It's Only Me

Last night, I started out flat broke, played about a half hour and some people gave me two dollars and fifty one cents.
On my way back from the Exxon, where I drank two beers, I stopped on the sidewalk in front of the swank hotel, to listen to the jazz pianist, who was inside.
A well dressed man came outside and asked me about my music. He told me that I should talk to the guy on piano because "he likes jamming with other people."
The man was pretty well "lit" on what I later discovered was wine, and was more inclined to overlook the fact that my clothes were dirty, I had worked up a sweat playing, and the fact that there is "more to it" than just breaking out a guitar and jamming along with a jazz pianist. For one thing, my (un-amplified) instrument is tuned one whole step below "concert" pitch, approximately. It is the "approximately" part which would have been an issue.
Soon, we were joined by two more well dressed people. A man and a woman whose left arm had been bitten off, half way up her forearm, by what I later found out was an alligator. Her name was Roxanne. I learned this, because she asked me to play the song "Roxanne" on my guitar, which I managed to sound out, based upon having once played it in 1979. Does she know that it's about a whore?
The four of us talked about Mobile. The second well dressed gentleman asked for a light and told me that he only smoked when he was unemployed, which he wasn't ashamed to admit that he then was. He lives in Washington, D.C., where his wife and newborn son were. He added that he couldn't smoke in front of his wife, for the sake of the baby, and because she would scold him. He was sneaking a few cigarettes, 900 miles away from her. He didn't own a lighter because it would be evidence against him if his wife found it.
They wanted to know what I thought about Mobile, which led to an interesting discussion, given the fact that I am on the verge of leaving "The Bay City," because, in my opinion, I wasn't making it there.
My answer to the obligatory "What brings you to Mobile," question, turned into a discussion about Saint Augustine, Florida. The first well dressed gentleman said that he had considered sending his daughter to Flagler College, which is there, but sent her to Tampa College instead.
The second well dressed gentleman asked me if I cared for a glass of wine. He soon emerged with a glass of what looked and tasted like Cabernet Sauvignon, though when he handed it to me, he said "All they had was pinot." After a sip I told him, "No, I think this is Cabernet." He might have been playing with me, or the bartender was playing with him.
So, There I was, the guy who comes by with a guitar on his back and picks the ashtrays, and who has been run off on at least one occasion, joining three of their well dressed patrons in glasses of "pinot," and the staff could only look on, not wanting to offend their guest by running him off.
They were very much music and art enthusiasts and seemed to accept the stains on my clothing and my unkempt appearance as being tools of my trade.
I played "Crazy About A Crazy Girl," one of my originals. Someone threw a dollar in my case, and someone else a twenty (probably the guy who had considered sending his daughter to Flagler College).
Another glass of wine was offered, which I accepted, noticing that this one was in a plastic cup and not a goblet, like the first one. This might be standard procedure for any wine which is to be consumed outside on the sidewalk, or it may have been the bartender thinking "It's just the street musician."
And the day ended, and I went to sleep with 22 dollars and 87 cents on the porch of The Christ Church, a few feet away from another homeless guy who stirred briefly when I lied down, but upon seeing who I was, went right back into a peaceful sleep, as if thinking: "It's just the street musician." 

I'll Give Up Flying Dog When Pigs Fly!

The Royal Treatment
I went to get more apple juice, and then went to wash up at the park, even though one doesn't sweat as much when on a juice fast.
I played on the corner, crosswise from the Big Clock, and made not a cent.
I was playing music fueled by apple juice. (Nobody took a shine to it; it had no appeal, and as the eve went by, none were tempted. I think I offended them at some core level...)
It was a good time to have my first unproductive outing in Mobile, I suppose, since I already had my apple juice, and wanted nothing more.
The guy, who had come out of The Royal Cafe the previous evening and told me to "find another corner," came out again, at one point. He was standing next to another man, who was dressed in the same sky-blue button up shirt, with the same white apron, Royal Cafe emblem and all. They stood there, glaring across the street at me. One of them put his arms out with his palms skyward, as if to say "What are you doing?"
I was across the street, and not in front of the cafe at all, and probably not on their property.
I continued to play. There was hardly any foot traffic, and this was probably the true source of his crappy mood. This had happened in St. Augustine, when the businesses were going under, due to the economy. Some of the owners lashed out at the street performers, before ultimately folding their tents and leaving town. The cafe guy had no jurisdiction over the corner where I was sitting, unless he owned the whole block. I kept on playing music for people on apple juice. I would have played some Fiona Apple, if I knew any."I Tried"
I think he called the Panda Express, a block up from where I was because, shortly after he and his co-cafe guy went inside, from out of the Panda Express came an Asian guy, who stood glaring at me and clearing his throat and looking agitated. He was probably trying to communicate with body language, which is lost upon me, and has been, since my eyeglasses broke about 6 months ago. I don't really want to see much of what I am "missing," as a matter of fact. Frustrated thus, the Asian guy went back inside The Panda Express, and probably phoned over to The Royal Cafe to tell them "I tried."
Eventually, I left of my own accord, and went to Howard's sleeping spot, and got to sleep early.
I have no money, no appetite, and could care less about a cigarette or a drink of liquor. These are the immediate blessings of Dr. Christopher's 3 day fast and cleanse and mucous-free diet.
I will sit in the graveyard and maybe work on some songs. I might play at Serda's open mic night, tonight, though. I will be flying with no Flying Dog as a co-pilot.

Going Backwards

I am at the library. Before that, I went to hide my pack and my guitar in my secret spot. The library has banned guitar cases now, as they could be used to smuggle in arms.

Before that, I had eaten at The Coffee Club, after sleeping only 3 hours.

Last night, some cops pulled over a car and ordered it to stop right on the other side of the elevator shaft, which I use for subterfuge. I had trouble falling asleep with the pulsing blue light, like from some disco in hell, and the sporadic belches from their radio. I worried that they might do a homeless guy sweep of the premises while they were there. They, of course had to sit and talk cop-talk for almost another hour, after releasing the poor slob with his citation in hand. I had my ears pealed, for anything that sounded like "What do you think of ol' guitar-boy with the long hair, ready to shake him down, or should we wait for him to step out of line?" It was hard to sleep with one ear open.

