Start Blogging

"Start Blogging," they have said, now that I have created a new blog.
Are they going to wait another 3 years and then dump my work into some bit bucket again?

Every Journey begins with a single step.

Tournament Player's Championship

The "TPC" is under way in Ponte Vedra Beach. It is one of the biggest golf tournaments in the world. It is broadcast in 35 languages in about 500 million homes around the world.
I convinced Larry that we needed to take the beach "express" out there. Its last stop is at the Sawgrass Marriot, right there next to the boulevard which winds its way to the golf courses. There are flags hanging from each pole along that route with the year and its winner printed in bold, golfish colors. There are a lot of flags with "Jack Nicklaus" on them, a couple of Lee Trevinos, Arnold Palmers abound near the start of the lane. No animals are depicted untill you get way up the road, into the 2000's; then you see that a tiger has aparently learned the game and has won the TPC...

I told Larry that to miss such an extraordinary event where millionaires are walking around everywhere, would be folly. How could we fail to fill our tip hats, playing American music to all the golf fans.


We took the express and got off at the Marriot. We hadn't taken 10 steps when a black woman and her son asked us about our guitars. The lady wanted to buy one and learn how to play. I gave her a brief tutorial about finding good, reasonably priced instruments and showed her my Yamaha F-310. She gave us 5 dollars.


We had paid for our bus rides with a dollar to spare in less than two minutes. This seemed promising.


"I told you that there is money everywhere out here," I said to Larry.


Then, we went over by the ABC liquour store, which is where a lot of the pedestrian traffic seemed to be flowing. I went in for a beer and came out to see that Larry had taken out his guitar and was sitting on the bench in front of the store and playing. This is not a good idea on several fronts. First, playing in front of a liquor store might give the impression to people that we are playing for liquour. Not all people are enthusiastic about supporting alcoholic musicians (while others give you beer instead of money).


Then, a young man came over and started talking about music. He said that he was from Las Vegas and that he managed "supermodels" in some capacity. He had a lot of great stories about life in Las Vegas managing supermodels. He kept offering shots of vodka to us. I accepted a few. Then, he offered to bring us to a better spot to play. We got in his SUV, which was pretty modest; it didn't look like a super model of a vehicle. He appologized for it, saying that it had sentimental value to him. His phone rang. It was some friends of his who were having a party somewhere. He thought it would be cool for us to meet them. It seemed like enough of an adventure to give it a try, expecially if there were to be supermodels there.


The "party" turned out to be in Arlington, where I used to deliver pizza. It was in one of the worst parts of Arlington, a neighborhood that the locals call "Sin City." That's NOT it, to the left, not quite...


The "party" was his black roommate rolling a joint and playing video games.

My patience being short, I mentioned us getting back to Sawgrass. The guy just then realised that he didn't even have enough gas to bring us back. His slurred, cross-eyed appology was little comfort. Larry offered him 5 bucks to take "us" back to Baymeadows.


I thought "that's it? you're ready to give up that easily, after things looked so promising...before we met Mr. Vegas?"

Larry was ready to give up and go back "home."

I wasn't and so, I told them that I was going to walk back to Sawgrass. It was partially the vodka talking. Larry could go back home with his tail between his legs and 5 dollars poorer, provided that Mr. Vegas could make it there before crashing the SUV.

I Walk To Sawgrass From Arlington
I set out walking. Total Estimated Distance: 20.05 miles, according to Mapquest.


After about an hour, I went behind a Catholic Church and slept. I had brought my blanket and a bunch of food. The food was heavy and I was happy to eat a couple pounds of it and then discard the rest. It would only be good for that night. The 90 degree temperatures would compromise it the next day.


