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.

Duet With Becca Possible Tonight

The Beggar's Prayer

Yesterday, I left here, stopped to get a shot of moonshine, then to another store for a hard ice tea, to which I intended to add the moonshine, and "boost it up," some.

The Atmosphere Will Be Electric At Serda's

There were three guys sitting around the back of the store. I almost hesitated to join them, when I saw that Richard was one of them. He is an inveterate beggar.

I sat down. Richard immediately asked me for a cigarette. I only had one, and I told him so.
"It's always just one," he said, before walking off, looking disgusted.
That left two other guys, who were ex military and talked almost exclusively about being "squids" and Marines.
I added the moonshine to the hard iced tea. One of the guys, upon witnessing that; asked me for some of it. "I saw you putting vodka in it; that's what we need; vodka," he said, apparently speaking for both of them.
It was all I could do to refrain from making a sarcastic remark, like. "Sure, after all, I'm out there playing for hours each night just so I can keep you in vodka."
The Marine suddenly (after finishing a beer), became very spiritual.
He wanted to pray, and we held hands and he did so. He mentioned that when two or more are gathered in His name, He is in their midst. He prayed that we would all get what we "need." I couldn't help wondering if that was The Beggar's Prayer that he recited...
Then, some time went by. I was about done with my concoction. The Marine asked the other guy for a dollar. The other guy refused it. The Marine then told the other guy that he knew that the other guy had "4 dollars," and reiterated his demand.

The other guy refused again. The Marine stood up and got to within an inch of the other guy's face and told him that, if he wanted to, he could kick him in the head and take the four dollars. Whether or not the Lord was still in our midst at that point, is debatable.

How Can I Worry About Bums When I Might Be Singing With Becca Tonight?

I got downtown and played for a good two hours. I thought I sounded good. I think I'm getting better. I counted about 20 bucks, after I knocked off at 9pm., just as the little dweeb was locking the door to the beer store...

I went to sleep on one of the pair of trolleys, which were relocated during Mardi Gras. It is right behind The Garage club. I'm pretty sure that the property owner is aware of my presence, but, his property happens to be the one that I cleaned during Mardi Gras. He usually waves when he sees me.

It rained all night, and the roof of the trolley was a blessing.

Tonight, I may practice a song with Becca, and then perform it with her at Serda's. I am off to practice and maybe put on new strings.

Data Bytes The Dust

A Grievous Loss
Somehow I managed to lose my little change holder type thing. In it were my food card, my jail ID, my Starbucks card, and the little 1 Gigabyte "data traveller," which held hundreds of pages of my writings, including the lyrics to about 30 of my songs, many of which were in progress and had recently added lyrics which will be hard to recall.
I think, after buying a sandwich at Pollman's Bakery, I put my change holder type thing in the bag with the sandwich, because my hands were full at the time. I then threw the bag away, after eating the sandwich, and I guess not becoming alerted by the bag's weight being off by about the weight of a change holder type thing.
I suppose I have done well in hanging on to the thing for so long. I just recently pondered trying to back up all the data from it to an online storage type place, in the event of the event above.
The food card will take a good 3 to 5 days to be replaced, limiting my diet somewhat.
After noticing the thing missing, I wasn't even very enthused about playing at Serda's. I thought that it would weigh on my mind, along with the burden of having to come up with another paper to help the Bangladeshi guy with.

I Recognized Her At Once From Seeing Her On Facebook

A Glorious Gain
Then, I decided to go to Serda's, where I observed a rapper named Venom, rapping.
Then, in walked no one else than Becca, and her friend Hannah.
Jimmy Lee then let me go up to play, while Becca was getting me a Flying Dog. She got my favorite flavor, "golden ale."
I then began to play, on Jimmy Lee's guitar, which is expensive.
I played a long intro into "The Carcass Song" and sang half of it, before going off in another direction.
I thought I saw a look of disappointment cross Becca's face, and realised that, even if I am tired of hearing some of my own stuff, there are people that only hear it once a week, or less often. I jumped to "The Bum Song," which I about completed.