Before that, I had played on the street, having moderate sucess, but not being able to earn money faster than I smoked and drank it; typical of Mobile, where I think I came for a self-imposed rehab.

The manager of the Mobile Bay Adventure Inn came by in his van, pulled over and thanked me for playing by the pool last Sunday. "Those Scottish guys were characters, weren't they?' He mentioned playing again this weekend.

I am seriously thinking about getting some kind of cell phone, before the proceeds therof evaporate. I just want one with mobile blogging capabilities and possibly a camera, so I can blog mobily around Mobile.

Those are about all of the highlights from last night.

Into The Future

Now, I leave here and walk to the Starbucks to ask people if I can pay for their coffee on my gift card, in exchange for 'cash of a lesser value." My hope is that they will give me money and tell me to save my card for a rainy day, but, will be happy with cash of a lesser value, should I have to burn some off of my card.

Then, I may go to the coin shop to shop my Mercury dime for whatever I can get for it, since I will be in the neighborhood. (It's in about the condition shown above, 1942-P) I'm going to play hardball and ask $2.50 for it.
Then, it should be almost time for the meal at the Salvation Army, after which I will grab my pack and guitar from the secret place, and go into town. There will be an "artwalk" tonight, where people will be walking by me with art on their minds, and free samples of wine in their stomachs. I remember making 55 bucks at an artwalk in St. Augustine.

Spiritually, I didn't do my meditation in the graveyard this morning, and will have to try to squeeze it in somewhere.

Physically, I had an aching left knee last night and this morning, probably from grinding the ligament against the hardness of the ex-convent spot, over by the Presbyterian Church, where I slept Thursday night.

I purposely spent the rest of my money on a costly energy drink this morning, so I wouldn't be tempted to drink 3 beers before the artwalk. I have been foraying into playing the first set of songs totally sober, lately. It just takes more focus to get things going, but the added acuity makes for some more "cerebral" music.

Is Oil Job Slipping Away?

The oil cleanup people have not managed to get through to me. They are hard to get in touch with. I hope the job hasn't slipped away. -More reason for getting a cell phone.

Three Chance Meetings

Monday Night At The Garage
Went pretty well. I did another original set, with a lot of improvising. A guy told me that I should put one of my songs on U-tube. They bought me a couple of beers. They asked me up to play a second time. I started out in my gray shirt, then changed to the fushia colored one, for the second time up. I got the idea of changing the shirt from Madonna, who changes for every three songs.
The Park Where We Sit A Lot>>


Porsha, another ambulance driver, along with Bubba and Ben, had suggested that a black shirt is good for performing, but mine is stashed far away.


I now know three ambulance drivers, and they are all really cool. They stop sometimes and talk to me at my playing spots. This puts them in the area where someone is most likely to need an ambulance, also.


Bubba and Porsha came by where I was playing on Saturday and gave me a bag of clothes that had been outgrown by Porshas younger brother or someone. There were a bunch of shirts and shorts, and she assured me that they were all "trendy."


I would have to say that Bubba is the coolest ambulance driver, followed by Porsha, and then Ben; in that order; and Bubba didn't ask me to write that.
I went to sleep at the Presbyterian. I woke up and had coffee and breakfast.
Then I mailed the letter to Karrie. I will find out through Doug, the drummer, how she is behaving there, in St. Augustine.
I decided to try a new ramp, in a different part of town. There wasn't much traffic, and I made a buck. I started to head towards the labor pool, where I can now apply, since I have ID.


A Professor Talks To MeI was walking back and a black guy, who is a professor at South Alabama University, talked to me for a while. He asked me about my situation, and wound up concluding that I should go with him to Atmore, Alabama. There is a casino there, and a shelter which is run by people he knows. He said that people like myself needed to "turn things around" when they are ready to. I told him that I would think about it. He gave me a dollar. His name was Paul.


A Black Lady Asks Me OutI took a circuitous route to the library, passing the Save A Lot, where a black lady pulled up in a vehicle and talked to me. She introduced herself as Alice, and asked me the frequently asked "How long have you been playing" question. She said that she played the keyboard. She was heavyset and probably in her 40's. Her vehicle was an older one. She offered to buy me lunch, saying that she has seen me around town. She said she would meet me here at 2pm.
I Get A Gig At A Hotel PoolI was on my way to 15 Place, and a man pulled up in a van, and handed me his card and asked me how much money I would want to play for 2 hours at the pool in his hotel. I said that I was lucky to make 10 bucks an hour on the street here. He offered me 30. That will be Saturday at noon. I must come up with new strings by then. Mine are a week old.
I was here before 2pm., but missed Alice, the black lady; maybe because I was on the second floor, and she didn't see me. Pity. She was going to bring cigarettes, too.
Wednesday (tomorrow) night is the songwriter's open mic night at Serda's Coffee. I have work to do on some material. I can also reuse it at the hotel pool gig.


I'm broke again and in not much of a mood to play tonight. I should get to sleep early, and just listen to the radio and drink spring water, while I fall there.

Space Blanket

Yesterday, I woke up early, having not been able to sleep much. I debated upon going to retrieve Karrie after her release from the jail, or not.
I thought that, if she wanted to be with me, she would find a way to Jacksonville. She knows how to find the campspot. If, on the other hand, she preoccupied herself with panhandling and getting drunk, she would probably not have the resources nor the wherewithal to find her way to my spot.
I am waiting 7 to 14 days for the arrival of my birth certificate, which I finally managed to order on Monday, through the Vital Statistics office in Dorchester, Ma.
The cost was $28 for the certificate, $37 for 'expedited mail," which reduced the wait time from 20-30 days, down to 7-14.
I decided to play the ramps near the departure point of the Purple Line to St. Augustine during the day, and take the last Purple bus out at 5:20 pm. with whatever money I made, added to the 21 bucks that I had left, after sending the Commonwealth of Massachusetts almost 40 bucks.
The ramp playing went ridiculously. I was run off of one after 10 minutes and 3 bucks. I was run off of the next after 10 minutes and another 3 bucks.