Good Luck To You, Brother
I woke up behind the church the next morning. The sun was just coming up and I had 26 cents in my pocket. The lady had handed the money to Larry, and we hadn't split it. I had walked off in haste. I found 7 more cents on the ground, while looking for cigarette butts. I was very thirsty. I stopped at a Salvation Army type place, where there was a big water jug. They said that I wasn't supposed to be back there, because it was a rehabilitation center, but the guy let me drink water. I'm sure he could see by the way I gulped down about 4 cups that I really needed it. He seemed satisfied that he gave water to a truely thirsty man. He said "good luck to you, brother."


I continued eastward. The sky began to threaten rain a few miles along. I stopped at a Kangaroo. I went inside with my 33 cents, and all I could do with that was strike up a conversation with "Are they calling for rain?"


"They didn't forecast it, but those clouds seem to have a different opinion," said the cashier.

I told her that I was afraid that, as soon as I started across the intercoastal, it would pour down, and I would'nt be able to protect my guitar. That made it seem reasonable for me to sit down in front of the store and wait.


The Grabbers happened to be there. The Grabbers are a guy and his girlfriend in a beat up van who go around to all kinds of dumpsters and grab stuff, filling the van. The van is equipt with racks and shelves and boxes, designed to organise food. We call them the grabbers because they won't leave a scrap for anyone else. Once, on Baymeadows, I asked them if I could get some of the chicken which they were grabbing. The girl begrudginly handed me a small package of skinny drumsticks. They supposedly go around selling it and then smoke crack. If you ask them, though, they have 8 children (who eat 100 pounds of food daily).

The grabbers were arguing. They seemed as surprised to see me way out there as I was to see them.


I took out the guitar and, out of the very next vehicle to pull up, jumped a couple guys who asked me to play "some Skynyrd." I played some and they gave me 3 bucks. I now had $3.33. I bought the best tasting Vault energy drink ever and then resumed walking. Part of me wanted to stay there and play because most of the people seemed to like it. I had my heart set on the TPC, though. It had become a challenge to walk the 20 miles. I thought that it was more like 30, and probably was; the way I went; I didn't have Mapquest available then.


I walked into Jax Beach and washed up at the bath house. I stopped and played at a few spots along the way, just to pay for what I was drinking. They were wrong about the rain but right about the 90 degrees.

Once into St. John's County, I stopped at another Kangaroo. I made another few bucks and then the police came and asked me for ID. They held me while the warrant check came back. Then they let me go. They told me that, while I might have thought of the TPC as a golden opportunity, I would stand out like a sore thumb because I am not a billion-aire, and they would be able to tell that I "did'nt belong" and the police would be called wherever I went. He suggested that I go back to Jax Beach and "get them when they come out of here after the tournament."


I told him that I would just like to walk another mile and visit the Dominos where I once worked. I did.


Joe Mormino was the only remaining employee from the glory days of John Abels reign. It was as if the whole crew knew me, though. They all gathered around and smiled and seemed pleased to meet me. Joe Mormino tells a lot of stories about the old days, I guess. They all knew who I was.


I went to the little liquor store around the corner where the same guy was working. He remembered my name. The last time I had seen him was April of 2005. He let me sit out in front of his store and play. He brought me some grapes and a bottle of water. I made about 17 bucks in an hour and then, since it was slowing down and since I had walked 20+ miles in the sun etc. I retired for the night behind a Gate Station, where there is a picnic area. Then, I came here to the Ponte Vedra branch Library, where I don't stick out like a sore thumb, because this is where the poor folk who don't have computers come.

Annie, Get Your Harp

We Go To The Festival

Larry said that he had always wanted to go to the Springing the Blues festival. It is on the day that they open the beach. He said that he had always been working or something previous years and had missed it. I told him that, in the worst case, it would only cost us each 4 dollars to go (two busses each way) and that if we couldn't make any money, we could just come back and only be out a little bit of money.

We went to "Springing the Blues."Larry and I came out to the beach to play our guitars as street musicians and be like those little fish that swim next to sharks and feed upon the little morsels which escape the sharks mouths, playing in front of a closed business just down the street; "Tears in Heaven," by Eric Clapton..over and over and...over (If it aint broke why fix it?) I made about 60 bucks in two hours. One girl came and sat next to me with tears in her eyes and sang along. I never felt more connected to the rest of humanity than then.


