Data Retrieved

Pulled Like Taffy
So, three days after losing my 1 gigabyte data traveller thing, and having thought that I had tossed it away into the trash can of the Panda Express, along with the bag that a turkey sandwich (without mayonnaise) came in, a guy walks up to me at the Dauphin Store, asks me if I'm "Daniel McKenna," and upon my answering in the affirmative; hands me my green wallet type thing with my cards and my data traveller thing still in it.
He had identified me by looking at my jail ID, which I carry around as a souvenir from that institution, gotten after I trespassed upon the Riverfront, or Riverview, or Riverside Hotel property.
The picture is stretched verticly as if I am made of taffy and was pulled, and it amazed me that the guy, who I will call "Colorado," recognized me from it.
But he did, and I got back all my lyrics, some pictures and a lot of writings. He found it on Dauphin Street, not in the Panda Express' trash.
I gave him a dollar. It was on one of those nights when I made only about 10 bucks, but, He had 0 dollars, on that night.
He is from Colorado Springs, or Golden Springs, Golden, or somewhere in Colorado. He made it sound like a guy on the street with a guitar could do mighty well in somewhere in Colorado, from the way he talked. Lots of people with money, or something like that...
Laundry First; Then Serda's

Was There

Last night at Serda's was a glorious event, with a new guy, who plays saxophone, playing that instrument, accompanied by Jimmy Lee, at one point, and the guy who plays very fast and taps notes and harmonics, at another point. The sax guy eventually hit his groove, or the guy accompanying him hit his groove, and, there was some righteous gigging.
Then a comedian performed, for about as long as it took me to smoke a cigarette. I missed his entire act doing just that, going back inside in time to hear him say "Thank you," to the people.
Becca was there. She got there early enough to be destined to have a couple of hours of before I would go on, due to the organization of the sign up list. I think I got bumped in favor of the new guy with the sax, but that is understandable, in light of the fact that it just seems natural to let a new guy go on right away, I guess.
I snuck around to the side of the building where I had stashed a $1.20 beer, so that I didn't have to buy too many @$2.50 inside. I feel slightly guilty when I do that, like I'm not supporting the venue which is allowing me to get my music "out there," to "the people." I rationalize that I am helping to support them if people enjoy my music. Upon my return to the venue, it was just time for me to go on.
9/16th-Assed Music
I borrowed a pick from Jimmy Lee.

Was Brewing Coffee

Joelle (Miss Underhill) was behind the bar. I couldn't see Becca in the spot where she had been sitting. I figured that I might have missed her. It turns out that she was "in the back," and could hardly hear me, but she was there. I probably would have put a little more into my performance if I thought that she was still there, but, I went up and gave it my "all," which usually amounts to about 89% of me. I put all my water content into it, if you will.
I like to think that, through playing and practicing and honing my skills on the street, I have improved from doing half-assed music, to doing nine sixteenthed-assed music.
I don't know why, in thinking back, that I didn't go sit and talk with Becca some. I could have squeezed it in, between runs to the back of the building for $1.20 beer, smoking out front, etc.
I guess I have the excuse that I was nervous before performing and distracted by trying to come up with a novel idea for a song.
Laundry Done
I was going to improvise one about the laundromat guy, who wouldn't let me go into the restroom to change into my newly cleaned clothes, after I had spent about 6 bucks in his establishment newly cleaning them. Words were exchanged, and I made it clear to him that I would NEVER again patronize his business in the "hood," and use his raggedy-assed, half broken, dirty washers.
I ran into him later and he apologized. He said that if people saw me doing it, they would all want to do it. He was probably worried about me taking a bath in the restroom before changing into my newly cleaned clothes, and leaving hair in the sink. The raggedy assed sink.
I almost tried to do The Laundry Blues, or something, but wound up sticking to previously done stuff, adhering to my new axiom about one time a week being short of the saturation point of people's song hearing capacity. They didn't hear the song every one of the past 7 nights, sometimes two or three times, and aren't as prone to be as tired of it as you, the performer. That's the axiom.
There were some pretty good moments. The low point was when, in the middle of Hubert's Trip, I ran out of gas, in a sense, before I even got him to Las Vegas, which I think is one of the best parts of the song. It can be a 12 minute song, and I was 5 minutes into it, and had only gotten Hubert to the West Coast.
The Man Who Couldn't Decide What Flavor He Wanted is getting easier to play, now that I have dropped the key one step to B, and, easier to play means easier to come up extra lyrics "on the fly" to add and hopefully make the song longer, stronger, faster and better each time its played.
The Carcass Song is still being somewhat of a struggle, as I haven't settled upon the riff which is to be the recurring motif, played under the main verse. Obviously, it has to be one that I can sing and play at the same time, but, to me that means embellishing it to the point where I couldn't sing it and play it at the same time if I tried to embellish it more. That's when it takes a level of concentration where you have to be in "the zone," to negotiate. In my opinion.
Musically, I was happy to see that, when I made the effort, people seemed to be actually paying attention. I was given a sample of ice cream, after doing The Man Who Couldn't Decide What Flavor He Wanted, which is about ice cream.
After I was done, Joelle said "Good job," as she walked past.