I went to the bus stop, determined to get off the Purple Line at the Rt. 16 and 95 ramp in St. Augustine, and play some more.

That I did.

It was almost nightfall, and, staring into the sun, I made another 11 bucks or so. I then rode the 4 miles back to the campsite and prepared to sleep. It was the coldest night for April 29th in the history of St. Ausustine.

I had a flimsy fleece blanket. I lay there, thinking that, of all the things that had been looted from the camp after Karrie and I moved out, there was a plastic bag containing two "space blankets" in a certain spot.

They were still there.

They are like big pieces of aluminum foil, supposedly impossible to rip and purported to reflect back 98 percent of one's body heat and keep a person alive in sub-zero temperatures. I rolled myself up like a burrito in them and found that I was warm enough to sleep.
I set my alarm for 7:30, thinking that I would go and hide in the woods near the jail and wait for the emergence of a figure wearing an ocean-blue shirt covered with depictions of various fishes of the sea on it.
I couldn't sleep, and was debating upon just going back to Jacksonville in the morning; still not sure if I wanted to encounter Karrie, for fear of falling back into the same life of ennui.
I listened to Michael Savage on the radio, on one of the only stations which came in upon my AM radio. Maybe the cold had something to do with that, but, I could get New Orleans, and Atlanta fairly well, but not Jacksonville, and hardly St. Augustine.
Savage was ranting about the illegal immigrants and the havoc which they are reaking upon this nation. He said that they comprise one third of Federal inmates, in for rape and murder and drug trafficking; he said that the hospitals on the border are having to close because of illegals obtaining services that they are not entitled to. He also said that the school systems are stressed because of them, too.
The New Orleans station was drifting in and out and, every time Savage had some interesting point to make about the Mexican immigrants, the station faded out, and in faded Hispanic music from a neighboring Latino station.

It should have been funny; him saying that "These illegal immigrant Mexicans are tainting every aspect of our society, and....(fades out, replaced by a bunch of Hispanics, playing accordians and gleefully singing...)
Karrie Shows Up
Morning came, myself only having been saved from being covered in dew by the space blanket, and the alarm sounding at 7:30 am. It was too cold, in my opinion to go to a spot in the woods to spy upon the jail, waiting for a fish-shirt clad figure to emerge. I tried to go back to sleep. The sun was coming up and was a warming factor. I eventually sat up and drank some caffeine.

Then, I was startled by a voice behind me.

It was Karrie, wearing the fish shirt.
We hugged and kissed and exchanged stories.

She looked very much rested and younger, almost girlish. Her voice was even sweeter than I had remembered.
Then, she wanted to get some beer.
She had gotten out of jail and had already panhandled one. She wanted more.
I am at the library now, planning upon playing the ramp until such a time that the last bus out of here will come by that spot.

Karrie is supposed to come with me, if she can be at the bus stop at the appointed time. That's a tall order, sometimes.

Grabbers (or How Does That Grab You?)

I am ducking and dodging The Law. I'm in St. Augustine, where my life is "worthless."
"My love is strong, and it pushes me onward"
I came back to grab whatever wasn't grabbed, when Karrie and I left here.
I discovered that everything which we hadn't grabbed HAD been grabbed (by someone.)
This is "par for the course" in St. Augustine.
I'm leaving on the last yellow bus out of town, -don't know when I'll be back again-
"I Don't Know What To Tell You"
I saw Larry briefly, last night, while keeping an "eye out," for the bike cops.
I told him I needed a place to lay my head, and maybe a blanket; I had missed the last yellow bus out...
"I don't know what to tell you, we've been staying at Dee Dee's for the past couple of weeks..."
I know what you can tell me, Larry; you can tell me: "I remember that night when we were staying off of the canal in Mandarin and I was curled up and shivering on the ground under a flimsey blanket, and you came and threw one of your two sleeping bags over me, whereupon I relaxed into a comfortable sleep." You might have said something along those lines...
This was God's way of telling me "See, there's nothing here for you in St. Augustine," for those of you who believe in Him.

Photos Arrive

The Ocala pictures arrived from the Lidgeley's.

More on them, and more of them, later...

All Shook Up

Plus, more on John's Wedding, which he decided NOT to have performed by an Elvis impersonator, even though he "thought about it." He thought about it??? He's joking, isn't he??

Elvis: "Do you John, promise to not be cruel, and to love Ester "tender?"

John: "I do"

Elvis: "Ester, if John is in sickness, or poorer, or the Kentucky rain is pouring down; Is that alright, Mama?"

Ester: "It is."

Elvis: "John, are you a hunk of burnin' love for Ester?"

John: "I am."

Elvis "Will you be Ester's teddy bear?"

John: "I will."

Elvis: "Then, by the power invested in me, as the King of Rock -n- Roll I now pronounce you all hooked up! (hey, hey hey!)

A Crime That A Ghost Might Commit.

Drying Time
I left the library yesterday afternoon. The rain had stopped, just as the radar image from wunderground.com had seemed to portend. Behind the clear "window," which was over Ocala at the time, was a new and menacing green and orange mass, approaching from the southwest. It seemed to be grinning at me.
I knew that this was the time to seek shelter.
Karrie's backpack, along with the soaked sleeping bag were hidden in the woods behind a building. They were not hidden well, as, in the darkness of the previous evening, I had crawled in only far enough so that the street's light was diminished to the intensity of a common night-light. There, I had found the flat spot where I unwittingly rolled out the tarp and bag and slept under the stars. Stars turned into thunderheads, and thunderheads into tornadoes; the rest is history.
My Options Were?
Option 1. Was to get the sleeping bag and dry it at the laundromat, and then find a culvert, overhang, or deeper woods, where the tent could be pitched. This involved spending money, and, if I failed to find a spot and get the tent up before the grinning green and orange mass arrived, then I would have wasted money into the dryer...
Option 2. Walk to the Salvation Army and ask if I could stay there for one night.
I moved towards the Salvation Army. The city is so large that I was prepared for a five mile walk. I always had the option of sitting at a bus stop and taking the city bus the rest of the way, at any point.
I bought an Earthquake High Gravity Lager, and some cashew nuts at a store along the way. I found a place behind a vacant building, which was "for lease," like half of Florida. I pulled out a bag, which had been given to me that morning, as I was sipping my coffee in front of the Kangaroo, before going to the library.

