Joy Extinguished

Howard's World

I woke up with 16 cents in my pocket,
kind of hungry, and determined to get a cup of coffee and read some Pat Conroy, as my sole source of joy, which I did. My food card is down to $1.49, with 6 days left in the month. I am walking in the shadow of the valley of death. Not only that, things kind of suck...
I keep telling Howard,
(the 65 year old guy, who I talked into coming with me on the train, to get out of New Orleans) to put his stuff out of sight in the morning, and not leave a spread out blanket, as a signal to unscrupulous other homeless people, like a big white flag saying "I surrender! I surrender my stuff!"
But, yet, Howard persists in living in the squalor which you see to the left. He could, with a little effort, put his stuff up higher in the holly bush, so that someone walking by wouldn't even see it.
I'm almost 20 years younger than he, but I assume that I've had more experience with thieving homeless guys than he has.
Cookout Goes Up In Smoke

Damn, How much meat are they cooking??

Last night, after it got dark, Howard and I left the library. I went to get my bag and guitar from Save-A-Lot, and then checked the Save-Even-More, on general principle.
There were turkey drumsticks, sausages, a dozen eggs, and some thin-cut top round steaks, all of which was technically expired, but not yet physically expired.
I had thought that I would have to walk all the way to the railroad spot, to get the kielbasa and the rack of pork ribs and the "frozen" pizza, along with the salt and pepper, but decided that the newly found food would be enough, and that the rest would "keep" in this refrigerator-like weather that we have been having.
As I was walking back to the graveyard with the food, I took a different route, following intuition and the general principle that; if you go the same way every time, you will never know what you might be missing; and found two racks, which looked like they had come out of a refrigerator. They were leaning against a trash can. They were well suited for the cooking of what we had. They would even hold eggs in place to be roasted.
I threw those grates, along with some red oak wood, over the wall in a certain spot, then went to enlist the help of Howard in carrying it to the back, behind Nathaniel Elliot's tomb, where I had constructed a barbecue pit, using part of a wall which had come loose around Samuel Ashton's place.
I soon had a roaring fire going. Howard's lack of experience reared its head again when he asked: "Shouldn't we put the food on the fire?," when the flames were leaping to about 3 feet above the grate.
"No, the first thing to do is to let all this wood burn down to a bed of glowing embers.That is where you get your steady heat from. Then, we can feed it fuel as necessary. It won't be ready for another 20 minutes or so." 
Why some people expect to be able to cook something which takes 45 minutes in an electric oven set to 350 degrees in anything less than 45 minutes is beyond me. If that were viable, why wouldn't people just set their ovens to 500 degrees to speed things up?
I let the flames burn out, leaving a bed of embers such that you couldn't hold your hand 5 inches over the grate for more than 5 seconds, and then arranged the food on our "stove" with the heartier items, such as yams in the middle and the more delicate things, like the thin-cut top round steaks, on the edges, and then told Howard that I would be back in a half hour, and to "flip it every now and then."
I then ran to the store to get one can of Steel Reserve Lager.
Returning to the graveyard, I noticed a cop car parked nearby.
Perching myself on a trash can and looking over the wall, I saw the beams of a couple flashlights, cutting swaths left and right and moving in the general direction of where our grill was, closing in on Howard.
Howard was trapped, no way out, a sitting duck; his back literally against the wall -like what was on the grill; dead meat!

I tried to imagine what he would possibly tell the cops, should they find him. I watched as one of them apparently found him, as the beam from his flashlight stopped moving at the very spot where he should have been.
I listened for Howard's voice, but didn't hear it. Being hard of hearing himself, Howard tends to yell to whomever he is speaking to, which is, I think, common amongst the hearing impaired. I didn't hear Howard yelling, or anything else. The silence was deafening; you could hear a pin drop; it was deathly still.
Soon, I heard the distinctive sound of the blast of a fire extinguisher, then saw a thick cloud of white smoke rising up from the area behind Mr. Elliot's tomb, becoming illuminated by the street lights, as it floated above the top of the wall, and departed the graveyard, like the ghost of our barbecue.
I gave up on turkey drumsticks and roasted eggs, and went back to the sleeping spot.
Howard was there.
He told me that he had gotten some kind of cramp in his stomach "I have a hernia," and that he decided not to wait for the food to finish cooking, but left. He acted surprised when I told him about the police and their fire extinguisher.
I wondered if the police had encountered him, threatened him with jail for trespassing and starting an open fire in an historical graveyard (which is on the National Registry of Historic Graveyards), and Howard spilled the beans, ratted me out, sang like a canary, turned on me, and fingered me; all at once; then concocted the "stomach cramp" story, hoping to pull the wool over my eyes, leave me in the dark, throw me off, and hoodwink me.
I'm not sure what really happened in that graveyard in the middle of last night. Howard dropped off the sports section at my holly bush this morning, as if nothing had happened, though. He may have left the graveyard, thinking that I was going to cook the food anyways, and bring whatever I hadn't eaten, which would have been a considerable amount, back to the sleeping spot, so, why wait around...maybe he had gotten a creepy feeling, the willies and a chill down his spine, just as someone was phoning the police.
This morning, the opinion of one of the ladies at Pollman's Bakery, after I had related the above story was that the police were on high alert for smoke coming out of the graveyard because, just recently, someone was shot and wounded in another cemetary and his body set on fire because the shot didn't kill him and the guy was out of ammunition; (but had a lighter, I guess.)
This morning I bit the bullet myself, and went to Waterfront Rescue Mission to eat their noontime meal. It was red beans and chopped up hotdogs in a red bean sauce, poured on top of white rice, with a piece of yellow cornbread, some boiled mustard greens, and a brownie; with a cup of amber iced tea to wash it all down. Not bad but, of course, they have electric stoves and ovens.

