Sunday Night Ghost Town

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

Tori Amos

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

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

All My Exes Live In NOLA

• Tuesday's Cold Front
• Bamboulas Open Mic
• Xanna Sighting
• Karrie Is Here

I guess I will start with the most recent and work backwards:

This morning, I got to the library and noticed a woman sitting on the steps, who smiled at me.
I thought that she was a certain woman who paints her face and body white and who dresses like a jewelry box dancer and stands as a living statue on Bourbon Street.
It was not the living statue, but a woman who explained to me that "We used to live in the woods together in Jacksonville..."
A closer look revealed her to be none other than Karrie, whom I have not seen since May 31st, 2010, before I got on a bus for Mobile, Alabama and left her "crying at the bus stop" (according to subsequent reports) in that .
She has lost a lot of weight, 50 pounds of it ("I quit drinking beer) and shaved her eyebrows ("My face got burned") and seems to even have a different accent.
She had a pack of cigarettes in her purse, but wouldn't sell me one, not even for a dollar ("I have to pan-handle for them") and wouldn't give me her cell phone number ("I just don't want to get in trouble").
"You must have a boyfriend," I said, thinking that the cigarettes probably belonged to him and that having me in her contacts would be what might get her in "trouble."
"No, I don't have a boyfriend," she said, before she went off to The Rebuild Center to eat lunch at 1 p.m.
And that is the way it stands; I'm not going to rush into anything.
If I wanted to rush into anything, I would have reached for the 150 dollars that I still have left from the weekend; and offered to buy her some better food than what is likely to be the fare at the homeless center; and then; old habits might have taken over and the next stop might have been the liquor store...
She looks very good and healthy; and, if it is truly because she has stopped drinking, then I'm not going to be the devils advocate.
If old habits take over then, she will find me at the right times and places; like she used to do.
We need to take things slowly, to maybe establish a different kind of relationship than we had before.
I had been standing and talking to Leslie about 25 feet away from where she was sitting just 10 minutes prior to our meeting, and the subject of the conversation had somehow drifted to her.

Bamboulas Open Mic
I did all of my laundry last night, and dried it very well and put most of it on, as the weather forecast was for temperatures to drop to 40 degrees with winds strong enough that people were advised not to leave their empty trash cans by the street.
I saw that the new club, Bamboulas, on Frenchman Street, was having open mic night from 9:30 till 11:00 p.m.

A walk past my playing spot showed it to be deserted.
The wind was already picking up with cold breezes strong enough to blow tips out of a guitar case hitting my face.
Not A Good Idea
I decided to grab Leslie from his apartment and we would go to Bamboulas and jam at the open mic night.
I thought this would be good because Leslie knows the owners of that place, as they are also the owners of Last Call, on Bourbon, where Leslie does odd jobs.
I thought it would elevate his stature with them should they hear how well he plays the harmonica; and I thought it would be good to get out of the cold on a night when I probably wouldn't have made much money, anyways.
Leslie was in his apartment and had 3 cans of Hurricane Lager which he had not yet drunk, and a half pint of whiskey in his pocket, but couldn't remember where it had come from.
We arrived at the venue and I was greeted by Sal, who is a very good singer and guitarist who does old blues from the 1920's. "I'm hoping to get a gig here," he said.
He was scheduled to go on after the guy who was up there doing pretty decent stuff that sounded original; but who was a jerk when I tried to compliment him upon it.
Sal got up and played.
The PA system was set in a way that destroyed most of the effect of his voice.
He sings with a very wide vibrato and bends notes with a lot of dynamics; and has interesting lyrics; all of which was washed away by the reverb and echo on the sound system; and I realized just why people in the 1920's developed vocal styles like Sal and why they didn't need, and would have been annoyed by, too much reverb and echo.
Amp Search Continues

?

Useless Leslie
By the time Sal finished playing, Leslie was barely standing up and wasn't sure where he was.
I told the guy running the thing: "I would get up and play, but my partner isn't exactly in playing condition..."
"I wouldn't have let him go up, anyways," he said.
 Leslie is useless after around 7 p.m. on any given evening, I am learning...
Xanna
Monday afternoon, I saw Xanna (another ex girlfriend; see 2001) standing by the off ramp of Route 10 holding a little sign begging motorists for money.
She had several items of luggage strewn around her along with a little kitten, which she said she has named "Captain Ghost" (another reference apropos of 2001).
I gave her a dollar, out of the 200 or so which I had left over from the weekend.
San Francisco Fans
This weekend, the Saints have another home game and we are expecting the San Francisco fans to be as generous as the Dallas fans were.
It shouldn't hurt me -the fact that I play in the gay district of the Quarter...
Another Cold Night
Another cold night is forecast; though not as cold as last night, and without the wind.
I will make an effort to play.
I have been invited to crash at Leslie's place.
Karrie is invited, too.