The next morning, after missing the last bus out and only getting 3 hours of sleep, disturbed by seagulls, we sat in front of Freebirds while yet another blues band began to to play.


"I wonder what that girl looks like?" I asked Larry. "Sounds like a skinny black girl to me," I said.


"I don't know," said Larry. "Let me go see."

He didn't come back for a while, which meant something.

"No, a white girl."

"A fat one with blonde hair in a black rhinestone dress, standing with her legs two feet apart and belting out vocals?" I asked.

"No, one with dark, kind of frizzy hair," said Larry.

"Kind of Cuban looking?" I asked. This was during the second number.

"No, kind of frizzy in a Polish or Russian way....well, why don't you come check it out...that's her playing the harp"

"That's HER, playing the harp??" (There aren't many female blues harp players)

That was the best advice Larry has ever given me, to check them out. I was trying to catch a nap before playing in front of the Texaco station, but, it's hard to sleep through a blues festival.My life is changed forever after I watch Annie Raines and Paul Rishelle perform



We "checked it out" and I wound up with tears coming from my eyes when watching them do a song where Annie held one note for 2 minutes and 37 seconds.


When 22-year-old harmonica ace Annie Raines first sat in with 42-year-old country blues guitarist Paul Rishell in a Boston bar in 1992, few in the crowd suspected that they were witnessing the beginning of a musical partnership that would span the next fifteen years and counting.

Paul sat down the whole time as did Annie, who only stood when soloing. It was like watching a grandfather and daughter.

When Paul started stomping his foot is when I finally understood the whole universe.

"Despite the difference in their ages, Paul and Annie are equally passionate about their craft and devoted to the study and performance of a wide range of blues styles, from the syncopated acoustic guitar wizardry of Blind Lemon Jefferson and Son House to Chicagoan “Little” Walter Jacob’s swinging amplified harmonica. Paul has reached what Boston Phoenix writer Ted Drozdowski called “a place deep and resonant as Robert Johnson’s crossroads, where authenticity, soul, and a sense of purpose and commitment ring out in every note he sings and plays.” Annie has added vocals, mandolin, piano, and other instruments to her musical arsenal, while being recognized by top professionals and fans worldwide as the “queen of the blues harmonica.” Says blues legend Pinetop Perkins, “She plays so good it hurts!”


It was a life-changing experience; the whole weekend, actually.



The previous night, we had run into a guy who had a harmonica when we were on our way to find a spot in the dunes to sleep.
He seemed surprised that we were calling it quits, as it was "only" about midnight.


I decided to jam with him. We sat on a bench and I played one of my songs in the same key as his harp. A man came and put a 20 dollar bill in my case within two minutes. The harp player didn't care about the money; he had a regular job.

Then, at the Texaco station, I was talking to the cashier. He was from Cairo, Egypt.

He asked me "Why don't you sit in front of the store and play like they do in New York City, maybe make some money?"

What a far cry from being run off!

I decided that I would do just that the next day.

The next day came and, after being mesmerised by Paul Rishelle and Annie Raines, we went over to the Texaco and I achieved a mile-stone when I played without having even one beer first, to loosen up.

A lady who looked like my mother came and put 3 dollars in my case. It was my first tip playing sober. I think I could actually play that way, even though it hurts.

Poor Larry didn't really make that much money and it began to seem probable that most of his tips at the Kangaroo are from people who have sympathy and wonder how the poor guy could ever make a living. It's not that he is THAT bad, but, not ready for the big time Springing The Blues festival.
I dipped into my money and basically supported him the whole time. I was happy to do it, even though he can go through ten bucks at McDonalds like ringing a bell.


Now, we are arguing.

His Kangaroo finally ran him off, citing "customer complaints" about "the guitar guys out front."