Only Heard Half A Carcass Song

I then did "Crazy About a Crazy Girl," and then "The Man Who Couldn't Decide What Flavor He Wanted," took a sip off of my Flying Dog (my favorite flavor,) and then improvised something that I have been writing in my head for several weeks, and at certain times think that I come up with some pretty funny lines for. It is "The Funk Song (in E)" and will be called that until further notice.
It is one of the only songs that had lyrics which weren't on the data traveller stick thing that I probably threw away into the Panda Express' trash.
I was so happy to have Becca and her friend in the audience, as I didn't have to put a bridle on ideas that I might otherwise have thought that nobody was going to get. Everything went pretty well.
A couple of people commended me afterwards, and I gave Becca one of the teddy bears which I caught at a Mardi Gras parade. I think it came from Venus (the character on the float, not the planet.) It was the least I could do in return for her company, a Flying Dog, and a chance to hear her perform one of her songs.
She forgot the lyrics to it, but I told her that that was a good sign, which means that she is growing, and changing the way she looks at the world and that the lyrics probably don't mean the same thing to her now; so she forgot them.
Burden Removed
I had been struggling mightily for an idea to use on the Bangladeshi Guy's paper. He had rejected my best ones, like a program to issue certain counterfeit money to the citizens to give to the bums; or tattooing the bums yellow in the face, after a third offence.
He wanted me to do it on some subject like parking in downtown Mobile. I was asking him for information about the parking problem when he seemed to realise that he could write the paper himself. That was kind of a relief because this one wouldn't have been worth the money for the aggravation.

The Group "The Vespers"

Up With The Sun
I went to Serda's last night and saw some group named "The Vespers," playing at the open mic event.
There were 5 of them, and they are travelling from somewhere, to somewhere else. I think they mentioned "Nashville."
I didn't get to do my newest reclaimed song, as, Vesper played a pretty long set, and then were followed by some of the regulars, to include Jimmy Lee, who did an electronica type thing, using repeated loops of himself singing, and then singing over the top of the loops of himself, until there was a huge choir of Jimmy Lee's.
My song would have been a change of pace, at least, however, it was not to be.

The Vespers

As the hour got late and it became apparent that I would have had to have been "sqeezed" on at the end, I opted to work another week on the song, somthing that I began this morning.
Tonight there is an open mic at Thai Kitchen, a spot frequented by Elizabeth Elliot, the poet, among other notables.
The Vesper's Facebook, where I found the photo to the right, claims that the two girls are siblings, and the two guys are siblings.
It said that they are touring the U.S. and will soon be back in Nashville.
They played very simple accompaniment, and relied upon vocal harmony and sounding as if the songs held deep meaning to them...

Tuesday's Gone

The "Squid" Omen, Again
I met a guy at Serda's last night, named Christopher Noerr, who drew the illustration to the left. I chose this one because of the giant squid, obviously, and because he told me it would be OK to post his stuff, as long as I credited him with it.
I think it is Jules Verne, but am not sure; I've never seen Jules in person or photo.
I was at Serda's after I decided not to play on the street. It was 36 degrees, according to the thermometer on Water Street. There were few souls treading the sidewalks.
I struck up a conversation with Chris, which started with a comment that I made about the "closed captioning" adorning the movie, which was silently playing on the large-screen in Serda's back room; the "bags of coffee beans" room.
I thought it comical that one of the captions read: "fife playing," as if the deaf person's enjoyment of the feature would be thus enhanced. "Why don't they put "birds chirping in the background; horse's hooves clopping on ground," I said.
The captions were sometimes scattered across the screen "To let you know that the sounds are coming from all around," said Chris.
"Stereo for the hearing impaired," I added.
We talked about the fact that we are both working on Children's Books. I outlined "It's The Hat That They Hate" for him, which met with his encouragement. He told me about a project of his, which I will not detail here, due to possible copy writing issues.
The first part of the day had me sleeping in until 11:30 am., going for an energy drink, and then spending a great part of the day at the library, where I delivered myself of yesterday's post, and then read more of the idiots guide to publishing book.

The hardest part of being published for me, I anticipate, will be following the "rules" of the editors and agents, and not sending a manuscript with a coffee stain on it, for example. Rules, rules, rules!!
And, now, I am going to cut this short. I have a busy schedule, with the children's book, church service tonight with Jeff and Jennie and family, and then, possibly playing at Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic. The song will be called "I'm Giving Up On Music"
This morning, I slept until 11:10 am, because it was too cold to get out of my sleeping bag when I first awoke. So, I am behind "schedule.'
To compensate you for the brevity of this post, here is another giant squid, enjoy!

Songwriters On Songwriting



Self Explanatory

Yesterday, the skies opened up and it rained for a good portion of the day. I took refuge in the library, where I logged on to weather underground, and saw on their radar image that the rain was moving onward, to menace the homeless in Montgomery, and we would soon be rid of it. This made me abandon my plan to spend my first night at the Waterfront Rescue Mission, where John The Street Preacher has been holing up these past few cold days, and which has been assessed by him as being "clean."