Dying To Be Written

Bayfest

Bayfest officially kicked off at about 7:30 p.m. last night.

There I am, on my way to look for a spot to play.
I succeeded in finding one on Royal Street which was far enough away from any of the half dozen stages which were set up all over the downtown area, so that it was relatively quiet, especially compared to New Orleans.
Mobile felt like a peaceful little town, in fact, after NOLA. Even the beggars weren't as "in your face."
I racked up $13.86 in about an hour, playing mostly Beatles songs, then went to spend -excuse me, invest- $4.33 of it in a half pint of whiskey, which I then walked with and sipped upon down Royal Street towards one of the stages.

"Dances With Corrie" Not To Be

It was the stage by the parking lot where last year a man was sitting with a gallon of vodka, passing it around to his new "friends," which included, but were not limited to; myself, Corrie and Corrie's boyfriend, who soon left to find the Rock-n-Roll stage, leaving Corrie and I to dance in the parking lot to the sounds of Clay Walker. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't hoping to see Corrie again.
On this particular night, though, there was no man with vodka, no Corrie, and the Country band on the stage had just finished their set. There would be a wait before the next band played so I walked and sipped on; past the cops on every corner, and back to the spot on Royal Street, where I made a few more dollars.
Then, at 10:30 p.m., I started to head towards the "Pepsi" stage, where a band called Korn was slated to perform. I had always wanted to hear the band Korn, which spells it in mixed case characters, like KorN, or something (I think they reverse the "K" and possibly the "N," too).
I got about half way to the Pepsi stage, finished my whiskey and said to myself: "You know, you can always check out a CD from the library if you want to hear KorN so badly. How much money can you make on the sidewalk while KorN is playing? Well, that amount would be like what you would be paying to see KorN..."

"You know, you're right, self...I'm going to play some more"
And play, I did.
After the last of the bands finished around 11:30 p.m., and the streets flooded with freshly released, highly charged KorN fans and their ilk, I moved to the acoustically superior spot, (which I now just realise that I forgot to photograph; maybe tomorrow.)
I made a total of about 30 bucks for the night. This is not an impressive amount unless you factor in the fact that it took all of about 30 people to supply it. It was a one dollar tip type of night. I guess that is not just a New Orleans phenomenon, in this economy. 30 people appreciated my stuff, which bodes well for the near future anyways.
Someone came by and smoked some "mojo" with me, and after that, I remember playing "Dear Prudence," and changing the words, and I remember people approaching from every direction (like sharks) and throwing their dollars in my case. At one point, I spaced out and thought I was in New Orleans. Momentarily horrified, I snatched a handful of the ones out of my case and stuffed them in a pocket, before realising that I was in the relative safety of Mobile, at my acoustically superior spot, and that I had over reacted. Such was my level of concentration. The mojo contributed...
I slept at the railroad track spot, where I had stashed my sleeping bag, which was still there.
I chose that spot so that I wouldn't have to be "up and out" by 7 a.m., even though I had stashed my morning energy drink (a "Full Throttle") at the Christ Episcopal spot, a tactical error, but one that I had to live with.
Sleeping until 9 a.m. this morning, I then walked over to get my energy drink, and then went off to Save-A-Lot.
I want very much to cook some fish on a fire today, so I have already gotten some frozen Tilapia. It is thawing in my backpack right now. I will buy a tin foil type roasting pan for $1.50, or rig up a grate, using coat hangers as a frame and a 99 cent roll of tin foil. Either way, I'm determined to cook fish and to do it for under two bucks!
Tales of The Macabre

Another car strikes the same spot? Was it the same driver?

Last night, allegedly, another car struck the wall of the Church Street Graveyard in the same spot that had already been struck, and then patched using hundred year old bricks (to match the texture of the original wall. How well they matched it is left to you to determine by looking at the photo which I took this morning.)
You will remember, faithful reader, from yesterday's post that Richard was found dead upon the tomb where he slept in the same cemetery.