It was probably O.L. calling the police on him. O.L. has been seen in the area, fresh out of jail. He stole 20 bucks from Larry and is afraid of running into him now. It seems like something he would do.


Now I have the best spot in Mandarin. It is at the store where I used to work. They let me sit anywhere in front. They bring me out the extra food at the "end" of the night (7pm). I think they like the added security. I let Larry play there the night that he got run off. He was appreciative, but now, despite all the money I spent on him, he has a negative attitude.

Again, I don't know if I want to take him with me this summer, on my tour up the coast.

I've made about 400 bucks with the F-310 Yamaha, and about a dozen sincere compliments along with two people who want to take lessons from me.


And to think that I spent 3 years at the labor pool shovelling dirt!

I used to ride a Kawasaki, now I play a Yamaha
Here is a picture of my guitar, which I got on Thursday.
Larry and I went downtown, right in the ghetto where items are fenced that have questionable origins. I didn't think I would find a guitar after we got down there, because there were only about 12 of them, out of all the 5 pawn shops. But, there was this Yamaha, which they wanted 100 bucks for. I offered the guy 80 bucks and he said "no." Then, I realized that it came with a case, which is a 20 dollar value. I went back and asked him if I could give him 100 dollars even, (he would cover the $6.50 in tax) He went for it. They don't call me the Donald Trump of Mandarin for nothing!
Well, the guitar is a very fine instrument. Yamaha's are the ones that the whole folk group at St. Bernards strummed. It is because they are about the lowest priced guitars that are still quality instuments that are available. And so, I now own a Yamaha F-310. There is one on e-bay which they started the bidding for at $129.00.
Mine is just about brand new.
We (Larry and I) went down to the landing to play. Larry couldn't keep his hands off of my new guitar. He seems to like to play it whenever he gets a chance.
Right now, I have made $40 in tips playing the thing.
I will be mailing mom the first dollar that I made with it; I kept it.
Well, the library is closing, but I had to at least post something to say that I got the money and, things are working out fine. I am to go back to the Barnes and Noble after I leave here, and play some more. I made 14 bucks in about 2 hours. -very slow, but I have my whole life ahead of me!
Um, yeah, so here is another picture of the Calico cat, and I will do more later.
Big Tree Falls Almost On Us
A huge pine tree, which we knew was ready to fall, fell yesterday. It was during a storm which boasted 50 mile per hour winds.
We had been looking at the tree and trying to guess which of our tents it would fall upon and which of us would be squashed like a locust under someone's boot.
I even had tried to use the hatchet to put a notch in the thing and try to encourage it to go the other way.
Well, it fell and misse my tent by about 4 feet. A piece broke off, (about a 700 pound piece) and landed about 6 feet from Larry's. I guess we are blessed.


Here is the picture of the cat, as promised.
They are getting big. We don't have to worry about their survival after we go on tour, they are the 'kings of the jungle' for sure. More later.

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.

This is for the Birds

Larry.

The Constant Threat Of Moose

Kinda makes me want to go to Alaska during the summer and set up an awsome, covert campsite, where never our smoke will be seen, and then get a job, about a two mile hike to civilization, and earn those Alaskan wages, perhaps 15 bucks an hour for flipping burgers, and save and invest, until, at a later time; I can return to the "lower 48" and have enough money to fix my licence and start a better life, without the constant threat of moose.

Tuesday, the landscaping company never even called the labor pool, and I had ridden through the rain that morning, just so I could sit and drink the labor pool coffee and watch the news (and weather) on the labor pool TV.

Other companies that worked outdoors cancelled their jobs, too, and that was one bunch of unhappy niggas, walking out of there and getting back on the van for a ride back downtown, where they would eat for free at the missions, and then try again the next day.

The rest of the week, more of the same...