Instead, I went to the Shell, bought an

Earthquake High Gravity Lager, and then sat in one of the trolleys, consuming it, and waiting a half hour for nightfall. It became pretty cold, enough so that I kept an eye out for musk oxen, because of their unpredictability.

Under the cover of darkness, and fortified by the Earthquake, I crawled under the trolley and, noticing that the ground where I had been sleeping had been encroached upon by a puddle, I grabbed an extra sweatshirt and my sleeping bag and managed to remove them without letting my body dip down low enough to encounter the puddle. It was like doing a one handed push up, the kind the Marines are required to master. I was glad that I had retained enough of my conditioning, from having worked as a laborer 3 years ago, to have accomplished the feat.

I tied my bag onto my other bag and then went into town, where I sat down and played for about an hour, and was only thrown some change by one of the few people milling about.
I walked back to the Shell for another beer on my way to Terry's former sleeping spot, in the back of a U-Haul van, which is "in moth balls," and has a mattress in it. Terry has moved on to a garage at a friends house, and I congratulate him, I'm not envious; my time will come...


Musk Oxen; Looking For Someone To Mess With

I slept pretty well, but had a dream that I broke a guitar string. The dream was so vivid, that I opened my case in the morning to see if I had a broken string.

Today was spent for the most part at this library. I found a book entitled "Songwriters On Songwriting," and spent 3 hours reading what Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, Brian Wilson and Randy Newman had to divulge about their craft. Dylan said that Hank Williams was the greatest songwriter, Simon said that Dylan was, even though he is "impenetrable," Brian Wilson said that Paul McCartney was, and expressed surprise over the fact that Paul cited him (Wilson) as a big influence, and Randy Newman raved about Bob Dylan and Paul Simon, even though he couldn't understand what Simon's "Hearts And Bones" was about, nor what 90% of Dylan was about. He said that it is harder to write a song that has a clear meaning, rather than writing about crystalline apparitions in deep space, or words to that effect.

It is now almost 7 pm. I haven't played a note. Tonight is the first night in a month that Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic Night resumes being what it was before the contest.

I am going to refresh my memory of my lyrics by poring over some of them, and then I might go and play. I am down to $1.35, which is about "par for the course" on a typical Wednesday night. Serda's must be wondering if I will EVER buy a cup of coffee from them.

I am thinking of doing The Bum Song, but, knowing myself, I fear that I will get up there and be unable to resist the temptation to make something up on the spot about crystalline apparitions in deep space.

Thanks

I Am Invited To The Cave
I was sitting in the park on Thanksgiving day, when some guys came around and asked me if I played my guitar. They asked me if I needed anything. One of them held a bible.
I hate that question, because the answers are myriad. Of course, I need oxygen, etc.
They gave me 20 bucks, and invited me to go to the church which is called "The Cave." That gave me about 24 bucks, total. There were hardly any people walking around on Dauphin Street.
Supposedly, there is great Christian music played there. I will have to leave here in a few minutes, if I am to meet them in Bienville Park.
I Am Invited To The Music Box

Last night, as I walked around in the frigid air, noticing that there were hardly any people on the street. I ran into none other than the nice Becca, and her friend. She invited me to go to The Music Box, to hear some band play. She handed me 20 bucks, to cover the entrance fee, which wound up being 12 bucks, although the guy at the door let me in for 5. I think he knew me from Serda's Open Mic Night.
The band playing inside consisted of members, all of whom I had seen at Serda's before. I knew their original songs already. I didn't see Becca there. I hadn't gone in right after my meeting her on the sidewalk, but sat and played for about 30 minutes and made only a couple bucks.
I did see Taylor, oldest daughter of Jeff The Potter, and was not acknowleged by her or her boyfriend.

Just A Nice Photo

This Is Just A Nice Photo

I haven't blogged all week. Things are different, now that I no longer have the songwriting contest to occupy me.
Serda's, Round Three
Wednesday, I went to see the third round of the competition. The performers were better than on any previous round, I thought. Maybe they had the same idea as myself, in letting people get knocked out in the earlier rounds, leaving less competition in the latter ones. I guess it backfired, because all the best competition seemed to have had the same idea, if that makes any sense...
Jeff, The Potter And Erin, His Daughter

Until I Get A Photo Of Erin...

