtown area, and eventually join the upper eschelon of street performers who actually make a "living" doing it.

"Mr. Joe Jangles," previously referred to here as "The
One Man Band," performing in Saint Augustine, which is
where I met him.
He will drive his van to Canada, for example, for a certain
festival, and come back a week later with almost a
thousand more American dollars than he left with,
for merely playing a 3 day stint.
He could teach me how to make a similar rig, and I
could make over 50K per year, just like him.
"A lot of people don't follow through after they realise
just how physically demanding it is," said the 58 year old
to me recently.

There are guy's who I am just as good a musician as, who sit and play right in the middle of Royal Street in the areas that are barricaded at each end, making the street like a "pedestrian mall,"on busy days, who reasonably expect to make about a hundred bucks for their efforts. They have little battery powered amps, microphones and harmonicas, if possible.
I was telling the guy this, when he suggested that I "sell stock" in myself, by coming up with a total dollar amount for the equipment I need and then dividing it into promisory notes of some kind which I could subsequently pay dividends upon. I don't know if he was speaking metaphorically.
It sounds a lot like borrowing money from whomever I can with the promise to pay it back.
I went out and played some more on Bourbon Street, taking my second Abita with me. The money was sparse and I went off around midnight, complaining that I had been "paid in beer" that night.
Harmonica Added
Yesterday, I tuned the guitar to the harmonica, which Alex from California had sent me, and managed to sound good using only the notes that my mouth was stuck upon. I hadn't tried playing it along with the guitar yet, for lack of a neck strap for it, but I got the notion that I could do something using only the left-most three holes as a simple accompaniment; and it worked!
I am really looking forward to adding it to my sound, the way a juggler might want to add bowling pins to his feat, to keep it challenging for himself, and to develope his abilities. And to make more money juggling...
Court This Afternoon
I go to court soon.
I'm going to make the 20 minute walk, in order to save the bus fare of $1.50.
I am hoping that I can pass the paperwork over to attorney Mary Howell, who will then tell me; "I'll take it from here, you won't even need to show up in court on the 29th of February."

Fools Russian, Where Angels Fear To Tread

From Russia, With Love

• It's Easy If You Try...
• Jasmine in need of repair
• Sue and mine's tumultuous relationship
• Courtdate Set For 2/29
• The Two Man Band
• Goodies From Gilroy