Is There A Novel Here?

 Was the wall actually struck by a car (I don't see any skid marks nor tire tracks) or is Richard's up to his old tricks?
This is just the kind of s**t that Richard would pull. It has "Richard" written all over it!
When his body was found, he had with him a 4-pack of Steel Reserve Lager, and was in the middle of drinking the second one, when he was snatched from this earth.
There are theories being bandied about, by those who knew him, that the restless spirit of Richard has come back to roam the earth in search of his last two cans of Steel Reserve...
Could he have, upon finding his beer gone off of his tomb, smashed the wall in a tantrum??
We don't know...

Nobody There To Be Cheap

Yesterday, I left the library and went to get my stuff, which was stashed at the Save-A-Lot.
I had decided to wash some of my clothes, so that I could wear different ones each day. Come next Sunday, I will probably put on the one's that I had on last Sunday, just to mess with the guy that made a comment about them. I washed three pair of pants, and threw out the ones with the holes in the leg which were too long also.

The "Feel" Of Downtown Mobile, Last Night

The streets were deserted downtown, and I worked on some of my own songs, making the best of the time, but no money. I started to get mad and curse the cheapness of the people, then stopped myself when I realised that nobody was there being cheap. One guy walked by and told me to go to New Orleans.

I wound up spending what little I had on Steel Reserve, which I drank in the park, where I had to fend off beggars, who wanted dollars and cigarettes. I became angry at one point.

I have concluded that quitting smoking and drinking is my only path to peace of mind. Not smoking will reduce the number of friends that I have from almost 40, down to about 5, but I am willing to suffer that consequence.

Now, I am in a self-imposed rehab, brought on by having ruined myself financially.

I am treating the Serda's Open Mic on Wednesday as if it were a real gig, and plan upon preparing for it as such. I want to see how well I can do when I make the effort.

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.

The Bayfest

I got over to the Adventure Inn, by about 2:30 pm. I sat and played with a sign which Harold made, which said "Playing For Tips, Thanks"
Harold gave me a barbecue sandwich, a coke and a bag of chips. He also gave me a key to room 122, which was under repairs. I made about 7 bucks off of the people, who were on their way to the Bayfest, and conservative with their money, not knowing what other expenses they were going to incur at the festival.
Harold gave me another 10 bucks, and I went into town.
I stopped at the Dauphin Store to find that all of their prices had been increased. They had paper signs on the beer coolers which said "$3" Beer is usually $1.20, which is already more than anywhere else in town.

The guy, who knows me pretty well from our frequent conversations, sold me a 211 for $1.49.
I walked from there to the Exxon, seeking cheaper beer, and scoping out the arrangement of stages, and keeping an eye out for a good spot to set up and play for tips.
The Exxon had not raised their prices ("We don't play those games," was what the cashier said)
I enhanced my experience of The Bayfest with 2 more 211's, and then headed for town, to try playing for the throngs of people.
Scraggly-Haired Fan
I ran into a scraggly-haired man, who was apparently inebriated, and who was headed to a spot, which he has been at during Bayfest the past 3 years. He invited me to drink beer and liquor and listen to Motley Crue, a famous band from the 80's, which he said was the only band that "matters." He may wear his hair in tribute to them.
We went to his spot, which was a wall on the border of a parking lot, from where we could see the large-screen TV image of the band which was on stage, called Saving Abel. I was pretty impressed with Saving Abel. They are in the "alternative rock' genre, and so I had never really heard them, because I don't like the other alternative rock bands that they are mixed in with, because they play too many "power chords" with the 5th in the bass, probably because they think that they are even more powerful that way, and their vocalists all seem to be trying to imitate the style which is "selling."

Creed is supposedly a "Christian Rock" band, but that might be obvious from looking at them.

Jewel used to be homeless, but that may be obvious from looking at her.

This style is throaty and nasal, started with bands like Bush and Creed, and spread to more than 55 other bands. They pronounce the word "you,' as "Yow,' and it irks me. The female vocalists of most of the bands which are played on the alternative rock stations, also try to imitate the style which is selling. That one kind of started with Jewel, and spread to at least 55 other singers, like a virus. They pronounce the word "you" as "yow" also, but that is about the only place where the two styles overlap. It irks me even more to hear the females pronounce you as yow.
The scraggly-haired guy was complaining that his "friends" had all of his beer and his liquor in their backpacks, and had disappeared on him, when he had gone to get another lighter after losing his. How could someone just lose their lighter? Two words: beer and liquor.
We sat through Saving Abel, and watched as kids roller bladed around the parking lot, while we drank beer and liquor.
Corrie-fest 