The Gunslinger

Hello, Just a quick message, since I'm at the library. I went to the plasma place and they are backed up, probably a 3 hour ordeal to donate, and so, since they are open til 7 on Thursdays, I decided to put in 4 hours on the computer, and then I will go back right before they close when the crowd has thinned out and they are in a hurry to get everyone out...I'll use their hurried-ness to my advantage; right now they are taking their sweet time.
I worked on Wednesday, even though I was up til midnight (couldn't fall asleep; thoughts from the past racing through my mind, -thinking about things that happened years ago that still bug me- and that somehow wouldn't stop; even though my alarm was set for 3:36am; that happens a lot, worrying about not getting enough sleep instead of falling asleep.)
I got to the pool and the new dispatcher asked me if I wanted to go "gunslinging."
Everytime they yell that they need gunslingers, the whole crowd backs away from the window and words like "hell no" can be heard amongst them. Apparently nobody wanted to go gunslinging. He yelled "(for me)!," and I went up to the window. He asked me if I wanted to go gunslinging and I thought about how I always wanted to try it, and how in the past, things that other people couldn't handle just turned out to be just plain hard work. I told him yes.
They sent me to the van, where there were 3 large black men already sitting there in the bright green gunslinging vests. One of them looked at me and asked me if I was going to Waste Systems. I said yes. He let out a chuckle.
We got to the place and pulled into the parking lot. One of the black men asked me if I was "scared." I honestly said "A little."
Gunslinging is riding on the back of a trash truck, jumping off, throwing people's trash into the truck and mashing the button so that the "hopper" crushes it, then jumping back on and going to the next, and the next, and the next house, untill sometime before the sun goes down, everybody's trash is in the truck. It can wear you out, they say. (after it rains they can be full of water and weigh 100 pounds) We used to call them rubbish men; used to make fun of them as being the epitome of the lowest form of laborer. "..Better study hard in school, or you'll wind up a rubbish man.."
So, I got there and they assigned me a driver named Cory.
We left and went out to a place in Atlantic Beach. He drove and I jumped out and threw the 'yard trash' into the back of the truck.

"Watch out for snakes!"

Wednesday is yard trash day, and so, all the trash consisted of the products of yard work; limbs, clippings, piles of plants that looked like they were from another planet; thorns, spiders, lizards..but not snakes.
"Watch out for snakes," said Cory.
"Snakes aren't going to move into a pile of brush that was just layed there recently, I know snakes," I said.
"Watch out for snakes anyways."
The worst was a lemon tree that had died and been set in front of a house. The man was waiting there for us so he could warn me about the thorns; talk about thorns -like the talons on an eagle - that tree got me and I carry the scab to this day, course it was only yesterday... I threw the trash as energetically as I could. My side only hurt when I twisted a certain way. We finished early.
The man on the radio called and asked Cory how we were doing. He said that we were finished. The man on the radio said that, then, we did good. Cory said that if he had money he would have bought me lunch, because I worked "real good." He said that his back was hurting and that he usually jumped out and helped a lot more, but that I did most of it. He shook my hand and asked me what my name was before I got out, back at the place. They gave me eight hours, even though it took four.
The labor pool was "down a van," and said they couldn't pick me up for an hour, so I walked back, three miles to the pool and got my check.
I guess my legend grows now, as the big black men will say "He went gunslinging, did good."
"For real? that skinny whiteboy? No!"
"Yeah, man..ran Cory's route, they were done by noontime!"
"For real? No way"
"Word up, nigga!" (they really talk like that)
So that was my experience as a gunslinger, the word itself strikes fear into the labor pool. I had avoided it, and it was the one job that I ever turned down at the pool. But, that was when they offered it to me a couple days after being hit by the car, when I couldn't even sit up to go to the bathroom when I woke up, and had to use a bottle. My side had been better. I sneezed on the walk back to the pool (probably got a whiff of pollen or something) and it was sore but didn't seize up into a cramp like it had been doing when I coughed or sneezed.
This morning was a different story. I guess being a hero and gunslinging wasn't good for cracked ribs, because this morning I had taken a step back in recovery, but only back to how it was a week ago. So, I decided to come downtown and give plasma for 20 bucks and then to try to make another 30 or so with the guitar tonight. We are living on the edge and a broken string could beach us like musical whales, but, I could be ready to go tommorow morning, back to the pool, maybe even go gunslinging...and so that is where it is at now.
Temperatures in the low 80's all week, high 60's at night. I have a bunch of things to do online, so I'll go do them now. Larry wants me to download a bunch of sheetmusic and lyrics. I haven't touched my blog in two weeks, but I plan to post something about being a street musician, a top 20 songs list perhaps. I noticed that nobody answered my last mail, but I guess that means that you all are busy and productive. Hope you are all well, first day of summer is coming soon. I plan to hunker down and have a cool shelter by then, perhaps digging something out and covering it with a lot of palmettos. I'll have to do it because Larry is pretty slow in getting motivated. He's been out of work for about two weeks now. At first, I was glad to be able to pay him back by spending my labor pool money on things and making a better life for us both, but now I feel pressure to work everyday, because I know he is dead broke, but my plasma money will have to do for now, he could at least clean up around the house while I'm gone or something; typical roommate squabbles. Something will turn up; hope it's good!