I was joined by Jeff, the Potter, and Erin, his daughter.
We had come from the Fellowship Baptist church service, where pork and chicken was eaten, and the book of James digested afterwards.
There was a lot of jockeying for the seating in the music room, which was at a premium. Many people sat on the carpet, where they were able to get the camera angles that they wanted for their various devices.
Several people greeted me warmly, having seen me play there before, or at The Garage. They all seemed upbeat and to be hoping that I was going to play that night. It is encouraging to have the respect of your peers, if not of the judges. I plan upon asking the judges, after the thing is over with, about their decision making process, in hopes of finding out how close I came to making the finals, and whatever strong points that they may have seen in my songs.
Mornings On Royal
One of the reasons for the gap in this blog has to do with a change in my routine, whereby I have been playing on Royal Street in the mornings. Thursday morning, I managed to get about 17 bucks from the passers by, most of whom seemed to be "business" people. I sat next to the big clock, in front of the bank.
Friday, I only made about 11 bucks there, before a lady came out of the bank and asked me to move, because someone had supposedly felt uncomfortable using the ATM while I was sitting 30 feet away, playing music. I can only guess at the motives of that person, if he or she actually exists. It seems like some people just want others to be at their mercy, or that they get some kind of payoff by preventing someone else from prospering.
I went up to Cathedral Park, on my way to the music store to use almost all of my money for a new set of strings. There were several busses from different high schools, bringing kids to some kind of 'Internation" festival, or something. A group from Leflore High School, where Jeff, The Potter teaches art, asked me to play something. They gave me about 5 bucks, to go with the 11 that I already had, after I played something. This turned out to be just about enough to finance the excursion to the music store, with the cost of a pack of smokes and a couple of beers taking up the balance.
I got back into town and put the new strings on and sounded great for the handful of people who were there. People must be reserving money for the Thanksgiving holiday, which is approaching.
I went to sleep rather early (for a Friday) and woke up this morning with the battery dead on my cell phone/alarm clock, and about 90 cents in my pocket. I have lost my guitar pick, to add to my troubles.
I am keeping the option of moving from Mobile open.

Just As Well That Nobody Recorded

Quetzel (bird)

I didn't make the finals
of the songwriting competion at Serda's.
I woke up Wednesday morning with my songs already in my head. I was well rested and ready for battle. I spent a lot of time in the graveyard, running through my songs and was surprised to find that some of the verses had to be re-arranged, while others were easier to sing over different chord sections. I felt pretty confident in my ability to fill in gaps with ad-libbing and glue the verses together. I wasn't actually timing myself and was guessing that the song was about 5 or 6 minutes long, as written.
I got to Serda's at 7pm. to see that the entire back area, where the music usually happens, was full of bags of coffee beans. Some institution had ordered 1,800 pounds of coffee, I think was the weight. The "stage" had been moved to the front, and the audience were crowded around the coffee bar. This went counter to some preparations that I made, whereby I sat in the back room some mornings, and visualized winning the contest by sitting in the chair, which I would be playing in if the room wasn't full of bags of coffee beans, and imagining my songs coming off perfectly.
I was told that the contest would take place in the front part of the place, where I noticed chairs and microphones. I was an hour early. I decided to try to augment the 32 cents which I had in my pocket and warm up by playing on the street. I was thrown 4 dollars by the time 7:40 rolled around. I went and had my first beer of the day, to "loosen up."
I got to Serda's and was asked by Jimmy Lee if I wanted to go on "third." I told him that that would be fine, as, if one of the first two got on base, I could bat them in.
The Invisible Watch
I wasn't prepared for the "10 minute" format, whereby everyone is given that amount of time to do their (2) songs. I had been in the back room, with the coffee beans, tuning my guitar to the girl who was playing second. She was using a capo, and so, tuning to my "normal" e-flat was easy. I just about had it right when the girl finished abruptly, and I was making my way through the crowd when Jimmy Lee was introducing me. He added something about us having our instruments tuned before coming on stage.
I still had to tweek some strings (while Jimmy Lee squirmed) before starting. After introducing the first song and making some patter about the thremal underwear top that I was wearing ("This first piece is from a collection of songs of mine, called 'Music to Play In Your Long Johns'"), I probably had about 8 minutes to play.
The first song went pretty well, maybe 76 out of 100 points. I heard someone say "That was pretty good," after I finished.
The second song, which would have been all of 8 minutes by itself, ran too long and was interupted by a guy in a yellow shirt, who pointed to the spot on his wrist where a watch would be, had he been wearing one, and said "time," as Jimmy Lee pulled back on the vocal mic and gave me an "I told you so" look.
I don't know how close I came to being selected for the finals. They may have flipped a coin to choose between myself and the guy who played two chords and jumped around like a monkey, while singing about how "misunderstood" he is.
Yesterday, I was mildly depressed and deciding between trying harder, and using the experience as a learning one; or giving up altogether and just basically drinking and drugging myself to death like our heros from the 60's did.
Instant Coffee Stolen, Along With Seasoned Salt