At one point, a couple of his "friends" returned, and turned out to be none other than Corrie, and her "boyfriend," who is twice her age. I'm not an envious person, but I make an exception for him. Corrie gave me a long (25 seconds of feeling like I was One with the universe) hug, and said that she had been worried about me.
She and her boyfriend had passes for Bayfest around their necks, which someone had given them. She was all smiles and proud of her pass. She knew that it was worth 45 dollars, and made the comment that, between her 45 pass, and her boyfriends, they had passes worth... she paused, unable to do the math. "90 bucks," said her boyfriend, who is quicker with figures, apparently. Corrie has quite a figure, incidentally.
They swore to the scraggly-haired guy that they were not the ones who absconded with his beer and his liquor. I vouched for them, as being honest, as far as I could tell. The scraggly-haired man exonerated them, and washed them clean of all guilt with liquor and beer.
Someone had also given them 10 bucks, and Corrie wanted a glow stick more than any 'ol thing in the world. She left momentarily, and returned with the pass hanging around her neck, along with a glow-necklace. I have never seen anyone more giddy in my life. 'Tis a gift to be simple. She told me not to give up and that I would be on the stage next year, instead of Saving Abel and Motley Crue, because "You play from your soul." She may be a prophetess.

That hairstylist can't hide from us forever!

Motley Crue was HORRIBLE with more than just a capital "H". They sounded like they hadn't picked up their guitars since the 80's, when they became famous.
And now, I must run to get strings. I played on the street, after fleeing the sound of Motley Crue, and made another 5 or 6 bucks. Alcohol may have been a contributing factor to such a poor outcome.

No Crying Roast-Meat

Thursday night, I ran into Terry, an elderly black guy, who reaffirms my belief that the color of one's skin is of no import, pertainent to the nobility of one's character; him being a very cool black guy.

We sat and I drank my first Earthquake of the day, which whittled my cash down to $2.87.

We were joined by a guy who's name I forget, but whom I see a lot at the library, and I am actually a "friend" of his on Facebook. We smoked and drank.

Soon, it was time to go into town, as it was nearing the time of the Great Feeding at 15 Place. I wanted to play for about an hour, before partaking of that Grand Feast. I could remember the previous week, when I had only 32 cents, and ate at 15 Place, then went out and played.

I had my second beer, waiting for The Great Dining Hall to open. I had 3 helpings of shepherd's pie. It was just about perfect, a Miracle On Joachim Street.

A Lady Gives Me 25 Dollars

I sat on my spot, the acoustically superior one, and played. My new "g" string rang out, and a new low "e" string did the same.

I can't remember what music I was doing, but, a lady came by and asked me if I wanted a snack. She was holding a bag, which she deposited next to me. It contained a muffin, a rice treat kind of thing, and three apples. She dropped 20 dollars in my case, next to the 3 which were already in there.

"Thank, you! Do you need change?," I asked, offering her the 3 bucks.

She said that she didn't want any change, and that, in fact, she was going to give ME more change. She dropped 5 more bucks in. She said "I love music."

The apples made me wonder if she reads this blog...

I had 28 bucks, and should have been set up for a productive night, but, people came along and gave me beer and invited me to go eat.

Along came Terry, the cool older black guy (because of whom, I can't judge anybody by the color of their skin) and asked me for beer money. I gladly gave him 2 dollars, and he went to the beer store, and came back with change.

Then came the guy, who's name I forget, and sat down and listened for a while. He had worked that day, and had 100 dollars. He offered to get beer, and did so; producing a 6 pack of Budweiser. He wanted to get food, also, but I advised against the out of control spending which getting food on Dauphin Street would entail.

I played more, and got two 5's, and a few more ones -not bad for a spot with light traffic, but excellent acoustics. I was eventually feeling pretty drunk, and only vaguely remember the rest of the night, except the following.

I ran into Israel, who was bragging about the 8 dollars that he made at a busy (hectic) spot up the street. "That's a good spot," he said.

When asked how I had done, I didn't want to tell him that I had made about 37 dollars to his 8. I was thinking of something that I had read in Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding (which, by the way, is turning into one of the most excellent books which I have ever read) The quote has to do with not "foolishly bragging" about good fortune, when all it would do is "call forth partakers of what you intend to enjoy privately." He (Fielding) called it "Crying roast-meat." and I think it comes from olde English lore, (and the Lidgeleys may be able to verify this.)

I told Israel that I had done "alright, thanks to one generous lady." He probably thought that I was thrown 10 bucks. I don't think that he will try to play my spot, but, there is still a price to pay for bragging, and he might have spread the word, in the form of "I wish I made 37 bucks, like Daniel did," whereupon, I would be plagued by supplicants for money and cigarettes the whole night long.
Knowing that I had money, they would paint me as a greedy individual, were I to turn them away.

The mentality which produces notions like: One should take whatever he has and "share" it with everyone, because we are "all in this together,' and are all "out here, struggling," and we "all need to look out for one another, is prevalent amongst them, and well documented in this blog.