The new guy with the sax seemed to have his jury out on me. I think he was sitting there thinking "What kind of saxophone line would I play over this??" during some of my less saxophone friendly stuff, oh, like The Carcass Song...
Then Becca emerged from the parlor, where she had been stationed while I played. She gave me a hug (an excellent Christian one) and told me how she had been in the back and couldn't hear me that well. I would have done more songs with screaming and shouting in them, had I been aware of Becca's plight. Hopefully she wasn't offended that I didn't go back there and talk to her. I could have, I mean, I had on newly cleaned clothes...

Data Bytes The Dust

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

I Recognized Her At Once From Seeing Her On Facebook

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

Only Heard Half A Carcass Song

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

Rural Alabama

Songwriter's Open Mic Night

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

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

I was greeted by one kid, who recognized me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Performance Marred By Lack Of Warming Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just A Backpack

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

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

Guitar Still Not Found

Support from several homeless

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

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

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

A Lead

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

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

If You Have Nothing Nice To Say....

Not Even Coffee Money

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out Of Sight

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

There was no line.

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

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

Give Pack Back, Get Pack Back

I woke up with $0.00 this morning.
It has been 16 hours since my last beer.

Yesterday, the experiment in sobriety ended at the 40th hour. I left the library, after blogging and facebooking for about 3 hours. I still had the $2.59. It was raining, and I had just realised that, in focusing upon blogging, I had gone past the time when one must pick up one's baggage from out of 15 Place. "Any bag left past 4pm. will be donated to Goodwill," is what the sign on the door states. I was wondering how serious they were about enforcing that rule.

I started to think about all that I have in my backpack: birth certificate, ID, all of my hygiene stuff, etc. There were even extra shirts in there, I thought, as I noticed that the rain was ushering in cooler air. It has been cold some mornings, getting down to 70 degrees, and I have woken up and thrown on an extra shirt, on a few occasions. I was worried, too about the things in the bag that weren't coming to mind, which might be important at some future juncture. (It was the mosquito repellent, which fit this "I know I'm forgetting something" category. (More on that later, under the heading "I Am Eaten Alive")

I kind of went to the store and bought a beer, and then tried to buy a cigarette off someone for a quarter. I am wondering if I am keeping myself broke to protect myself from myself. There was a panhandler out front, who wanted a quarter.

I drank a couple more, which left me exactly no money. I actually had to borrow 5 cents off of the guy who wanted the quarter, in exchange for giving him a sip off of the third beer. I told myself that I was loosening up for my performance at Serda's Coffee, and that I felt better to be rid of the money, because it was "burning a hole in my pocket," and tempting me to get beer. The temptation was gone. I went to Serda's Coffee.

Upon arriving at Serda's, I noticed a pack of American Spirit cigarettes, unattended and laying on a ledge under one of the front windows. It looked abandoned to me. These are the same kind which the kind man gave me, along with the sandwich, after I had earlier chosen to come this way, instead of the beer store way. The pack was almost full. I took it, while trying to see out of the corners of my eyes, if there was any movement which might indicate someone noticing me picking them up, perhaps the owner. I didn't hear anyone say "Hey, those are mine." It could have been an empty box. I went around the corner to smoke one and hid the pack under a trash can, while asking myself "Why am I hiding them if I don't feel guilty about taking them?"