Imagine making 50 bucks for playing one song, five times...
Well, that is just what happened Saturday night, into Sunday morning.
Sue had shown up in the middle of my set on Decatur Street, and feigned to grab my backpack and run off, like she has done before. My head was turned the other way at the time, and it caused my heart to skip a beat, when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The transition from horror to bliss when I beheld her was pleasant, as I had thought that she made the 2 mile walk just to see me.
Soon, it became evident, as she pulled out a bowl of excellent "gumbo," that the Asian lady had encountered her, making me wonder which one of us she is actuallly trying to feed, if not both of us.
Sue had gotten there before me, on an errand to retrieve or stash stuff at her super secret hiding place near my spot, and I guess she turned it into a double errand by including her visit to me.
I made about 13 bucks, as she clapped along, and then decided to knock off at 11:30, three and a half hours past the "curfew" on street performance on that street. I have noticed that the cops only ticket us on Mondays and Tuesdays, when other heneous crimes are slow.
We went to Bourbon Street and I set up at my semi-quiet spot, a little ways from the circus which is on the Canal Street end.
Soon, a couple arrived.
He was from Alaska ($$$), very lonely, and tired of the -37 degree weather.
She was from here, a photographer, heavily tattooed and on disability for a drug addiction (yes, you can get paid here to be a junkie!)
They sat and talked. I played some music and there was soon a 10 dollar bill in my case to go with the 13 which were already there.
They invited us to go for drinks. We found a trendy, hip and happening bar, where shots of good vodka were $20.50; a little pricey (I thought the extra 50 cents was "over the top").
Even the guy from Alaska thought it was a little too much oil-pipeline money for one shot of booze.
We headed for another bar, but, before we got there, we were accosted by a group of what turned out to be Russians, sitting on the steps in front of a condo. One of them wanted to play my guitar.
What I saw were a group of bums that wanted to bang on my guitar for their own amusement. I figured that if they loved the guitar that much, they would own one.
What the tatooed photographer girl saw, and explained to me later was "money" ("They're staying in a condo on Bourbon Street, and they're drinking out of glasses which are tailored to the exact kind of wine which is in them; and, did you notice the Dom Perignon on the table inside?")
Before she could communicate this, I rudely said "Nobody touches my guitar, dude!," which played right into their Russian hands. Russians are customarily rude to each other, as I suppose they feel that it is more honest than false pleasantry...
"I'll give you 10 bucks, if I can play your guitar," said one.
"Mozna!" (you may), I said. (I lived with a Russian lady for over a year, once)
Soon, 10 bucks fell into my case, quickly scooped up by Sue "I'll be the money holder," who was leary of it being snatched by someone. Very considerate of her to look out for "my" money like that...
Then, one of them asked my if I could play "Imagine," by John Lennon, John Lennon!!
That being one of my masterpieces, I played it. Another 10 bucks went to Sue.
"Again!," said the same guy, when I was finished. I fought back the exasperation over repeating the same song and repeated the same song. 10 more bucks.
"We need to stay here untill six in the morning," whispered Sue in between renditions. "Keep playing!"
Easy for her to say...
"Imagine" was performed 5 times, for a total of 50 bucks. Glasses of Dom Perignon and red wine were had by all, even Sue, who doesn't usually drink, but knows when the value of something is commensurate with her lady hood and not below her dignity...
Then, the couple, who had gone off to eat and drink, returned, and invited us to eat and drink with them, just as the Russians were finally tiring of the music of John Lennon.
We were led to a bar, where we were each handed shots of bourbon in test tubes. Sue "accidently" dropped all 12 dollars worth of hers. "You don't know what they might have slipped in it, you can't trust people!"
The Spat
Sue and I are now batting about .500 when it comes to us argueing after we both drink.
The couple invited us to crash at their hotel room, rather than our usual bed of mulch. Sue didn't want to go.
I appologized for her skittishness and assured them that it had nothing to do with lack of appreciation for all they had done for us.
We walked back to the mulch bed.
"Can I have the money now?" I finally asked, after I became curious about its amount and had an unsettling feeling about Sue being the "keeper" of it. I envisioned it becoming "our" money and subject to being spent by committee. I also knew that Sue was prone to walk off at the slightest provokation, such as a comment that I might make, which would offend her. I can remember times when I thought that she was walking a step or two behind me, only to turn my head and see her a quarter mile off and heading in the opposite direction, after I said something which she misinterpreted.
"No," she said.
"Are you just going to steal it from me?" I asked, which turned into a very good illustration of the above.
She emptied her pockets and threw money at me and said "Here. Here's everything they gave you!" and then grabbed her stuff and walked off. "I'm not a thief!!"
I haven't seen her since.
She has my mp3 player. I guess I will find out how honest she actually is, by weather or not I get it back.
Jasmine Holding Up
Meanwhile, I wait for the guy at the music store to get in some tuning machines, so that I can fix the Jasmine guitar before the string which I can't adjust snaps. While I have the money to do so.
"Not Guilty"
I got up this morning, in time to catch the 8:30 bus to arrive at the courthouse only an hour late.
I was determined to be indigent and referred to a public defender, who had a pen out and a form used to plead "guilty," which outlined all the rights to be given up by doing so. He pushed the pen towards me and told me to sign.
I remembered what Mary Howell, the civil rights attorney had instructed me to do and I politely refused the council provided to me at no cost by the Public Defender's Office.
"Good!" said Attorney Howell when I went to her office afterwards and told her what had transpired.
My "trial" date has been set for February 29th. It seems like events are conspiring to keep me here at least through Mardi Gras. After that, any number of things may happen, including catching a ride with the One Man Band, Joe who has a van.
Goodies Picked Up
I am almost out of time and don't want to slight this portion, but, I got a box from Alex in California which contained the pleasant surprises of pepper spray and tea bags, along with the expected guitar strings of which I was notified were on the way.