I don't subscribe to it, because I produce income. I believe that those fellows who trumpet the above philosophical point of view, if audited, would be found to have their balance sheets skewed drastically, in the direction of "money bummed," completely overshadowing "money given to others."

At one point, I took a break and walked with the guy who's name I forget, up to the store. I got an energy drink for the (this) morning.

Violence Breaks Out Over 10 Bucks

The guy who's name I forget was in a dispute with a young black kid, over 10 dollars, and at one point, got hold of the young black kids cellphone, as a securty against the 10 dollars. I was entrusted to hold the phone, being kind of a referee of sorts.

The young black kid was unable to produce the 10 dollars, and still wanted his phone back. Being fair and impartial, I told him that the phone was being held until the guy who's name I forget, got his 10 bucks. The young black kid wanted the phone back first, claiming that the 10 bucks would then be turned over. I told him that it would not work that way, as, the phone had little value to us, and more to him etc.

He swung his fist, hitting me somewhere in the cheek, I think. I felt hardly anything. I stood there, looking at him. The kid actually went and got a cop, of sorts (a Community watchdog type of guy who walks around in a yellow shirt and gives people directions and watches out for crime, or something) who told us to just give the kid the phone back, and swallow the 10 bucks and consider it a lesson learned (not to ever trust him again.) He went on to say that sometimes these young black kids will shoot people over 10 dollar cell phones.

Somehow, I woke up with about 24 bucks and the energy drink.

I remember going to the Exxon, very late, and spending about 5 bucks on cigarettes and one last Steel Reserve, and getting back to town, to find it pretty deserted. I remember trying to fool myself into thinking that I wasn't going to the Exxon, mainly hoping to run into Corrie.

This morning, I bought nail clippers, and hair conditioner. The lady at CVS gave me some elastics for my pony tail, as the "professional" ones only came in 12 packs, at $3.99 per pack...

Tonight being Saturday night, and the thunderstorm having already passed through, it might be a pretty good night. I will go to New Orleans, if I have more than 20 bucks by Monday, what the heck....

Now, I ponder getting a cell phone of my own, so that I will have a phone, an alarm clock, and a stopwatch all in one....

Things Turn Around

Tuesday, after leaving The Waterfront Rescue Mission, I walked through a light rain, to the store, and bought an energy drink on my food card, above the warnings of the lady behind the glass that it would make my heart explode.

A Man Gives Me A Dollar


I was headed towards the library, with the energy drink and the $1.06, which had been spared from being spent on a Steel Reserve, in favor of said energy drink.


I heard a voice cry out, from across the grassy field, and saw two figures sitting behind the dumpster, on the other side of it.


I diddn't recognize them, due to the absence of my glasses from my face, and was almost ready to continue on, sure that they were going to have me walk all the way over there so they could try to bum a cigarette. I had no cigarettes; just an energy drink and $1.06.


It turned out to be a guy whom I had met before and who had turned out to be a decent guy. He was with a decent looking (in a homeless way) lady.


I had played guitar for him at our first meeting. He introduced me to the lady, gave me a few cigarettes and a dollar, and then they went off to some appointment.


More Good Fortune


I left the library, after the last post, and took my $2.06 to the store and got two cans of 211, and drank them, while listening to AM talk radio.

I then went to the median, and played for a while, starting off with 32 cents; the change from the beer purchase.


A guy gave me 5 bucks after rolling his window down and recognizing the music of Jim Croce.


Night was falling, as I walked to the Exxon, after dropping some heavier things at the railroad spot.

A Man Buys Me A Sub

I went into the Exxon and got a 211, and drank it behind the store. I was returning for one more, when a man, who was entering, held the door for me and asked me if I was "alright," and then, if I wanted a sub from Subway. He bought me "anything you want," which was a vegetable sub with all the hot stuff on it.


Corrie, And Her Cream Filled Doughnut


Emerging from the store, with sub in hand, I ran into the guy who had been with Corrie, the time when I met her, and she said that she had heard that I was very good on the guitar, and had begged me to play for her.


We exchanged pleasantries, and then he said "Here comes your buddy," or words to that effect. I looked to see none other than Corrie, riding up on her bike. She looked to be her same animated self. She was wearing a tank top and looked pretty. (simulation->)


I found out from her that she was there hoping for a rendezvous with the man who delivers the doughnuts to the Exxon. He apparently knows her (them) and gives away the doughnuts which are to be thrown away otherwise. Corrie was hoping to eat a cream filled one, and, according to her, there hadn't been any for a couple of nights. "Cream filled must sell out fast," I said.

She told me that, yes, they do.

I could see in her expression, both hope of getting a cream filled doughnut, and a willing acceptance of the fact that they are often sold out. There was a cautious optimism in her blue eyes.


