Same Old New Orleans

As I walked down Canal Street,
and saw the scowls on the faces of the people, and heard the brass band playing on the corner of Bourbon Street, the one with the saxophone player that physically attacked a musician who had the misfortune of choosing to play on that corner, not realizing that it was consecrated sacred ground, I realised that it had taken all of 10 minutes back in New Orleans to have the state of mind which I had left here, before going to Mobile for 2 weeks, revisit me like a mist blowing in off the river.

But, since my time is shorter on the computers here, I should get to the most important thing first.
I am smitten by a Japanese singer/songwriter who I heard on the mp3 player which I got in the parcel from Martin W., of West Virginia.
I am looking forward even more to a possible relocation to San Francisco, because it is closer to Japan and the probability of my running into a Japanese singer/songwriter would be higher there.
The mp3 player was sent with Ritsuko Okazaki (above) already loaded onto it, singing "For Fruits Basket," which is pretty beautiful, despite it having a few borrowed chords from "I Wouldn't Have Missed It For The World," by Ronnie Milsap. 
Last Night was dismal, as far as street performance went.
I went back to the music store to remedy the situation of having a "d" string performing in the role of a "g" string. The guy dug deeper into his single strings and was able to produce a string which is meant to be a "g" string, which I bought for $1.
I then went and made no money at all.
If I had to have a night where I made nothing at all, it was a good time to have it, as I still had about 20 bucks left from what Martin sent plus what I had made the night before on the mis-strung guitar.

The place where the
Japanese music originated from, uncannily enough.

I have gotten e-mails saying that some other stuff is on the way.
Mom mentioned wiring money, and a parcel has been sent from London, destined for the Rebuild Center. I am praying that it will not take 58 days to arrive, like one sent to Mobile last year. I got that "Christmas" package in February. It had postage marks from Mobile, Texas, Mobile, Ohio, Mobile, Tennessee and finally, Mobile, Alabama, or something similar, I recall...the postal service is going to go bankrupt if they continue such inefficiency.
I will have to see about arranging with the nuns at the Rebuild Center to forward it, should I be in California at the time of its arrival, perhaps by contacting the Lidgleys of London to see if they have a record of the weight of the box, and its approximate dimentions, so that I might get a pre-paid box which they could put the box inside of, and send off to San Francisco. Those nuns can work miracles.
Other than that, I am down to 21 minutes, the temperature outside has dropped about 20 degrees from the comfortable range of last night, dropping along with rain this morning. I'm sure my sleeping bag got wet, but, that is because I was too lazy to tote it around with me all day, and hid it in a bush.
Daniel and Ritsuko, itsu mo! (for all time)

Well

I woke up this morning,
a little warmer than I had the prior morning.

There's Lane! No, wait; is that him?
I can't tell....