We Want To Go

WE want to go. We want to go from here, the state which is shaped like what it has done to so many here....
We want to go to the Golden State; through the Golden Gate. The Bay Area has been calling me. I went there once. Maybe it is my destiny to die in an earthquake... I would want the refridgerator to topple onto me, snuffing out my life in that scenario.
Of course, we could go, get jobs and an apartment and not have to worry about Sunshine and orange juice and gator bites. In fact, we would only have to worry about the 49'ers running game, getting hit by a trolley car, and getting sick of rice-a-roni.
We talk about things like this all the time, but I am starting to realize that I am the one who would have to be the catalist because right now we are dragging our feet and in danger of something catastrophic happening while we are sitting here making plans.
Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans" -John Lennon
So I am thinking about what I want to do, and if Larry wants to come along; the more the merrier!!

A Year Ago Today

This post originally appeared on my blog on May 21, 2006

Last night we had our first taste of the muggy weather of which we are going to have a mouthfull of through most of late July and August. It would have been impossible to get a good nights rest, had this been a week-night. I told Biddle that we would have to take the weather into consideration before long.

Chess: Daniel 72-0 against Biddle

Biddle has yet to defeat me on the chess board, and seems to be more confused with each sucessive loss. Here, he grabs a flashlight because he cannot believe his eyes in the available light, because what they tell him is that I have just made a move that he has never imagined was possible; he badly wants to disbelieve it.

June 16, 2006
Am at computer 9.

Last night, rode with Biddle to the beach, drinking hard cider on the way. We explored some areas which I had pre-designated as being suitable for camping, but found them to be unaccessible. The property values and the demand for real estate out there make it so that each acre is carefully watched. We failed to walk down the beach and check out the dunes.