Her eyes are a very bright blue, and one of them drifts slightly, giving her a dazzled expression, which is in keeping with a girl whose biggest concern might be to make it to the Exxon in time for the arrival of the doughnut man.

The man arrived, and parked his Krispy Kreme truck, by the gas pumps. Corrie and company descended upon it. The man stepped out and greeted them with a smile, walked to the back of the truck, opened the door, and sent them on their way, cradling boxes of doughnuts.

The goods were checked, and a creme filled doughnut was indeed discovered in one box by "Will," who handed it to Corrie, who bit into it then said: "That's what I'm talking about!"


I saw the doughnut man, watching all this from inside the store, where he was loading the case with "fresh ones." He kept glancing at Corrie, as she devoured the creme filled doughnut, with an amused smile on his face.

I would hazard a guess that this is his favorite part of the job of Krispy Kreme deliveryman.

"He's really nice; he knows us," said Corrie, licking the last of the cream off her tanned fingers.

I'm sure you saw to it that he did, I was thinking, but didn't say it.

A Kid Gives Me 3 Bucks
I left, after declining an invitation from Corrie to hang out with them. I don't need to become any more attracted to her. The similarities between her and another person who has occupied a lot of space in this journal in the past, is almost eerie. A creme filled doughnut, though, is cheaper than a fifth of liquor, and probably makes a girl sweeter to kiss...

I walked to Serda's, after reclaiming the heavier stuff from the railroad spot.

I had $3.36 left, and half a vegetable sub.
There was a group of young people at the tables in front of the place.

A youth, who I didn't quite recognize, came over and handed me 3 bucks.
Maybe he is one of the followers of my blog, who read about me waking up with 6 cents. Maybe he is one of the listeners at the Songwriter's Open Mic, I don't know.
Now, I had $6.36. Enough for HOW MANY cream filled doughnuts?....hmmm....

5 Bucks And Change

Leaving Serda's, I was in the mood to try to play my modified guitar. I had been struck with an inspiration.

At the acoustically superior spot, I re tuned it to an "open A" tuning. This stretched the strings which were in the wrong spots, bringing them closer to the pitches that they would be in, if they were in the right spots.

It sounded great, and, even though I planned to just amuse myself, as it was getting pretty late, a guy came from out of nowhere and threw 5 bucks in my case.

Another threw some change. I love the open A tuning. I sounded like Chet Atkins on steroids.
I lied down on the sleeping bag on the marble with $11.61, after having woken up that morning with 6 cents and a mis-strung guitar.
I decided to stop hating everybody and everything for a little while, just as an experiment.
A Guy Gives Me 2 Bucks

I woke up just as the sun was rising. I knew that it was about 6:45, as I pay attention to the sun, now that my alarm clock has been stolen from right by my head.

I headed for The Coffee Club.
In front of one of the hotels, a well dressed black man struck up a conversation with me, after seeing me pick up a butt from the sidewalk.

He wound up giving me 2 bucks and a cigarette, and telling me that I should go speak to a lady at the Seaman's Lounge, about playing guitar in there for money. He said that she was "looking for someone," until she gets a band "in there."
He added that Jesus loves me, and that "Everything I've told you is good."

Coffee Club, Rainbow Kids, New Orleans Update

I Ate at the Coffee Club, then played their piano a bit. A lady came over and asked me what I was playing. I told her that I was "making it up," as I was. She said that it was beautiful. I said that I was going to call it "Corrie."

I spent $2.19 on cigarettes (special deal) and came here to the library, where I met some Rainbow Kids. We talked for a while about cosmic things, and then they mentioned that they were fresh from New Orleans.

One of them said that it was crazily dangerous there, and people would jump you and beat you and rob you just because you are white. There is a lot of "white hating," there, he summed it up. "They will come to the spot where you sleep and beat you and rob you, just because they have nothing better to do.

Another one said that I would be alright if I got in with other musicians and I was careful. He said that one needs to go around in a group, not alone, in New Orleans.

Another 2 Dollars

While sitting there, talking to the Rainbow kids, a guy with a shaven head came and sat on the bench next to us. He was probably overhearing our conversation. At one point, he handed us 8 dollars, and said that The Lord spoke to him and told him to give us each 2 dollars. This gave me $13.42, and a full pack of cigarettes. I would mess it up by the end of the day, as one can read in tommorow's post (I'm adding this "tommorow")

Don't Say Anything At All...

Learning To Hate

I have reached a nadir in my Mobile experience.

Yesterday, leaving the library with only the 41 cents in my pocket, I walked through the 96 degree heat to get an energy drink off of my food card. I drank it, and then thought that I might augment the 41 cents by playing at my spot.

Getting there in the early evening, I sat and tried to play anything. I wasn't feeling resourcefull, and could only come up with music about how Mobile is God-forsaken and I'm not makin' any bacon....

There was hardly any foot traffic.