I had an energy drink, which I consumed most of (knocked the can over when pulling one of my bags down from one of the limbs of the holly bush; of COURSE I knocked it over...)and the sports section of the day's Press-Register, was laying at my feet, dropped there by Howard, the 60 something year old guy, who is hard of hearing (Howard of hearing? -couldn't resist...) and who left New Orleans after the Occupy New Orleans camp was "blown up" by nice, polite police officers; the same Howard who rode the train with me, to get here.
I had promised him that he would like Mobile "better," and he seems to be adapting. He has found the McDonalds, which is right across the street from this library. I think he lives off of Ronald's cooking. He sits and reads novels for hours on here at the library.
I was feeling slightly guilty over Howard, realising that I had encouraged him to come with me, and so I bear a small responsibility in ensuring his comfort and safety, as a compasionate human being, as well as as a compasionate human being who talked him into coming along with me.
It was cold for a second night, but the chill was no match for my attire, which now is embellished by an additional sweater, which I got yesterday (Wednesday) at the Catholic Social Service place, on a "voucher" which is issued every 90 days to the homeless and unemployed. I am also wearing a new pair of jeans, which fit pretty well and which allow me to go another day or two before I will be "forced" to wash clothes, to avoid smelling like a homeless, unemployed person.
Cold Shoulders
Before going to my sleeping spot, where I thought I would be bored, I considered playing my guitar with the two missing strings. I considered playing it at Serda's Coffee, as part of their Songwriter's Open Mic Night.
It's not that I couldn't have played in the 41 degree (according to Regions Bank) temperature. I have played down to 38 degrees before; never lower, because I can't hang on to the pick below 40, but thought it might be interesting to go to Serda's, where I haven't played in months, to show off the improvement in my playing which came about through my having had to compete with New Orleans musicians. I thought they would all notice the new "polish"* in my playing. (*polish, as in shine; I wasn't going to play polkas...)
Well, I got pretty much "the cold shoulder," standing out front in the blustery 41 degree night. None of them asked me where I had been, what I'd been doing; any new songs? None asked me if I wanted to play.
They were all 20 something year olds, still being supported (in one way or another) by their parents, and dwelling high up upon what Neil Young called "Sugar Mountain." They talked about their road trips to gigs, where the YouTube videos were made, which were going to make them famous, and they talked about how they acchieved certain digital effects using audio editing software, on certain songs, which were going to make them famous etc.
I finally went and got my third beer of the night, then returned under the guise of wanting to hear some of the performers, so that I could sit in the warm room for a while before going to my sleeping spot by the railroad tracks, where I hoped my sleeping bag would still be; and would be dry.
A guy got up with a Taylor guitar.
He said "Hi, I'm Lane. I'm gonna play some music." (Probably thinking that he was being original, but unwittingly taking a cue from David Byrne, who would say things like "We're The Talking Heads, and this is our music," before starting the show)
Lane started to play some music, without even strumming a chord to make sure that the Taylor was in tune beforehand. I think that he was under the impression that a 2,000 dollar guitar never needs to be tuned. It comes tuned from the factory and stays tuned for life. Besides, it's such a fine instrument that nobody is going to notice if a couple strings are flat, right?
Lane sounded like a John Mayer impersonator. Maybe I missed a notice posted somewhere which said "John Mayer Night -100 dollar prize to the person who we judge to sound the most like John Mayer," I'm not sure. His lyrics were also John Mayer-ish, which is something that is hard to quantify, but the kid had it going on.
I spent the duration of the performance trying to determine which of his strings was out of tune, by listening carefully, and noticed that the highest note sounded like crap when he played chords that had their highest note on the "b" string.
After his first song ended, and still nobody had asked me if I wanted to play, Lane said, "Here's another song that I wrote," and actually plucked at the strings, as if checking to make sure that the Taylor was still in the same fine tune as it had been when his dad bought it for him at Guitar Center.
After he strummed an E major chord, I became convinced that his "b" string was (way) flat.
He seemed to notice the disonance...I need a better guitar than this, dad, wtf!...but, to my horror, he tuned the adjacent string (which was in tune) to the corrupt "b" string.
At that point, I spoke up. I was sitting up front and didn't have to raise my voice. I said "I think your "b" string is flat."
I guess "nobody corrects Lane," player of a 2,000 dollar guitar (soon to be a 3,500 dollar one) who has videos on YouTube, and whose friends all come out to hear him play.
"I like it that way," was Lane's "dis" of me, before he started into another song which sounded like John Mayer singing over absolute sonic garbage. Now he had 2 strings flat. Way to go, Lane.
I returned his rudeness (what do you know about Taylor guitars, street musician) with my own act of walking out the front door, before he even got through the first verse.
Familiarity Breeds Contempt
"I wonder if he's ever heard of John Mayer," I said sarcastically to those standing out front.
Their tacit message is clear. "You're a burned out, has-been street musician. You had ample opportunity, when you were our age, to make something happen but you obviously didn't. Now the ball is in our court, the future is ours, we are John Mayer Nation, stand back, homeless guy!"
They are a very musically "inbred" group. There is so much overlapping of style in all their music, it's as if they all took lessons from the same guy.
When I first arrived in Mobile in June of 2010, I was well greeted. I was so different from all of them, (like an exchange student from New Zealand,) they didn't know what to make of me. At first, they embraced my music and would actually request certain of my songs. They seemed eager to mix with a fresh and different "gene pool" of talent. Now, they seem to have changed their minds. It could be that they found out my age, which they originally thought was close to theirs, and abandoned any hope of having an older, more experienced musician in the band, who knows music theory, thinking "older, but not that much older, this guy remembers the Beatles!," perhaps.
For example, Miss Underhill, who works behind the coffee bar, and used to say things like "Good job" to me, after I had nailed an improvised song, said nothing to me.
Jimmy Lee Hanover, spoke only when I spoke to him, and then, very little, followed by awkward silence.
I guess this is another argument for moving on and finding new places. Familiarity breeds contempt.
If I ask any of them about last night, they will probably say something like they typically do: "No, you're always so tempermental, we wanted you to play but figured you were composing something in your head and didn't want to disturb you"
Future Uncertain
Then, I went to sleep.
I woke up with 65 cents, after having come to Mobile almost a week ago with 25 bucks.
I've spent a lot of time writing, and thus sacrificed opportunities to play. I have fixed the "d" string on my guitar, and I think I have a spare "e" string in my bag. I should be able to go out on this warmer Thursday night and at least make something, on a guitar with all six strings intact.
The success or lack thereof which I have this weekend will have a strong bearing upon how long I stay here.
Things are pretty bleak. I am down to about 10 bucks on my food card with 10 days to go in the month. The approaching cold weather doesn't bode well. I may wind up using the guise of trying to get "home for Christmas" in order to try to hitch-hike to somewhere warmer. I would, of course, have to attempt this right after my December 20th courtdate, over "obstructing the sidewalk."
I do have the comfort of the promise of receiving some Christmas parcels, one from a guy named Martin W., who is somewhere in the country and has read my blog, and apparently has the recording musician's dream job of "hotel front desk person." (I used to be a security guard at a huge James River machine shop. I turned the office into a recording studio nightly, then broke it all down and put it back in my trunk before the day shift came in. Some recordings from those sessions probably still exist in Massachusetts.)
Another might be on the way from London via the Lidgleys. Hopefully, I can get them, along with any other "Christmas" money that I might acquire, and get out of Dodge, at least until Mardi Gras.
In return, I will try to make this blog more interesting, which is one of the few things that I can offer at this point.

Wait until he turns his back....

Going back to New Orleans presents the problem of finding a new place to sleep, now that the Occupy New Orleans site is no longer available. It also presents the problem of doing so without the help of a bicycle, as mine was stolen about a month ago (see "They Stole My Bike," from about a month ago...)
I saw a guy riding around on it all the time in the French Quarter, when I was down there. He is a larger, black guy with a little bit of flab on him; probably in his late 30's.
My first impulse was to confront him with "Hey, that's my bike, I want it back!" But, like a chess player, I could already see his next move: "What 'chu talkin' 'bout, I paid for this bike! I bought it for 50 bucks! You need to talk to the dude that done sold it to me. I ain't no thief, don't be calling me no thief!" -easy to read a mind when it is in large print and mostly cartoons-
The suggestion of Helen, the artist formerly known as "the girl with the shaved head who plays the mandolin," was to "Wait until he turns his back on it and then steal it behind his back, like he did to you..."
She used to be a gutter punk "until I grew out of it," and said that, in their culture, if they think that you won't go to the trouble of fighting over something, they will just take it.
No wonder there are so many stabbings and shootings in the French Quarter.