4 Day Haitus (appended)

This library closed
for 4 days, over the holiday, reminding me that holidays are not really for the homeless.
It closed, and it will close again, over the New Year's holiday, Saturday through Monday. I won't be back until January 3rd.
I played over the weekend with mixed results.
I'm Probably Perfect The Way I Am
It seemed like Friday night's activities died down early.

Relax, Daniel

I stopped by where Tonya and Dorise were playing , in front of Rouse's Market. Tonya asked me why I had a deeply thoughtful look on my face, and asked me if I was even capable of relaxing the tension in my lower forehead, which gave me that look. "I don't know, I'll have to think really hard over that," I said.
She assured me that there was nothing wrong with it, in her opinion, and that she wasn't judging me, and that I am probably perfect just the way I am.
As she was packing up her stuff, she asked excitedly, if I was going to play. I figured "why not," because in front of Rouse's Market is one of the "best" spots in the French Quarter. It is a great spot for a band, or someone with a big production, involving amplifiers, chairs, microphones, and preferably, an 8 year old girl playing the drums. It is a mediocre spot for a lone unamplified guy with an acoustic guitar.
I took my guitar out and played, thinking more of trying to impress Tonya, than any other thing.
She has an acoustic guitar player (Dorise) as an accompanist, already. I was impressed with the repertoir of Christmas songs that they were able to churn out, especially their instrumental version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and Tonya's ability to count the days, so as not to make it "The Eleven (or Thirteen) Days of Christmas."

You've got some funk in that box...

It would have been nice for Tonya to tell me that I sounded good, before she hopped in their van and took off, but, I had to spend a bit of time tuning, and then played a song that I thought that Tonya would like, and which I had to stop in the middle of, because I hadn't been doing my homework and memorising songs that I think Tonya would like...
The next night, Saturday, I had better luck after I stopped where Doreen was playing the clarinet with her husband on Suzaphone (partially shown; bottom left), and her little girl, Dorien, on drums. They were packing up to leave also, asked me if I was going to take the spot also, and this time I played a song that I thought the little girl would like, playing funky chords and making up lyrics about the green bread of my sandwich (It was "spinach bread," and was supposed to be green, but I made a joke about it). Doreen's husband put a dollar in my case and said "You've got some funk in that box!"
It being Christmas eve, there were people everywhere, and I had the feeling that I could have made a lot of money, just because of the occasion, but I couldn't bring myself to just sit somewhere for that purpose alone. I might have to adjust my attitude in that reguard, in the future.
I just about broke even the whole 4 days of the extended holiday, to include last night's Monday Night Football event at the Superdome, when it rained just about the whole time. I sat under a stairwell and played. Most people just walked past me, and I didn't think that I was making hardly anything at all. I counted about 16 bucks this morning. Some of the people that threw me something must have thrown a few bucks, because I'm pretty sure that less than 16 people tipped me.
Then, I stood up and banged my head on the concrete of the stairwell which was a couple feet above it as I sat. I left the game because of a mild concussion. (The league is paying extra attention to those kind of injuries this year, and, even though I didn't have any blurred vision, I decided to err on the side of caution and went to the library's patio to sleep).
This morning, Howard asked what has become his "morning question" lately: "How'd you do last night?"
I don't suspect any hidden motives in his asking me that, though, because he gets check every month from Social Security, I sometimes wonder if he sees the potential to be of help to me, somewhere down the road, especially at times when "I didn't do so well last night."
It is still up in the air, the decision to cut myself free of Howard, or to take him along wherever I go. The pros and cons are about equal in the matter. He might get a little extra money for being hard of hearing, though...I said "HE MIGHT GET A LITTLE EXTRA MONEY FOR BEING HARD OF HEARING!!!!"
It would be easy to write him off as a bumbling idiot who trods along behind me and asks painfully obvious questions like "Are you gonna go inside?" after we had walked all the way to the Unique Store and are standing out front. "No, Howard, I just wanted to see if I remembered how to get here after bumping my head last night." Or "Are you gonna hide it in there?," as we near a lone stand of palmettos and I am walking towards it carrying my sleeping bag, after having said "First, I'm going to stash my sleeping bag somewhere," before we walked there. And then: "Is that a good hiding place?" "No, Howard; my bag gets stolen out of here every time and I have to buy a new one each day, but I just don't know of any better hiding places..."
But, I had recently rededicated myself to living a more spiritual life, and had asked Jesus into my heart for about the 38th time. This time was different, though, because I was really comfortable with the people that prayed over me, none of them reminded me of a used car salesman, dealing over my soul, and I think the prayer had an effect; things changed wholesale for the positive, and a lot of blessings came my way.
And, Howard came my way.
Because of his deafness, it is easy for people to dismiss him as being mentally retarded, and that kind of treatment has apparently molded his personality. I think he is intelligent, but just misunderstood, and lonely.
If I give my body to be burned, but don't have charity, then...I don't remember the rest of that scripture, but the end result isn't good...