The Big Clock

10 minutes after waking up, I struggle
with my camera, hoping to capture
the bags under my eyes before
they dissipate

I was up at 6:55 a.m.
I went to Serda's Coffee, to use the restroom, where I took the picture to the left.
I then went and sat out front, by the huge clock and played "Early Morning Singing Song," from the play called "Hair," which came out in the early 70's.
I was perfectly sober, hadn't even had a cup of coffee, and was out there at the crack of dawn singing "...glibby glop, gloobee, nibee abee nubee, la la la low low..."
I made about 8 bucks, from people who were as stunned as I was, and were mumbling the same syllables.
The Bike
I then went and found that the bike was still in the holly bush where I had put it the other night.
This was miraculous and even more amazing, given that someone had sat next to the bike and smoked crack, as evidenced by the crack pipe on the ground near the bike.
I pushed it up to the Save-A-Lot, where it hopefully still sits, with a flat back tire and a soft front tire.


Such A Glorious Setting For
"Early Morning Singing Song!"



The guy at Sweat Tire on Government Street, rufused to let me use a wrench for a minute to loosen the tires, so I will have to push it up to the next gas station after I leave here. It makes me want to get a car, just so I can NOT buy tires there, to teach him a lesson about karma (car-ma, get it??)

I want to fix it before going back to New Orleans.

Where Oh Where Is Wilma?

Wilma is not here at the library. I had hoped that she would be here, as she told me that she had some stuff for me, not the least of which is cigarettes. I might have to tap into the $11.96 which I had, by the time I finishing playing "glibee glop gluebee" for an hour this morning. I don't know if I can stay another day here in this wasteland, not even for cigarettes.

Corrupt Nuns

I went to the Catholic Social Services place on Dauphine Street.

I had been there yesterday, and I found a nice pair of shoes. They were Rockport brand, I think. The lady behind the counter even told me that they were nice shoes.

I wanted to get them on the "voucher" that they give to the homeless every 90 days and told them that I would return to get them the following morning (today), as this is the day that they give out the clothing vouchers to the homeless.

\I don't want to belabor this; the point is simple: When I got there first thing in the morning, the shoes had vanished and none of the nuns, no not one, knew where the shoes were.

I suspect foul play. I think that they decided that the shoes were just too nice to give to a homeless guy on a voucher. Maybe one of them planned to give them to a favorite of hers. I don't know. I haven't wanted to punch a nun in the face this much since 8th grade, when Sister Eileen hit me with a ruler on the knuckles. 

There is no way that; after me making such a fuss over the shoes and having one of the nuns tell me to hide one of the shoes somewhere, to safeguard them,  so that there would not be a pair and nobody else would buy them...there is no way that they could have lost them, unless they "lost" them, if you get my drift These are supposedly nuns, who are "married" to God.

When I first walked in, my nose was running and I asked for a tissue. The one behind the counter told me "Oh, we don't have any tissues" or something like that.

Then, I discovered that the pair of shoes that I said I would be there for "first thing in the morning" had vanished.

I think they were lying to me.

I found another pair of shoes to replace the sneakers which have been torn up by the rail yards, but they are not as nice as the Rockports, which the nuns hid from me. They cant hide their sin from God, though, and on top of a life without sex, they will now spend an eternity without sex and on fire..all because they tried to decieve me; who has been revived and redeemed. Silly nuns...

When I was leaving with the inferior shoes, the lady behind the counter was blowing her nose into a tissue. "I guess that's one of the tissues that you don't have," I said.

"This is my own tissue," she said.

I'm leaving here before I strangle a nun 

This is the kind of shit that is happening in Mobile, and these are the kind of people that are here; lying, deceiving nuns.

A Token Of Led Zepplin's Appreciation

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.