Once inside, the MC greeted me warmly and told me the spot that I would be occupying on "the list." I was to have others play after me. "Good," I said. "That way, there will still be an audience here!"

As I was stepping out for an American Spirit, between performers, the MC made the announcement "If anyone found a pack of American Spirit cigarettes, they're mine!"

I went and got the things and brought them to him, saying "They looked abandoned; I watched them for a minute and nobody seemed to belong to them..." He seemed very happy to have his American Spirit cigarettes back. They're expensive.

I played a self-satisfying set of songs, mixed in some comedy, and, apart from a few young girls, who were only there to videotape their boyfriends playing, so they can twitter and myspace and utube with their expensive toys, and who payed little attention to me, the audience liked it. I even had a request for The Carcass Song from the MC, who had just finished an American Spirit cigarette.

I think that the one American Spirit from the guy with the sandwich was of God, because I had made a good decision. I think the 15 American Spirits in the box were of the devil (he would offer more,) and a test to see if I was so pathetically addicted to tobacco that I would steal from the very MC who was giving me a chance to put my songs out in front of people. I felt better on some deeper level, than if I had had the "comfort" of knowing that I would lay down with American Spirits on me. Doing the right thing is more satisfying than a cigarette...barely....

Even Cigarette Man (shown here in Jacksonville) would agree.

"...You got a cigarette? You need a cigarette? Here you go, here's a
cigarette. You don't have to pay me back..." -Cigarette Man Emanuel (The Cigarette Savior, The Tobacco Messiah)

I went to my "abandoned factory" spot and layed down. It was past midnight.
I hadn't been there 15 minutes when, The Black Man With The Fishing Pole, and his friend, Martin, were on the scene.
I told them that there weren't many dry spots, and directed them to one which I had found, further down, but had moved away from, because of being eaten alive by some kind of insects. They didn't seem concerned about insects. Black people may have thicker skin than us Caucasians.
They gave me a cigarette.
Later, they entrusting me to guard their bags and the fishing pole, while they went to the store. Upon returning, they gave me 3 beers. I soon had my guitar out and was practising. They found this amusing, and commented "Now that you had some beer, you feelin' it, huh?"
I woke up right on time to make it to The Coffee Club. The breakfast has been served all week by a youth group from a church somewhere in South Carolina. Yesterday morning, one of the girls (the one giving out the bread) told me that she would be praying for me, after I had told her that I had gone 36 hours without a beer. This morning, she said "Good morning, Daniel."
She had remembered my name.
After I was done eating, her and a couple more came over to my table, once I was by myself, and asked me if I was "still sober." I had to break the bad news, blaming it on worrying about my bag at 15 Place, which may have been thrown out with my "whole world" in it. One guy took out his cell phone and called 15 Place, on behalf of "Guitar Man," and asked them to hold the bag for me. I walked briskly over there and got it.

Having the backpack back was a relief, yet, it came with a price.
Mr. McDonald, who had become aware of the situation, asked me why I was there. I think he already knew why I was there. He was also aware that my temporary membership had elapsed, and told me that I could now only go there to eat at noon; no more keeping my bag there.
Now, when I come to the library, I have to hide the thing outside before going in.
A Trolley Driver Gives Me 5 Dollars
Just outside the library, as I was crossing the street to get here today, one of the trolley buses stopped in front of me. The door opened to reveal the driver, holding out a five dollar bill towards me. "Here, get yourself a beer," he said, handing it to me. Now I have 5 dollars. A beer would taste good.

Porsha Gives Me A New Guitar Case
A few days ago, the zipper on my guitar bag broke. I had been carrying it with shirts tied around it to keep it closed. Just a minute ago, Porsha, the ambulance worker, came and tapped my shoulder, as I was sitting here, and handed me a new guitar bag. It's tan with green trim.
I now go to call The Mobile Bay Adventure Inn to see if they want me to play this weekend. They are having a big convention for Jehovah's Witnesses. They are not sure if Jehovah's Witnesses like acoustic guitar music. Then I may go for a coffee. I do have 5 dollars.