I discovered the morning after the contest, that my instant coffee and my seasoned salt had been stolen from under the straw, where I had hidden them. The honey and the quick oats were still there, as were my clothes. I suspect the young black guy, who sleeps in the front area, and who comes around to our area ocasionally and acts like he is looking to see if a certain person is present, for example, and who then just leaves without speaking. He may have seen my instant coffee out the other night (a slip-up on my part,) and then came back to overturn the straw in hopes of stealing it. I am not sure that it was him, though, and I hesitate to slice his throat open O. J. Simpson style, as he sleeps tonight. I would feel bad if it wasn't him.
I saw the theft of my coffee as a symbol of losing the competition at Serda's (coffeehouse).
Desire To Play Diminished
I didn't feel like playing that night after I first sat down. I didn't like my songs anymore, since the judges didn't like them. I was aware of all the artists coming to the area, whom I have never heard of; a lot of whom are "known" for their acumen in certain styles of music. Musicians seem to be multiplying exponentially. Looking at the listings, one would think that they are all great, and bring their eclectic blends of music, fused together by an underlying soul, wherever they play. I wonder how they would "bill" me -acoustic psychedelic improv with humorous lyrics, fused together by an underlying soul??
I somehow sat down for a couple hours and was surprised to see people throwing money in my case, as if they could sense that I was trying to decide between suicide and working harder on music.
I got close to 20 bucks in an hour and a half, and knocked off at midnight.
Church Spot "Blown Up"
I slept late at the church spot (until 7:30) this morning, when along came one of the Community Watchdog type guys in his yellow shirt, and told me that I had to get my stuff and leave, and that I couldn't sleep there anymore.
I couldn't help seeing a parallel between he and the guy in the yellow shirt at Serda's, who had told me that time was up. I had stayed at the spot too long, becayse I didn't want to get up when I first woke up.

I have a reluctancy towards getting up with the sun, now that we have set the clocks back one hour for "daylight savings." This now makes 6:05 am. the time when the sun breaks over the horizon, leaving a full hour and a half to mill about, awaiting the opening of the doors of the Presbyterian church, for the giving of the eggs and grits and blueberries.
I have chosen lately to sleep until 7:05 am., even though it means getting up under daylighted conditions. This was my undoing this morning.
I have already found another spot, and moved my stuff there. I hope the Community Watchdog type guy returns to the church spot tonight, to see if I have followed his directive to evacualte, and he catches whoeveer stole my coffee and my seasoned salt.

Contest In Two Days

The contest is Wednesday night. I have some more memorizing and practicing to do.
I must run through my songs about 5 times each, or until I make no great mistake, make no mistake about it.

Trivial Persuits

The Strings I Got

Strings Attached
Yesterday, I went to get strings.
I walked up to the bus stop next to a store. There was a guy sitting there, who offered me a drink off his beer.
I reached for a cigarette, he asked for one. He let me use his phone. I tried to call my mom, but got the machine. He asked me if I had any razors. I gave him one of my razors, although I only had two.
I told him, during our conversing, which bus I was waiting for. It went by, without stopping. From his angle, he would have seen it before I did. He didn't think to flag it down for me.
Given the prospect of having to wait for the next bus, I went to the store to get a beer. "Would you grab me one, too? I'll owe you one. When I have; I share" said the guy on the bench, who wasn't waiting on a bus, as a matter of fact.
I went into the store. For an extra $1.06, I was able to get a 4 pack. I got a pack of cigarettes, and a bag of peanuts. I put two beers in the plastic bag and hid the other two in my pack. I opened the cigarettes and put 4 of them in my empty pack, and hid the other 16 in my pack.
I then returned to the bus stop. I sat back down on the ground next to the bench. Placing the bag containing the beer down in front of me, I set about tearing open the peanut bag. Looking at the bag on the ground, the guy on the bench said, in a querulous tone of voice: "Are you gonna give me one of those?!? (When he has; he shares)
I gave him one. I took out the box of 4 cigarettes and lit one. By then, there were two other gentlemen there, looking disheveled. The man on the bench had his head turned towards them, and was telling them that, no, he didn't have a cigarette, in reply to the inquiry on that head, which they made upon their arrival. They weren't there to catch a bus neither.
Turning his vision back towards me, and noticing the cigarette, he said "Save me half of that, would ya'?"
I handed the cigarette to him, after smoking half. The other two worthies, at that point, asked him for some of it.

When he "has."