I left and walked further up Dauphin Street, and sat in a park, feeling disgusted and depressed.

The Petty World

Along came two black guys who were apparently drunk, and wanted me to play a song for them. I told them that I had just put on new strings and was still adjusting them. They were persistent. I finally played a few songs, and then they told me that they were on their way to get a 6 pack of beer, and offered me one of the six. At about this time, we were noticing that it was almost time for the Thursday night meal at 15 Place. We decided to hurry to the beer store and then, to eat.

They weren't prepared for the higher prices at The Dauphin Store. They were short of a 6 pack, and so, got a 4 pack.

As we left the store, one of them argued that I shouldn't get my promised beer, since they only came up with 4 of them. The other one, the leader, overruled him, though it seemed like it was an act of self discipline and sacrifice.

I got my beer and proceeded around the back of a building in the direction of 15 Place. The first one followed along with me. As soon as we were out of sight of the leader, and I had opened my beer and taken a long drink off of it, he wanted a sip, before opening his own. A class act.

The leader came around the corner holding a 5 dollar bill, which he had found on the ground, telling us that we both had walked right past it.

I probably would have seen it if not being hounded by the second black man. The second black man probably would have seen it if not busy hounding me for beer which was given to me, in exchange for playing music.

This is the petty world which I find myself thrown into. I actually felt bad about missing the 5 bucks on the ground, having only 41 cents, and all.

Why don't I sell my soul to the Devil?, so sick I am of this poverty and pettiness.

The Girl Who Thinks She Is Black

At 15 Place, the only empty chair was at a table with a large, dumpy looking white girl, who pays no attention to white men, is always seen with black men, has a black boyfriend, and tries to talk like a black girl; cutting the ends off of every word, so that "door" becomes "dough" and "floor" becomes "flow." Also, "There's some salt over there" becomes "It's some salt ova they."

It took all I had, not to just look at her in disgust and ask "What is your problem, anyways?"

The meal was chicken, which had people acting like sharks with blood in the water.

All I thought about was how I could have been out trying to make money, instead of wasting an hour on a meal which I didn't enjoy, with company that I enjoyed even less.

Then, back at my spot, the traffic was almost non existant. I became more annoyed. The serenity prayer wasn't working.

I made not a dime there.

A black guy came along and wanted 28 of my 41 cents, because he was that much short of a pack of cigarettes. You got 41, all I need is 28, why are you trippin'?

Mobile On 41 Cents A Day

I took a break and went to the store. On the way back, a man in the park gave me two Steel Reserves, which had been given to him, though, he didn't want them. I drank them quickly, and then moved to a spot near the clubs.

By then, I was so irritated (even after being blessed with 211) that I was singing about how ugly Alabama girls are *, and backwards and ignorant. The only person who heard me, though, was the guy with the hot dog cart nearby.

One (white) girl gave me a dollar.

(*does not include Porsha, and a certain bartender at Veets)

After a while, I couldn't take it anymore. I was so pissed off at everyone, that I knew I was going to go off and offend someone. I took a break and walked the mile to the Exxon to spend 87 cents of the only dollar I had on an Earthquake Lager.

It's No More Earthquake; They Out

Getting to the store, I found that they had no Earthquake Lager. I grabbed a Steel Reserve and brought it to the large black girl, at the counter.

"Did you guys stop carrying Earthquake?" -A blank stare, as if I wasn't speaking the native tongue.

"They might have discontinued it, because it's so strong. People who drink it like regular beer, not realising that it is 12% alcohol, could wind up wreaking their cars, or something..." -Another dumb look, and then she hit the buttons on the register, and said "87 cents."

I said "Do you think they'll get some more Earthquake in?"

She handed me my change and said "Thank you," nothing more from her.

Do you understand English? This is what is called 'making light conversation.' People do this in order to be pleasant towards each other in a civilized society. What you just did was rude; can you say "rude...?' Try not to cut off the 'd,' there, you go...

I drank down the 211 behind a bush, and then emerged, stewing and fomenting, and cussing; hating "every damned one of 'them'..."

Back in town, things were still "hopping." It was 2:30 am.

While just walking towards the spot near the hot dog cart, carrying the bucket that I sit on, a young white guy handed me 5 bucks. He said "I play guitar, too." That made it possible for me to wake up with $5.41 this morning.

I played by the "colored" clubs for another hour after that and wasn't thrown anything like a tip.

I sat and watched young black guys, come out of the clubs and shamelessly approach the white girls, holding their genitals, and trying to win the girl's hearts, using descriptions of their automobiles, and talk of their educational plans, as pertaining to the acquisition of material wealth.

One conversation between two young black ladies, seemed to center around the fact that a man was trying to woo one of them, but the fact that she saw his car and "it was some Chrysler," made it too hard for Cupid's arrow to penetrate.