A man, who looked just like a man in St. Augustine, who has done the same thing, handed it to me, saying: "Here, God put it upon my heart to give this to you," -just like the guy in St. Augustine said. Could he BE Saint Augustine? What's he doing in Ocala? ...baffling...at least they couldn't get him for failure to appear!
There was a can of "stuffed" ravioli, a can of fruit cocktail, spoon-fork-napkin pack, and some literature about a church, which helped the poor. I read the scriptures about "If someone comes to you hungry and naked, and you tell them to go in peace and yet you give them not food, nor clothing, then, how have you helped them?" I paraphrase, of course.
I ate the raviolis, drank the lager, and listened to Sports Radio.
As I continued walking, I noticed that the jackets and shirts which I wore were drying out, making me think that there was yet another option, which didn't necessitate the drying of the sleeping bag. I want to conserve money until the sun comes out this weekend, and I am able to see if street playing yields anything. One good day, and another spent exploring further might put me in a better spot
My needs are simply to hide Karrie's stuff and the tent better, acquaint myself with the shelters and their ability to provide hot showers and food and laundry, and then to see how lucrative the off ramp of Rt. 75 and Rt. 40 is. If successful, I could choose my own food and do laundry on my own schedule. The library here has free Internet, and I have been spending hours on it, catching up on "housecleaning" type things, like answering messages which are two weeks old.
The Captivity Of Karrie
Karrie has not been transferred to St. Augustine, as of yesterday. They have until March 22Nd to pick her up, or failing that, releasing her.
If they let her out in Jacksonville, she will know where to find the "survival pack," which I hid nearby our campsite there. If they bring her to St. Augustine, then I won't have to worry about her being released any time soon. She has 5 charges of "failure to appear." (It sounds like a crime that a ghost might commit at a seance...)
It will cost me $1.50 and a miles walk to get to the ramp on Saturday. I woke up with $72 this morning; half of what I left the camp in Jacksonville with. Now I go to see if they have transported Karrie. I want to send her some money before such a point when it might be the sum total of all I have. I think a quarter of money will sufficiently show my love for her.

The British Are Coming

In the meantime, the Lidgleys are set to arrive in Orlando Sunday night. They will be here in Ocala on Thursday, when we will meet somewhere for dinner.

I Hesitate

It is Monday. We have about 10 days before the ticket to Ocala expires worthless, or not.
The highway ramps have been lucrative. They make Saint Augustine seem like a joke (the city, not the saint)
I feel sorry for Larry and I hesitate to tell him how much money is out there on the ramps, for fear of seeing him on my favorite ramp, playing Neal Young.

We Are "Safe" In Jacksonville

Ok, We are in Jacksonville, where we intend to purchase Greyhound ticket(s) in advance, in order to save money, and to allow us to take a stab at making some money here, before the law becomes wise to us.

We didn't think we could have bought them in St. Augustine, but could have, by handing the driver cash -seems like that would make his job more dangerous.

John no longer is the owner of the Dominos in Ocala, just the manager.

He told me that I would have to put in an application and have my background checked, and then it will be up to 'Andrew,' weather or not there is room for a public urinator on the payroll. John did say that the store is doing well $15,000 per week, and that he would be able to find me odd jobs to help me out, despite Andrew's ruling.

Our dilemna is one of when to book the trip. I am leaning towards playing here for one more week, and, if successful, booking a 7 day advance, which would get us there before March. If very successfull, the bike could be loaded on the bus, for an additional fare. I have struck gold so far, by playing right on the off-ramps to Rt. 95, right where others hold signs like: "Homeless, please help"

Worse case scenario, I book 21 days in advance for just one ticket (Karrie and our "Karrie"-on luggage) and then I ride the bike to Ocala, taking my time and a whole day to do it.I've heard that the Ocala National Forest is a good place to get lost in, and probably has running water at the Welcome Center.

We Look Forward To Being Welcomed To Ocala

We Are Going To Ocala

I woke up with $104.40.

We Are going to Ocala.
I checked the Greyhound site, and there are no tickets sold here in the oldest city in the nation. We will have to go to Jacksonville to get them. This poses logistical problems, ie. how to get the bike there (I will ride it) and, how to spend some time there and profit, while we wait for the 7 day, book in advance discount.
Yesterday, I went right out onto the highway ramp and Rt. 16 and Rt. 95 and played. A cop came by when I was in the median and told me that I couldn't play there. He said that I could play "there," though, over on the other side, and so I did. I made about 35 bucks and then went and sat in hiding to drink a beer. The superbowl was just kicking off, with the singing of "America the Beautiful." It was an alright night, and reaffirmed my belief that playing in St. Augustine is a bunch of B.S. and that one can make more on the road at highway onramps....

The weather seems to be co-operating right now, for such a pilgrimage.