I sipped beer, and ate peanuts, thinking to myself that, if the guy on the bench, or one of his associates were to ask me for some of my peanuts, I would become distempered and probably say something sarcastic, like: "Anything else I can get you?" So, I moved to a spot a bit away from them, and where I could get a better view of the approaching traffic, in order to better flag down my bus.
The three began to argue. I think the other two were telling the first, that his persistent begging had driven me away from them, in which body language they read that I didn't want to give away any more cigarettes nor beer nor razors nor peanuts.
The first guy, referred to above as "the guy on the bench," seemed to be argueing back that I was skilled enough with my guitar to earn enough with it so that giving them cigarettes and beer and razors and peanuts shouldn't have been a problem, and that I was being a trifling individual. Afterall, when he has; he shares.
And that is my 2,000 word story on a banal subject, which could have been condensed to the 9 following words: I ran into some bums at the bus stop.
My Goal
I got some strings, shown above, and returned to town.
I sat and played and made only about 6 bucks, or the cost of the strings.
A couple guys came along and requested that I play "Hubert's Trip," a song which I have only done at the Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic, on Wednesday nights.
They said that they hadn't seen me in a couple of months, and that is probably true. I have been lazy about preparing for the Serda's thing, and have skipped several of them.
My goal is to have something ready for next Wednesday.

After I had finished blogging, Russell showed up, and we went to the Church Street Graveyard where he interviewed me for a documentary that he is working on. He recorded me playing one of my originals. I am not sure that it came out well enough for me to put it on Facebook or anything, because I hadn't warmed up or stretched my fingers. It was early in the day for me, even though it was 1pm.
That was pretty cool. We ate at a restaurant/art dealer, where worked a poet who has read before at Serda's, during the Songwriter's Open Mic. A poem is close enough to being a song, to be able to read one at Serda's.
Russell agreed to meet me at Serda's, where we would do a song, with myself on guitar and he on harmonica. I decided to polish up a song about the Neil Young concert experience, as I experienced it. I figured the harmonica would go nicely with a song about Neil.
I frantically tried to re-write the thing in the key of his harmonica, and add lots of verses. I drank Earthquake while I did this. The performance was hindered by the fact that we tuned the guitar to the harp onstage, and thus didn't have a lot of leisure to do it. In fact the MC said that if we weren't ready, then he would put the next act on, and we could come back.
I would give the ensuing performance a D+.
I broke my own rules about tuning, and about listening to the whole spectrum of sound.
I was racking my brain for the lyrics that I had penned two hours earlier, while drinking Earthquake Lager, and I was only vaguely aware of Russells situation of having to follow me on the harmonica. I should have repeated the intro a couple of times, instead of going into the lyrics immediately. This would have acclimated the audience to the key of the song. That is a bad habit of mine. Since I know the song, I forget that the audience has never heard it, and could use a couple of runs through the chords before the singing starts. I will have to pay more attention to that.
The poet from the restaurant/art store came and read a few poems.
I wasn't sure how our performance went over. I know it wasn't a huge smash, because nobody was coming up and saying "That was so awesome," or anything like that.
I have an unsettled feeling about it, as if I might have been too drunk on Earthquake to notice that we sounded like crap, if in fact we did.

Rural Alabama

Songwriter's Open Mic Night

Wednesday (last) night, I walked, unburdened by a guitar, to Serda's, as their Songwriter's Open Mic Night, was beginning.

There were a lot of people there, several performers, many of which seemed to know each other.

I was greeted by one kid, who recognized me.

The crowd was young, seemed to be cut from the same fabric, and most had devices for recording music and video. They were using them to document their friend's performances and, as in the past, were ignoring the other artists, for the most part.

But, not to think this "sour grapes" from me, I welcome the challenge to entertain so well that they will want to turn their devices on and record the performance, then put it on U-Tube.

I haven't seen this come to fruition yet, but have had at least one offer to do so, a few weeks ago.

The MC asked me if I was going to play, and offered to let me use his guitar, after I had told him that mine was stolen, and he had said "That sucks."

The performers before me were bizzare and interesting, and seemed as if their music had been spawned way out in the country, where there were not many other influences to rub off upon it.

They were musically proficient, but, the one's who were more skilled on the instrument were generally less inspired lyrically; the one's with the better lyrics just strummed simple accompaniment, in general.

I had to keep telling myself: "Don't judge them, they probably think you're just as weird," as I watched and listened. One very short guy, actually introduced one of his songs, and then added "...and it's cute," before playing a number which left me at a loss to find any "cuteness" in. He asked the audience, a great portion of which were his friends, how his hair looked, before starting. He seemed half serious in his inquiry.

Performance Marred By Lack Of Warming Up

Having not played all day, and using a pretty unfamiliar guitar, I was not very comfortable; pretty rusty. I usually play for a couple hours on the street before doing the Serda's gig.