Meanwhile, I sat and was ignored, except for some "tough guy" looks from the crotch holders with their boxer shorts half exposed, and a few sarcastic comments. Of course it bothers a street musician to be ignored, and we are supposed to accept it as part of the territory. It was just a little overwhelming, along with everything else, plus the 211.

I am becoming a racist very fast.

[Google: Homemade Backpack Bombs... LOL!]

I planned upon playing at the offramp this morning; something that I do out of desperation, when I really want some money.

After washing up in the park, I emerged to see a cop sitting directly across the street from where I play, as if he read my mind.

I wanted to play then, because the forecast is for rain the next two days. It was drizzling lightly already.

The Trolley Driver From Hell Again

I went across the street to catch the free trolley to the library. It came by and went past me, but had to stop at the corner. I walked up to it and the door opened and it was the same black lady from a previous post, and she said "I thought I told you you can't get on with that guitar!" She wasn't cutting the ends off her words, because I am white, and to suit their purposes, a lot of them can use complete words; especially when trying to get jobs -easy jobs like driving the free trolley...

"I was hoping for a different driver," I said, before she slammed the door and drove off.

I was overcome with anger and I gave her the finger as she drove off. Then, I held my hands together, like an imaginary gun and fired several shots at her. I imagine that she won't let me ride the free shuttle now, even if I don't have my guitar.

I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't call a black cop friend and tell him that I threatened her. The cop would love to be a Black Superman, I'm sure. A lot of them are like that. Obama is like that, I think. He wants to be a big hero to dark skins everywhere, even if (or especially if) it abolishes the America that our forefaters fought for...

When It Rains....

I started walking towards the library, carrying my pack and guitar, and trying to decide what I am going to call the black trolley driver, if she tells me that I can't get on the free trolley, because I gave her the finger. I guess I didn't "fast and cleanse" long enough for the Holy Spirit to inhabit my mind and soul for very long...obviously...

I'm thinking of embarking on another one, before New Orleans...

As I walked, the wind picked up and the rain intensified. The trolley had been almost empty, with plenty of room for a guitar. Someone told me that this particular driver has been seen to park the bus and "just sit there" while on the clock; and that she was heard complaining about how all she does is cart around the homeless, (as if they are harder to drive around than people with dwellings.)

I am trying to think if anything else went wrong in the past day; I may have missed something.

(Short) Positive Note

On a positive note: I found my copy of Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding. It was at the abandoned convent spot, on top of an air conditioning housing thing. I almost remember putting it there.

The Artwalk, Definitely, This Time

Tonight is The Art walk.

It wasn't last week, as I previously thought. It's tonight.

The forecast is for rain, though, and that could ruin it for me. I like the art walk, because the majority of walkers are intelligent afficionados of the arts.

The few blacks that walk are the kind that act like intelligent afficionados of the arts. They are only a few centuries removed from grass huts, spears, drums and holding their genitals while talking to the opposite sex, though...

Vacant Butterflies

Friday night, I was in town, trying to get a feel for where I should sit and play. I had the brand new strings on, and felt good.
There was a guy blowing a saxophone in the middle of things. The saxophone carries pretty far, and I didn't feel right sitting within 100 yards of him. I knew that people tip musicians just because they are making an effort. I walked around with my guitar on my back. I had several people tell me that I needed to take it off my back and try to make some money.
I just wasn't feeling it.
I did manage to make about 7 bucks.
This morning, I woke up with 7 bucks and change.
I guess I spent 15 bucks yesterday, and I can't remember on what, so, it was probably Steel Reserve 211 Malt Liquor, and a pack of smokes.
I slept late and, after my morning rituals, glanced at my clock to see that I had only 15 minutes to make it to my gig at the hotel pool.
I was kicking myself, because, all morning the soft-rock station was playing song after song that I have deemed suitable for my repetoire, but haven't learned. My idleness had lead to me scrambling through my brain for material. I had no idea what awaited me.
I got there right at 12pm. The manager told me to split my time between playing at the pool and in front of the lobby.
I went to the pool and unpacked my guitar near a shady spot. A girl asked me if I knew any Bob Dylan. I played "Like a Rolling Stone."
There were mostly mothers with their children there. They had no way of knowing that I was paid to play. When I sensed that they were leery of me, I had to explain 'Yeah, the manager is paying me to sit here and play for 2 hours."
They calmed down, and stopped whispering to their kids "Don't go near that man," I guess, based upon the fact that some of them came by to listen to me.
I made the 30 bucks; no recording contracts or gigs, or offers to join bands.
I fell asleep in the lobby while waiting for the manager to finish registering some guests, and had a dream about kissing Karrie. I woke up feeling very depressed. I felt it in my stomach, where the butterflies had recently vacated.
I had forgotten that, despite all of her faults, she was giving me love, which I totally underestimated the value of. Now, I am stuck inside of Mobile, with the Karrie Blues, again.