This morning I woke up with one dollar in my pocket. Someone had given Karrie 5 bucks last night, and she told me that she wasn't going to buy me cigarettes with it. This was the first instance of her not offering me the money that she gets, as is the custom in her culture, her being a Mexican from Dalton, Georgia.
Open Mic, Right...
Before that, we were at Annie O' Malley's Pub, where they were ostensibly having an "open mic night." At the hour of 8pm. and with the temperatures dropping into the 30's, I thought that I could solve the problem of being broke and unable to play, due to the temperature, by playing at the open mic, which would be a warm haven and would lead to at least one person offering to buy a pint of ale, or to throw a couple of bucks our way.
I opened my guitar case enough to pluck a string, in order to see if I was in "concert pitch," ie. in tune with the person playing, who would have used an electronic tuner to achieve "A 440," the recognized standard in tuning. I can do it by ear, but, these are weekend wannabe musicians, who think that they can work their 9 to 5 jobs, and then become Jimi Hendrix on the weekend, as an "outlet," to ease the tensions which they are fraught with, due to the stress of trying to make 6 figures. They have the finest guitars and equipment, and, electronic tuners. Of course they have electronic tuners. I can do it by ear, because if I don't, then I don't eat. I have the stress inherent in trying to make 6 dollars...
What Have You Done For Us Lately
The bartender approached me and told me "No playing along." This reminded me of a time when I "played along" with a musician who was doing an open mic at Rendezvous, up the street. The musician was amplified, and I could only be heard by myself and Larry, 4 feet away. The bartender there had told me that it was extremely rude, or words to that effect. "Can't you see that there is someone performing?!?" I think that the same bartender now works at O' Malley's.
I told him that I was just getting a pitch. He asked Karrie and I if we wanted to buy a drink. I told him that we did not. He then basically ran us out of the pub- a pub where Dave and I frequented during Dave's visit, and where Dave spent a good chunk of cash, on sandwiches and Dogfish Lager. That was a year ago. What have I done for us lately?
It Becomes Personal
I then walked out and stood on the sidewalk in front of the establishment, Karrie in tow. The
bartender soon appeared a foot in front of my face and asked me if there was anything that he could "help me with."
I was not even on their property, at that point, but I was talking to a couple of customers about being run off. I said that I could play music and that people generally like it, and that they might buy us drinks, and the money would go into the coffers of O' Malleys just as if I had bought them myself. I said that the way to break into the business and get gigs in clubs is to start with open mic nights.
"Not tonight," said the bartender. He then told me that my chances of ever playing in O' Malleys were diminishing (at least he used a musical term). I said that all I was doing was listening to the performers in order to get an idea of what kind of music goes over with the crowd. He walked back inside, augmenting my joy.
I have concluded that it is the same group (click) of musicians there for the open mic night, who are having sort of a private party and are not there to hear anything except themselves. There isn't any room for a new musician, because their egos already encroach upon every corner of the place. And, God forbid, a musician come along and play so well as to make them think "I thought I was pretty good, but, now I'm not so sure."
To which I would reply: "Doesn't your $2,500.00 guitar play well for you automatically??"
That's Just "Life."
Now it is getting late again. I have chosen to update this blog, instead of playing again. I might see if the nice Amy is working at O' Malley's (she wasn't there last night.) She was the one serving up the Dogfish and crafting sandwiches a year ago. I'm going to ask her why they wouldn't welcome a street musician, who plays hours every day, to entertain and keep the Dogfish flowing. Maybe she will be able to tell me what is really going on. It might just be "homeless envy," by those who think "it must be nice" to not have to work; and, where do we get off not paying rent; we should somehow be forced to, that is just "life."

Greener Swamps

Karrie Goes To Court Tommorow

Last night, Karrie and I went to St. Francis house. I wanted to see if a parcel had arrived from London, from a lady and her husband, who had come by last summer (the lady) when I was playing on Cuna St, and who has stayed in touch and has sent me pictures of myself playing on Cuna St. through e-mail.
A man asked to borrow a flashlight from anyone, to illuminate the combination lock on his bike. I unburdened myself of the guitar and then the backpack, fished around, found my flashlight and lent it to him. He disappeared for a while (awful long time just to unlock a bike,) and returned to me my flashlight with, what we didn't discover until back at camp, dead batteries. He must have known that we had made some money, and was exacting his "tax." This is typical, and the reason why I stay in the woods and not at St. Francis House.
The food served was pepperoni pizza, which gives me hearburn, without giving me any energy; and the mail that they DID have was a bill from the hospital for care of a toothache a couple months ago, and also, a letter telling me that my Public Assistance food card was to be cut off. I had had a foreboding about going to St. Francis House that night, I really did.
Karrie and I fumbled around in the dark, back at camp, just to build a fire and arrange the blankets in the tent. It was too dark for her to see me shaking my head in disbelief that someone would stoop to such chicanery just for a couple of batteries. I decided to consider ourselves fortunate that we could go buy more in the morning. Today is Karrie's last day of freedom. "Mixed feelings" is an apt description of my mind now....
I hope that nobody stole any parcel which might have been shipped.
The past few weeks have been less than promising for someone like me, who has higher aspirations,.
It has been mostly about survival lately, with myself playing shorter hours, worrying about Karrie's being alone at camp, and Karrie relying upon the money which I have been making over the holiday season; money which, typically stops flowing after the holidays, and needs to be stored up like a squirrel's nuts....but, I can't expect her to know that....
Well, I am going out to play tonight, as the temperature is high enough so that I will be able to move my fingers. Last night I watched crowds of people go by, unable to play because of the the 45 degree temperature...
I have a bit of wanderlust, especially as Karrie will be salted away for months in the penal system (unless she can melt the heart of the judge, which I wouldn't put past her.)
I might try to take "my show" on the road and look for greener swamps further south.

Karrie and I still have time to flee to Mexico, where, she has every intention of owning a horse.

She said that, when my mom wires me money for Christmas, "It'll be worth a lot more," oh, and a bottle of tequilla is 5 bucks down there, ....incidently....

Carribean Sunset

The Spot Where Eustus Plays Sometimes
Friday night, I went to play at a spot that Nick, the flute player had told me was legal.
The spot is frequented by Eustus, the steel drum player. He plays loud and ambiguous music on the steel drum, which is an instrument which conjures up a vague sense of "the carribean," in the average listener, and which, accompanied by the fact that Eustus weighs 300 pounds and is a mix of two exotic races, neither 'carribean," by the way; he makes good money.
People seem to think that they are being treated to authentic exotic music, played on a funny steel thing, by the "real deal, " a guy who braved the ocean between here and, well, the Carribean, with only a steel drum and a steel resolve to make it in this strange land of funny white people; that's worth a couple of bucks.
He wasn't there on Friday, (maybe he was in the Carribean) I sat and played and my own form of exotica earned me a good chunk of cash.

People who come out of pubs are generally good tippers; people who come out of
pubs that sell pints of beer for $5.75 are generally better tippers.

I didn't hear Eustus playing anywhere, which was curious. I was happy with my 40 bucks or so. The next night, he informed me that he had been "sick" the prior eve.
Eustus comes back the next night and sets up 50 feet from me, after walking by and looking in my case (which I had artificially inflated, based upon my assesment that people who patronized the A1 Aleworks are (generally) the type that would expect the street musician out front of the establishment, which they choose to frequent because of the "high quality" of it, to be of the highest quality herself, and would be comforted by the sight of a case full of one's, he set up 50 feet from me and started playing loud, ambuguous music which was vaguely "Carribean-esque."