In the back of my mind was an awareness that I was playing for some strange people from the hills of rural Alabama, and had trouble deciding which songs might appeal to the 25 or so, of them, how to do them, and should I tell them that the songs were good, before launching into them.

I was glad that nobody who had been there in weeks past requested "Hubert's Trip," or "The Carcass song," and I was able to give them each a well needed rest.

I hadn't really worked on anything, not having an instrument, and wound up doing "My Favorite Horse," after telling the story about how it was composed for a guitar missing a string.

I then did "Crazy About A Crazy Girl," and was informed by the MC, after I finished it, that there were still several more performers on queve, and to do one more song, a good one.

I did "You Must Be Getting What You Want," the song about Karrie, and how she hasn't bothered to find these 12 weeks that I've been in Mobile.

I was a moderate success. I wasn't really in my element, wanting to keep it simple, for not being warmed up, but wanting to play something kind of fancy, in order to self-promote, because one never knows when opportunity will knock, and one might be invited to join a hillbilly band in rural Alabama.

After the event, I slept at the church spot, next to the two guys who are afraid of being attacked during the night.

This morning, I had just coffee and gave my food to one of the guys who is afraid of being attacked, and thus, continued my juice diet, which I began yesterday. I have only had a handful of peanuts, and three bananas, the past two days, but, a lot of grape juice. I feel great, and the stiffness in my joints has subsided.

Just A Backpack

I feel strange, walking around without a guitar on my back. Fewer people say hello to me, because now I represent a simple homeless man, and not a poor guy struggling to make a living playing music. There is a big difference to some, and I am looked at "askance" more often now, as I sport just a backpack.

I still walk with my head up (like my favorite horse) because I know I am still a musician.

Guitar Still Not Found

Support from several homeless

I have gotten a lot of support from other street people. Not all are spitefull nor glory in the misfortunes of others. There are some who certainly resented me being able to make money playing songs, as if it called attention to their lack of ability to so the same. These do not make up the majority, I am finding out, to my mild surprise. There are many who despise people who would steal from other homeless.

It occured to me that the eyes and ears of all the homeless might be a more effective dragnet than any that the Mobile Police might muster.

The guitar might still be found. It will probably be in the hands of someone who bought it from someone else, perhaps for "peanuts."

A Lead

Someone told me, over coffee this morning, that "a new guy" was seen playing a guitar in front of a certain "peanut" store, one who reportedly could hardly play, and was fussing with the strings.

This someone didn't get a detailed description of this supposed guitar which this supposed 'new" guy supposedly had, but, my guitar was stolen after I had tuned it to the unorthodox "open G" tuning, which I had been working on. This would explain a novice player's bewilderment over the relationships between the strings, and cause him to sit in front of a peanut store and fuss with them.

If You Have Nothing Nice To Say....

Not Even Coffee Money

It is Thursday. I woke up with 41 cents.
Last night, I played at Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic.
I was just passing by there at 10:30pm., when asked if I would play "Crazy About A Crazy Girl," by a kid who was sitting at one of the tables out in front of the place.

One of my strings had broken, earlier at my spot, and I told him so.
I had retuned it, to take advantage of the missing string, but I couldn't very well play the Crazy Girl song.

I had only made 2 or 3 bucks on my spot, and I had gone and drank both, or all three of them, before going to Serda's.The MC came out and asked me if I was going to play. I decided that it woudl be a chance to play "Crazy Girl" for the guy who wanted to hear it.
I played it to a crowd of about 8, and it got a fine round of cheers.

I then played "The Carcass song," by request, and it was also warmly recieved (excuse pun)
I only forgot the line:

"I hate it when the dogs are out there playing
With something which is decaying"

I left and went to my sleeping spot with just 41 cents, and no cigarettes.
It really didn't bother me that much.
My replacement food card has arrived at 15 Place. I picked it up yesterday.
15 No "Place" For Me
They told me NOT to use their address anymore, because I am not a member.

They are still refusing to give me a membership. I think it is because I am not pathetically helpless enough, nor good enough at pulling the wool over their eyes, and convincing them that I "will do whatever it takes to get off the street and put a roof over my head," even if it means using my every resource.

I think 15 Place gets some kind of kickback from the government for every unit of "Section 8" housing that they find an occupant for. They seem to be agents in that regard.

They don't seem to want to help me get a job, or a library card, or let me wash my clothes, or give me soap, or let me receive mail. I just don't qualify, based upon the 12 dollars that I might make on any given night. I can take care of myself.

