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...

Priorities

Through Rain Or Snow, Sleet Or Hail

Card has "snowballs chance in hell" of arriving on time

It looks like I'm going to have to use some kind of "Priority" mail to perhaps get the Christmas card to my mom by Saturday.

I had my alarm set for 1:11 PM.

I never set the thing to go off at conventional times, like right on the hour, or fifteen minutes before. That reminds me too much of societal conventions, I guess. Like the court date when you have to be there at 8 AM sharp or they will issue a failure to appear warrant and, of course, regular "9 to 5" jobs.

I only had about 4 hours of sleep in, when it went off, which made me hit snooze repeatedly. This was something that I had thought about as I sat up reading the night before.

Eventually, after a snooze alarm had failed to stir me, I woke up with only a half hour to make it to the Post office before it closed at 4:30 PM, sharp. Again.

Fishing For The "Merry Christmas" Tip

"I enjoyed that song..."

I guess it is incumbent upon me to go out and busk on this Wednesday night when it is forecast to be in the 50's and to make enough to render the extra postage for "priority" mail insignificant.

I am happy that the shortest day and the longest night of the year has arrived, and am looking forward to two minutes of extra light each of the coming days. In the doldrums of winter, a man clings to anything positive and uplifting.



This is my third day without smoking any weed.

Last night I was feeling the focus of mental energy that comes with being free of certain substances.


Jail Story: 1992 

I was reminded of when I was in jail (one of the first times) and some of the other inmates, who had been out on the streets getting high on one thing or another 24/7 since they were old enough to reach an ashtray on a coffee table or unscrew a gas cap, were having epiphanies and revelations, after maybe the first couple weeks of their lives when they were getting three meals a day, eight hours of sleep and not being high on one thing or another 24/7.

There is kind of a false bravado and an over reaching of sorts that goes on.

There was a young black kid a couple cells down from me who I heard one night, telling the guard who was making his rounds at about two in the morning, "You know, I think when I get out of here I'm gonna become a record producer!"

And then, to underscore the seriousness of his intentions, added: "It's gonna be hard..."

He had gotten hold of a little FM radio and a set of headphones of the kind sold through the commissary, by trading his upcoming breakfast tray to another inmate, perhaps.

He was feeling the rush of mental clarity and focused energy that comes on day x of sobriety, and which has a counterpart on day x of a water fast.

People who actually do achieve things like becoming record producers are fueled by this, which is almost one and the same with a "passion" for what they are doing.

It's a kind of false sense in that, given the extremes of having what it takes to build skyscrapers or produce records and having what it takes to become high on one thing or another 24/7, most people's nature falls somewhere between. It is a worthwhile goal to be "predominately" the former.

The kid was just hearing how sweet music sounds after the absence of it for a couple weeks (outside of whatever was playing on the radio in the van that took him to the courthouse and back to the jail) and was over reacting.

The sound you're referring to? That's a pencil raked across jail cell bars!!

Sure, he could very well become a record producer if he were to continue sober and getting eight hours of sleep each night and good nutrition.

"Uh huh," grunted the guard who was making his rounds and who had probably seen his share of record producer hopefuls leave the jail only to return a few months later, a little more strung out and maybe just a bit less grandiose in their visions of "when I get out of here" once they reach that point of detox: "I'm gonna go stay with my sister on the other side of town so I won't be around the same people all the time and I'll work out of the labor pool until I get my G.E.D., then I'll try to get hired on with the Parks Department, that way I can be there for my kids..." That's more like it. 

"Do you even know the first thing about how records are produced?" I thought to myself from my own cell before replacing my own headphones.

So, last night, I sat reading on my bed.

I read for a lot longer than I would have had my attention been drifting on weed.

You know, I could quit smoking altogether and have my whole library read in a couple months, then start a regular working schedule until my novel is done.. I thought to myself as I closed the book. Then, realizing what was going on in my brain after three days off pot, I caught myself before going on to think: ..and then see about becoming a record producer...

It Has Been A Blessed 4 Days

Since I have had access to this computer. To the left is a picture of a Christmas tree, which is the closest to the way ours looked, when I was growing up as a child, which I could find in a quick "Google," of "Christmas tree." Note that we would have NEVER placed the tree in front of some wall with whatever that is hanging there; we put ours right in the "picture" window in the "living room." (we went there to live.)

I Make Good Money Playing For A Surprisingly Large Group Of Tourists

There were tourists swamping the place on Christmas Eve. I sat and played and had a good night, entertaining myself immensly. I had learned one Christmas Song, and played it repeatedly. It was "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas."

I Never considered this a great carol, but on the guitar, it lent itself to just the kind of 'recognizability' that about 55 bucks found their ways into my case, or, if given by those young and spry enough to bend down, pick up the beanbag monkey and place the money under it; under the monkey.

The next night was a blessing, also. Eustus, the steel drum player had fenagled his way into playing right on St. George street, which is normally forbidden by local ordinances. (There is a loophole in the ordinace, whereby a business owner could allow you to play right on his/her private property. This is not the norm because the business owners "stuck together" on the decision to outlaw street musicians on St. George street, and, for an owner to allow one would be to be taking an unpopular stance. Nevertheless, one did, and there was Eustus banging on his steel drum (and making the composers of Christmas carols roll in their graves.)

Eustus was splitting his money with a drummer, and I believe I did just as well as he, playing his other-favorite-spot, and not splitting tips with a drummer. Lot's of money.

There was rainfall on a couple of days, through the holiday, which kind of started on Thursday, with this library closing early, and extended untill today, when the library is now open. On Christmas Day, I called my mother to wish her and all, a happy holiday. (Sometimes a holiday is teetering between happy and sad, and all it needs is a little push to turn it "happy.")

Karrie and I were sitting outside the laundromat while rain fell, trapping us there. I know we would not have been trapped if we had procured simple raingear, but, it doesn't seem to be our style to be thinking about the future. We live in the moment. If it is not raining, then why buy ponchos....makes no sense...

100 Bucks

It was Christmas Day and we were sitting right aside the payphones, and near the laundromat with its change machines. I had about 20 bucks. (I'm within 1/743,375,481,602th of Bill Gates now) and so I got some quarters and called mom. She told me that she had wired 100 bucks to the Western Union, which was right next to the laundromat.

Now I had $120, and went and spent 10 bucks on a special gift for Karrie; a pint of Crown Royal Canadian Whiskey (for the girl who has everything.) I could have gotten her a pair of slippers, but, I foresaw her putting them on and gushing "These slippers make me want some whiskey!" or...maybe a watch from the "dollar" store, but, again, I had a premonition of her putting it on, setting the time, winding it and then saying "Hey, it's time for some whiskey!", so, yeah.

She drank it and then started accusing me of having a relationship with her sister (who is 600 miles away)

I Call My Mom Again

I called my mom, thinking that if God used his rain to force me to choose to sit right next to a payphone, outside a laundromat, where there is a machine which exchanges quarters for dollars, and it is Christmas Day, and there is a girl next to me drawling "You ought to call your mom..."(despite the fact that this was potentially beer money that I was pumping into the phone.)

I called my mom and wished everyone a happy Christmas. Mom said that she had been staying current with this blog, and added that "It's been all about Karrie."

Karrie To Go To Jail For A Possibly Long Time

Karrie is to go to court on Thursday. This might be the last that I see of her for a long time, or, forever.

I have mixed feelings. Like I say, I love her with 50.1% of my heart, and I think I mean that.