Like the proverbial shark smelling blood in the water, (the blood being green and in my case in this instance,) he went at it as if in a frenzy.
"He ain't Heavy, He's My Brother"

I tuned my guitar to his exotic steel drum and began to sing "I was here first; that's just disrespectful..." to a simple blues vamp. He couldn't hear me because of the exotic steel drum in his face, but the patrons of the A1 Aleworks, whom had stepped out did. I improvised lyrics about exotic steel drums, and the rudeness of those who set up 50 feet from another and play them, and made better tips for chastising him musically than he did playing the exotic steel drum, his 300 pounds notwithstanding! Tonight, I will circulate "He ain't Heavy; He's My Brother," the Hollies classic, in tune with his drum and see who get's the humor...

Now, rain is threatening to fall outside. Karrie is standing out in front of the library, holding her sign. In an effort to cater to the visually impaired, she has a two-sided sign. When people seem to be squinting to read her text, she flips it over to the "easy-eye" side, which is condensed and scribed in larger , thicker letters.
The situation is this:
Karrie has to go to court on her 11 charges on December 31st. ("They always give me courtdates on holidays, and then the courthouse isn't open and they let me go...")
I have expressed my opinion that, in their sweeping effort to clean up St. Augustine so that the tourists won't be panhandled, have to watch a man or woman consume a beer and/or urinate into a bush, wheather simultaneously or not, they have given her enough wiggling room to wiggle her way out of the city and not come back, ever.
The only logic that I can see in the judge's release of her is for this reason. The judge feels bad perhaps about the 'justice' which it will be incumbent upon her to mete out to Karrie when the courtdate comes. The judge might be showing mercy.
The fact remains that Karrie must either show up for court on the 31st, or flee the jurisdiction.
That gives her 4 weeks to be around here.
Myself, I will be in a similar boat soon. I am not prospering enough in this town, which is trying to run off street performers and street people in general and has relegated them to areas where only the savvy tourists can find them, to consider "paying my debt to society" in order to have the priveledge to continue living here.
Last night, I played and made 2 dollars. I got a late start, and then went to eat at the shelter, which took away time which might have been spent on the venture.
A lady at the market gave me 10 dollars, after asking if we had enough blankets. I woke up with $12.43, mostly because of her generosity. I knew enough to spend $3.17 on beer before returning to camp, to forego the enevitable, and since the 10 bucks was earmarked for the two of us, I suppose.

Homeless-maker

Happy Thanksgiving(s) Day

Having arrived back in St. Augustine and reclaimed our campsite (by sacking the roving band of homeless, whom had moved in, in a savage orange-fight)

Karrie has turned into quite the little home(less)maker...

She gets up as soon as there is enough ambient light in the morning to see and gathers wood "early enough so that nobody sees me." Then, the fetching of a pail of bath water from behind the Chinese place, where they have hot, mind you.

She will then and there, at the water-fetching spot, do the dishes and handle any minor laundry issues, like "rinsing stuff out." Then, upon returning to camp, pushing a cart full of wood, she starts a fire and heats the bath water and puts coffee on. Then she picks up all the cigarette butts and other trash and bags it up.

I guess I'm thankful for that.

Today is the day that I broke away from Karrie.
Last night was a terrible tip night. It was also a terrible panhandling night for Karrie.
I felt that I could go and sleep somewhere and not worry about having to wake up broke and having someone else's "well-being" on my shoulders and my conscious. I can deal with going without, but to have another person suffering along next to me and to feel impotent in helping, makes me uncomfortable. I guess I am like the cat, who crawls off into the woods to die by itself.
Karrie, also broke, felt that I wouldn't want her to be around, as she wouldn't be able to provide me with anything. She doesn't feel that her company counts as anything, I guess.
Up With The Son
I was up with the sun and read my bible a bit and then meditated. I asked Jesus for strength.
The guy who owns the gallery and gift shop, and who lets us (and let Henry Black before us) sleep on his porch, arrived at his usual hour, just as the sun crests the building across the street and starts to bake us awake.
He must have noticed the absence of Karrie. He said "It looks like you're struggling to wake up this morning." I told him that I was just trying to figure out what was most important to do first "today."
"That's good," he said, and then went inside his store..
Henry Black's nephew, William sleeps under the store. I think they are Christians, he and the store owner, too.
Community Service
I finally pursued the option of doing community service in lieau of paying the 100 dollar fine(s) which I have accrued. More than one of them was myself "taking the rap" for Karrie, when there was an open beer between us. I called the Eagle Lodge and was told to show up there in the evening with my paperwork to do community service, and keep the jailor at a safe distance.
The other option would be to leave St. Augustine and have the fines hanging over my head forever.

Drink, Drink and be Karrie

Karrie and I have been quite the item around town.
She wakes up in the morning and drinks hard liquor.
She gets in a lot of trouble and we have been trespassed and/or run off from half of St. Augustine.

She needs "somebody," and just likes to be held.
She falls asleep within seconds of me putting my arms around her.

She has an amazing ability to walk around asking for money and get it. I used to be angry when I had only made 7 bucks in an hour of playing and she would walk up and say "Some guy gave me 25 bucks."

Then, she would ask to borrow my bike to go to the liquor store.
I haven't paid for booze all week.
The lady at the shelter thinks that I should go to AA meetings.

Last night, ironically, Karrie and I went behind the church to drink. Going on Inside the church was an AA meeting.

The Package From London

I pick up the package from Alyne and Mike at St. Francis'

Picking up mail at St. Francis House is always an ordeal. There is usually a line of people waiting to assail the poor office employee in turn, with requests for handouts, like toiletries, and ,most ominously, requests to use the phone. 

However long and tediously their phone conversations drag on, those behind them in line suffer in kind.

They pray to hear "goodbye" coming out of the mouth of whomever was using the free phone, because they are homeless and worthless, and so in turn they earn nothing; in line with the theory that society compensates commensurate with worth...but I digress.