I guess helping me, although it would be helpful to me, wouldn't help them in whatever their real goal is. That is my theory; I am not a veteran of sucking off of the system. I'm not even experienced enough to tell the right lies in order to become a "member" of a Day Center for the Homeless.

I have some wherewithal, some sense, some ability to help myself, and thus, I have been cast out.

If you're so smart, you ought to be able to fugure things out for yourself..good luck -Mr. McDonald .

Meanwhile, 15 Place is where one can go to buy food stamps illegally, as well as narcotics - fraudulently obtained by the poor denizens of that Place, (who don't have the wherewithal to help themselves, and have convinced the administration that they are sincerely trying to get off the street)
I guess it's just business. Some people do pretty damned well, running "not for profit" agencies.

Out Of Sight

Today, I went there to eat. I walked in towards the end of mealtime.

There was no line.

Mr. McDonald told me that I still needed a number, because he uses them to "count trays.'

I went up front and got a number, when I returned to the dining area, the serving line had been shut down, and he was nowhere in sight.

A Token Of Led Zepplin's Appreciation

Last night, I left the library, and went to get more apple juice.

I drank in the Church Street Graveyard and then went into town. I wanted a cigarette.

I decided to sit at the big clock and play for a while. I made my first "totally sober" dollar, in about a year. And some change. This precluded coffee, even.

I moved up the street after the businesses closed and made another 6 bucks at the acoustically good spot.


I was about to go drink more apple juice, when I noticed a crowd in front of the Steangal Theatre (I may be spelling it wrong.)


It was a group of older, wealthy-looking people, waiting to see Robert Plant in concert. He was one of the founding members of Led Zepplin, a famous rock band.

Immediately sensing the opportunity to make money, I decided to fore go the Songwriter's Open Mic at Serda's Coffee, and find a spot from which to ambush the revelers, as they left the venue.

I still wanted money, even though I had not much desire to spend it, except, well, on apple juice.
The crowd huddled outside the entrance. They all had cigarettes, which they had all just lit, when the doors flew open. They all threw them down on the sidewalk, after taking only one puff. There were American Spirit, Camel, Marlboro and Winston.
All those who were milling about, just to be near Robert Plant, seemed to be too proud to snatch up the free tobacco, as if he might see them, and scoff. I recognized some of them from the street. They may have been fooling Robert Plant, but I knew better. I got about 20 cigarettes, which can be re-rolled, (a $5 value,) while those who were trying to look cool for Robert's sake, watched on, envious of my sense of autonomy, and my good fortune.
I listened to "Houses of the Holy," a thousand times when I was 11 years old. I deserve those cigarettes. Those were a token of Led Zepplin's appreciation for my support. I was ready to tell that to anyone who said "Hey, let me get one of those ducks!"

I sat and contemplated a spot to play at. The first one that I looked at, near the box office, had a pile of horse dung prominently sitting in front of where I usually sit. (They call out the horse cops for such magnanimous events, such as a Robert Plant concert.)
I decided that I wanted a well-lit, quiet place with good acoustics. I went to the bank on the corner, across the street from the beer store.
I started to play. It was hard to motivate myself. I had to focus upon playing the best that I could, and think about what a golden opportunity it was to have a crowd of rich people my age to play for. I felt a little bit rusty. Some of it may have been from not have eaten in two days.

People came by and were generous, especially after I was able to read them a bit and choose appropriate music. They were easy to read, because they were from my own, neurotic, post 60's generation.

I heard a woman mention The Beatles. I did "Nowhere Man," to the tune of about 10 bucks, and their delight, and then did "Norwegian Wood," for 10 more. One couple stopped and hung around and threw a few bucks in my case after each song that I played at their request. Their requests were general, like: "Do you know any Eagles?"

My strings were painfully dull. I was happy, though, to have made string money, when it was all said and done.

I packed up at about 11pm., and took the 30 bucks that I had, after having woken up with 8 cents that morning, and I walked. Past the beer store and up Dauphin Street, I walked. There were a group of people around the back of the theatre, waiting for Robert Plant to come out of the alley and board his bus. They were holding cameras and pieces of paper and pens. The sight of a long-haired guy carrying a guitar caused several necks to rotate in my direction.

"50 Dollars an autograph, and make it fast, the bus is leaving soon!," I thought about saying in my best British accent. "Over here, in the dark alley, and no flashbulbs please, they make me have 'flash'backs!"

Now, I still have the $29.29 on me, which I woke up with. I woke up without the aid of an alarm clock, and without a trace of a hangover. My juice bottle was empty, though.

I go now to board the bus to the music store. I may come back into town and play some more, to feature my new strings.