Then, after eating, we spotted the dog track on the way back to Sunbeam, and decided to go in and fetch some fun by each playing one dog and then leaving. I decided upon #3, and Biddle was going to play #8. We got in the place and it was a beehive of gambling activity. The second floor was all poker. I looked and saw people sitting in what I guessed was their "signature" attire, or their "lucky" wear; hats, weird vests, some in sunglasses, feathers in hair...the garb of The Losers. We went and found a race which was to kick off. I played 3, Biddle, 8. The race went off and #3 took off like a rocket and lead the field by about 7 lengths. "There goes your #3, you're gonna win," said the man to my left, who had been guiding us in deciphering the wall of monitors, which showed races from all over the world; all bettable. Dog number 3 lead untill the last 100 feet of the race, at which point he acted as if he had been shot. He finished about 6th. I think the pundits would say that he "faded." Biddle's dog didn't have to fade, because he was never that vivid. "One more race?" said Biddle, and I realized that I knew we were going to play one more race, even as #3 was "fading," and probably because of the fact that, for about 25 seconds, I was a winner, and only turned into a loser at the very end of the run. I played #1 to win.Biddle played a 3-8 quinella, or whatever they are called. (He took my "lucky" dog, and paired it with his "lucky" dog, to arrive at the combination.) I wouldn't be writing this if Biddle's quinella didn't come in, netting him $38.80. I guess I thought that I was lucky for him, or that I was the one who suggested that we stop and each play one dog...I guess I expected him to at least flip me a five-spot to cover my loss on dog #1, who came out slow and then tapered off...but, Biddle pocketed the money and, to his credit, didn't say "One more race?" Now, I try to be productive. I am supposed to meet the Oriental girl who works at the check cashing place to "help me with my homework." She hasn't shown up yet.
June 17, 2006 Today, Biddle and I went down to the Sulzbaucher Homeless place, in the van, to eat the free meal offered at high noon to all the "needy." One needy guy must have weighed about 280, whom I saw. We did this for psychological reasons; to tease those that have not found their way out of that institution, to prove that there is a way out; to flaunt the van (all '93 Expedition of it)...I wasn't sure. The lasagna was alright.
The only guy to beat me in the last year on the chessboard was sitting there, playing chess. I remember the game. I made a rare mistake and lost my queen (and the game) very early on. I continued to play (which is an insult to the opponent; kind of like the knight in Monty Python who, after having his arm severed, continues to taunt the foe, merely switching his sword to the other hand) and the game actually ended closer than it could or should have. He didn't seem to want any part of me on the chess board. We ate, and then Biddle suggested we go out to the beach. I had told him that I wanted to come to the library to blog and to study Java and CSS, so that I will not be so dumb. He started driving towards the bridge which leads to the beach. I had to firmly insist that
I had an agenda, and that I never appreciated when anyone deflects me from the path I have chosen.This is why I am a loner. I think that the more people in a group, the more "watered down" the dynamic becomes.So, Biddle went on his way, feeling kicked to the curb, no doubt. I came to the library. I spent most of my time on my totally private journal, because I don't trust anyone right now. I feel like someone is going to stop me and search my bag; a Jacksonville phenomenon - hard to explain.

Invited To A Bash

This is basically where the live blog begins.
Every post dated earlier than this has been recollected at a later time and then filed away under that dateline.

Ok, yesterday I worked on a demolition ticket, out of the Workforce Labor Pool, demolishing a Holiday Inn, which was way out on Jacksonville Beach.

We went in with mainly (manly) sledgehammers and swung them just about indiscriminately, bashing away.

There were some good hammerers. "Cowboy," or "Wild-man," as he was also called by some, was given stewardship over myself and another worker. He was to direct us in our bashing, telling us what to bash and what not to bash.

When Cowboy had the hammer in his own hands, he became spastic and quite animated, as if he had a personal grudge against the hotel and the objects in it. He was quite an inspiration. With great grunts and groans, he whirled and struck objects repeatedly and in rapid succession, until he was dripping sweat, red in the face and bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

I noticed that he also struck things in the places least likely to produce the desired result of them being dismantled. A lot of times if he had turned an object on its side and whacked it on a weaker spot, I think he would have split them with one or two hits, instead of the twenty or more which he delivered. I didn't want to criticize him, so I just stood back (everyone stood back from him) and let him at it.


It was kind of depressing to think of all the history and memories which were being bashed away, torn down and dropped five stories into a dumpster.
I thought of all the days and nights spent throughout the hundred or so years that the inn was in business.
The honeymoons, the celebrities, the people who knew people who knew people whom I may have met in my life. I had a feeling of nostalgia and wondered what "if these walls could talk..."

Then I grabbed my sledgehammer and started wreaking the place.

The song "Sledgehammer" by Peter Gabriel was in my head most of the day.

I made 53 dollars and change.