Today was no different - there was a family there with obese children, requesting a "food basket" There must have been issues concerning food allergies, because the compiling of their basket took way too long. "Do you have different flavors of Ramen Noodles, because, despite the fact that we are living outdoors, unemployed and have obese kids (unexplicably) we really don't like the spicy chicken flavor; sorry" type of thing...

Then there was somebody wanting to use the phone to call someone and complain about why he had to pay the $15 for a mental health evaluation when in fact it was "her"(the person doing the evaluation, I assume) who was crazy.
I asked the nice Phil if he would go through the mail bin and see if there was anything under "M" for me.
He found this not to be too big a breach of St. Francis policy and soon produced a package, sent from England, or "the UK" as the postmen seem to prefer.
I felt like I had gained some modicum of respect from the bums at that noble institution, who must have deemed me more important than they might previously have though, seeing that I had gotten something from so far away. "Wow, he knows someone in England? I thought he was just, you know, homeless..."
I didn't want to open it in front of them because I was not in the mood to fend off the inevitable "hey, let me get some of that; one of those etc.," requests.
I went to a spot where I sometimes drank malt liquor and sat down with a can of malt liquor and opened the package, which listed "toiletries" and "documents" as being the contents.
Several pages from my lost blog were enclosed, along with a clipping about the James Taylor concert in London or somewhere. The guy gets around.
There was a letter which mentioned an uncanny group of musicians whom I have either heard or thought about in the past few days.
I was dying for a cigarette and kicking myself for not having gotten a pack before sitting down to open the package. Then, I noticed that, under the blog page package were gold boxes, which I had assumed to be "toiletries." But, they were cigarette box sized and a further inspection revealed them to be Benson & Hedges cigarettes, all the way from England (ok, UK) and having a blatant warning on the front of the box, stating that "Smoking Harms You And Everyone Else."
On the back was a graphic photo of a mouth full of rotted teeth and ulcerous formations which one would assume is a bad kind of mouth cancer. (They need to fire their marketing staff, I thought)
I was unsettled enough by reading the ominous warnings that I really needed a cigarette and happily lit one up.
Then, underneath some really neat toiletries, like fragrances which are only smelled in London, and mosquito repellant which is probably of a strength illegal in The States, just as I was thinking "I really need to get to my spot...I'm really enjoying opening this package and perusing it, but, I need money...," I saw the familiar shade of green which only means one thing to us Americans (well it means one thing to the guys and another thing to the ladies, but that is beyond the scope of this post) and I produced a 20 dollar bill from the bottom of the box.
How did they get U.S. currency? I thought, before the "other voice" in my head said "Shut up and be glad they did!"
And so, my thanks to Alyne and Mike Lidgley? (the last name was partially obliterated by what was probably condensation off of one of Karrie's beer cans -she's killing me, absolutely killing me!!)
to be cont.


Karrie was beside herself with glee to see the body wash and the anti-perspirant, which are from London. She is an obsessive washer and considers soap before food and right after air. She wanted to wash up immediately, and so we went to where there is a high pressure hose behind a building (Karrie knows where all the running water is in St. Augustine) and did just that.
She fell asleep in my arms that night, saying "We smell so good."
And when the mosquitos came around, she was ready for them.

HENRY LEE BLACK

Henry Lee Black's "Memorial Service".
Last night the memorial "service" for Henry Lee Black took place in the gazebo in the park, near what is still called the "slave market," due to its history.
The candlelight vigil was supposed to start at 9 pm. I was playing my spot and heard accordian music twenty minutes prior to that time. I walked over and witnessed no less than 20 people, holding candles and in a circle. There was Ralph, the accordian player, seemingly at the "head" of the group.
The memorial was sponsored by a restaurant called JJ's, where Henry used to go every month, after he got his check. Henry purportedly loved their squiggly fries, or their twisty fries, or some kind of fries that they made. If you are ever in St. Augustine, please patronise JJ's. Henry had pretty good taste in fries, so you aren't likely to be disappointed.
20 people, in a circle, all of them taking time out of their active lives to pay their respects to a 72 year old black man with one foot mostly missing, who walked with a cane and carried a guitar, which he didn't know how to play, urinated into the nearest bush, and was very, very hard to understand when he spoke (until, of course, you start to learn his "language") .
Henry didn't care what anyone thought about him, safe to say. He had a long history of "urinating in public" charges. He had diabetes and couldn't make it to the restroom, so, he went in a nearby bush. A dog can do this, but not a human being created in the image of God. The human will be thrown into a cage, like Henry was.
They let Henry out of jail, after a 30 day stay. It is purported that his medication was witheld from him, due to technicalities probably related to the fact that he was homeless and flat broke. Henry had to walk the 5 miles from the jail, all the way back to Old Town in 98 degree heat, limping all the way, arriving in which he went to the spot where he slept, probably because he didn't feel good. The spot where he slept has a grand display of signs designed to keep people from sleeping there. There are "No Trespassing" signs –you have to have that, it’s the standard – "Keep Out" signs –for people who are less literate and likely to not understand "trespassing" – and there was a special and fancy sign, bearing the the official seal of the county sheriffs office, and basically signed by the Sherrif himself, hung prominately on the gate, stating that the trespasser was to go "up the river" for an ominous length of time. Henry slept there.

Pretty smart, if you think of it. The property owner, after affixing no less than five signs to fences, trees, buildings etc, would walk away thinking, "that ought to keep those niggers from sleeping here" and would never feel the need to check on his investment from time to time. Or, maybe the owner knew that Henry slept there and put up the signs to keep people from messing with him….NOT!
He arrived at his "secret" (wink wink) sleeping spot and sat down at a picnic table. He clutched his guitar, probably intending to go out and play (or "not" play, technically.) That is how his body was found: sitting at a picnic table, leaned over a bit, cradling his guitar. Within 24 hours, the gate there was covered with flowers and cards, and, supposedly nobody knew that he "lived" there. His cigar box that he used for tips was sitting on one of the tables, his guitar on another, and someone had placed a cigarette and a beer in a handy spot. The "Henry Black" gravestone picture, which I had printed out here at the library and given to Larry was prominently hung on the gate. There was so much clutter that you could hardly see the half dozen "No Trespassing" and "Keep Out" signs. (possible placed there by Henry himself, to keep people away from his meager posessions, but, who knows...not like we could ask him now...)
The mixture of people at the memorial was diverse. There were those that knew him from the street, yet there were business owners and nurses and people who had actual jobs who liked Henry. They liked Henry because Henry liked them. One person said "I could never love Henry as much as he loved me." For a black guy who grew up in the South and loved people, (yes, even white people!) so much, it makes one wonder how far society has fallen in 72 years.
We went around the circle, all having the opportunity to speak. Everyone spoke. I told of my first meeting with Henry, when I was new in town. He was using his cane to pull coins out of the wishing well near the cigar store. I handed him 50 cents and told him that he didn't even need to dry "these." Then, when I was playing music on Hypolita, Henry sat next to me. I was playing really well that night, the effect of playing 8 hours a day starting to reap benefits. "Oh, yeah, that's music," said Henry, who had known Ray Charles when he (Henry, not Ray) was a janitor at the Florida School For the Deaf and Blind, right next to this library where I sit now. My playing actually improved after the endorsment of a black man who could remember Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and everything else since the 40's.
Thank you, Henry, God take care of your soul Henry, I love you Henry. You were a pain in the ass, Henry. You died a richer man than you might think, Henry. I'll see you in heaven Henry; have a cigarette, Henry.

,

It Isn't A Free Lunch

Police Raid Camp

The second raid of the camp in a year and a half took place about a week ago. The police came and told us that we needed to "vacate" the spot. We were allowed to take whatever we wanted with us, and we were not asked for ID or harassed. We grabbed our guitars and clothing and left. We now live about 300 yards away in another spot. Larry's tent no longer exists as pictured to the right. We don't really care too much, as we realized that we didn't have much to lose. They got the calico cat, though, who was friendly enough to walk up to the cops and the crew of prisoners who were bagging up everything and clearing the spot. The black cat was wiser, and we still have him. We don't know the fate of the calico. Hopefully he was brought to the Humane Society, or something.

Street Musicianship
The job of street musician is more than a full time job. When I am not at the library, getting new material, I am practicing the new material, or playing the new material, or on a bus to go to a spot where there is something going on and the potential for a thousand people to be there...
Saturday, I went to Jacksonville Beach to play music.
There had been several people who had told me that I "needed" to go to the beach in order to make any good money.
That morning I was up with the birds and preparing to go. After two connecting busses, I got there in the late afternoon.
There was a festival going on in the ampetheter and the loud music spilled out into the streets, making it very difficult to set up anywhere and play. I hadn't made a penny by 8 pm. I was at the bus stop, ready to go back to Mandarin, almost broke, and feeling depression setting in, when I decided to go back and try again. It would mean missing the last bus out of the area and having to spend the night there.
I sat in front of a closed business which sold bathing suits and such and began to play. 30 bucks found their way into my guitar case in one hour as group after group of college kids on spring break walked past. Most of them dropped something in the case. I was playing my best 3 songs over and over, since each group only heard me for about 10 seconds.
Then, one of the bartenders from Campeche Bay, a restaurant/bar came out for a cigarette and listened to me while he smoked. He told me that he would give me a free beer if I went into Campeche Bay, which I did. Then, as the evening wound down, and I became more leary about carrying my guitar and a pocket-full of money around, I walked down the beach and found a spot in the dunes to sleep.
I had a hard time sleeping because the temperature went down to about 50 degrees. I had prepared by bringing extra sweatshirts, but they weren't enough. I anticipated the sunrise and the heat that it would bring. I was happy when my portable radio announced the time as 5am. Maybe I can get some sleep as soon as it warms up some...

Easter Sunrise

As soon as the sky brightened, I crawled over to the other side of the dune, to the side facing the ocean. I looked to my left and was surprised to notice a huge group of people on the beach, at 5:30 am. Then I realized that it was Easter Sunday (I had lost track of the days, because I originally wanted to come out to the beach on friday)
So, I wound up watching the sun rise on Easter Sunday morning, not even realizing that people flocked to the beach to do just that. I thought it was cool that I was led there by accident, there because I missed a bus!Easter Sunday, I played for about 1 hour in the same spot. Then, one of the Jacksonville Beach cops stopped and told me to close my case up and leave. He said that they considered it "panhandling" if the musician opens his/her case up, as an invitation to tippers. I stood there and acted as if all of that was news to me. He ran my ID and then let me go. I picked up the 17 bucks or so that I had made in the hour, and left. The cop said "I've been sitting and listening to you play and your music is..." and he never finished the sentence, but he suggested that I go to a certain club where the owner is "a really nice guy" and see if I could play inside the place, legally. (because my music is....)
That is about it from the trip to the beach. It started out dismally and then wound up being a positive experience. Now I "need" to go to St. Augustine, according to the kid at the music store where I get my strings. He said that one of his friends saw me playing at the Regal Theatre, last week, before another cop made me leave there. It took me about 8 days to make the cost of the guitar back. It was slow, because I had to learn where the best spots are. Now I play at the BP station where I used to work. One of the old employees is still there, Dustin, and he lets me play and even brings out food and gave me an umbrella once. He said that "you do have a good sound," also. I estimate that I've made about 180 bucks off of the 100 dollar guitar, in about 2 weeks.

Last night, I went to the BP and noticed that Dustin's truck wasn't there. I wondered who was working and if they would let me play there. I was surprised to see that the foreigners who own the francise are none other than the same foreigners who own the one on the end of Baymeadows Road. A young guy, who I helped with his car battery once, came out and said that I could play wherever I wanted to, and on any Monday, which is his regular shift.
So things have been gradually improving as we prepare to march up the east coast, living on music.
One thing that I have realized, though, is that, even though it is possible to make more money as a street musician than as a laborer, and that it is better because you are doing something that you love, it still takes a lot of hours to make really good money. Each hour can be about 30 songs, and, by the end of the night, you might have played over 100 songs and the fingers are sore.
It is still work.
It isn't a free lunch at all.