And Now, Henry Black

Henry Black, age 72 and only 3 hours out of jail yesterday, was found dead yesterday, in a spot where he sleeps often.
Henry was a friend, and the guy mentioned in the "lost blog" a few times. He would sit and listen to music by Larry or myself, drinking, and eventually passing out at the foot of the musician. He was old enough to remember the "Old South" and all that culture back then, down here, and as such, had an interesting perspective on life.
The first time I saw Henry, he was using his cane to retrieve coins from out of a wishing-well type of fountain, one of many in this Oldest City. I remember handing him 50 cents and telling him, "you don't even have to dry these off."
Henry sat next to me a few times and was very appreciative of the music, and for my part, I found it really easy to relax and do music that was bizarre and funny, knowing that Henry practically laughed "at everything."
Henry will be missed, especially by Larry, who, though he wouldn't perhaps admit it, liked Henry and "put up with him" a lot.
By the end of yesterday, there were a bunch of cards and flowers laid by the porch and secret (wink wink) spot, where Henry has slept many times.

Millions Could Not Save Him

I just happened to have my cheap AM radio on shortly after the report hit the cheap airwaves about the passing of Michael Jackson, at the age of 50.
He must have been in pretty good shape at one point in his life. I would hate to think that I only have 4 years left, the dancer that I once was...
I didn't know what to think. He was probably the last really big star ever. Now there are 57 varieties of music and so many outlets that if is possible that no two people are listening to the same artist at any given time.
The world has caught up with Michael in its bizarrenes. Look at poor Ronald Reagan, thinking: "Well, he's an entertainer, and as such, you've got to be a little...umm, well, different..."

Like a Panderer

A Magna bike,which is similar to mine, though mine is not a "girls" bike, like the one in the photo. Mine is usually parked in the grass like this one, though.
Today, I am going to see the Assistant State Attorney about doing community service, in lieu of paying 100 bucks for the open container ticket that I got, when cops crept up on me in an alley behind a building, where no tourist would see me and become offended. The rains and the fact that my bike got stolen means that I have not done one minute of community service. It is better to keep in contact with them, rather than wait for them to approach you and arrest you at the most inconvenient time. It is always when you have just gotten food and are ready to eat it. When you get to the jail, they just throw it out. It is always when you have just 20 bucks in your pocket, which they take for their "administrative surcharge," so that when you get out, you are totally broke and have to walk the 5 miles from the jail back into town.
So, that is the order of the day. If I am still ambitious, I will go to social security and get yet another copy of my ss card. They don't really weather floods well...
I am ready to get on a garbage truck and run behind it all day for 75 bucks...
I might try to enlist the help of Chelsea and friends up in Jacksonville in order to find any kind of job. The street musician thing is magical, but, when money is tight it forces one to play things that make one feel like a panderer...
Here is a picture from about a year ago. There is a cat and an angel and a portable radio in it, if you look closely enough! That cat knew how to "blend in."

We Have A Praying Mantis Now

The other night, Jim turned on his light and observed a praying mantis, which was actively devouring bugs and things. He watched it for a while and then became bored when the insect took a lot of time to finish off a moth.

Since losing my blog because I used an infected computer at the homeless shelter, during a week of almost constant rainfall which relegated me to that place, as a "sensible" alternative to laying out at the campsite and getting saturated, events have been pretty much divisible into a few categories.
Nine days ago, my Mongoose was stolen from in front of the church where I play. I had gone behind the building to finish a beer, which I had consumed only half of, and, in the time that it took to accomplish that feat, the Mongoose had disappeared. It was probably stolen by one of the bums that sit across the street and listen to me play. Mongoose (right)
Faced with a 3 mile walk to the campsite at the end of every evening, I basically opted for finding a place to sleep nearby The Old City. The Old Fort proved to be comfortable enough with its ocean breezes, though, a few mosquitos and things that they call "noseeums" ('cause you can't see-um, but you can feel them biting you in places like the forehead) were able to out-muscle the sea breezes and find their way to my forehead, or my cheeks; both equally annoying.
Sleeping close to town meant that I was up with the sun, dodging the park rangers, and had nothing better to do than to set up and start playing on Hypolita St., for example, even before the first tourist had ventured forth from her bed and breakfast for a stroll through the oldest city. This was a source of consternation for Larry, who, I am sure, was always determined to beat me into the city every morning and set up on the "best" spot. It was the "best spot" for Larry, not so much such for the tourists whom might have wanted to hear good music...
I had the goal of making enough money to take the yellow bus up to Jacksonville to retrieve the racer, which Curtis had given me. Curtis gave it to me because the back tire kept going flat on him, creating complications surrounding his daily quest for a half gallon of whiskey. I found that there was indeed a problem with the rim, and had to buy special tubes, which cost dearly...
My plan was to take the yellow bus up to Jacksonville, take the L7 to Baymeadows, take the SS9 to the spot where the racer was hidden in the woods, take the back tire off of the racer which was hidden in the woods, using the wrench, which I bought at Big-Lots, which was hidden in the woods, and then carry the tire to the bike shop, buy the tube, take the tire to the Gate, insert the tube and then pump it up with free air, go back to the woods and attach the inflated tire, and then ride the 3 miles to where Bruce and Chelsea now have an apartment, hoping to spend at least a night.
Everything went according to plan, except that it wasn't Bruce and Chelsea, it was Bruce and Taylor. "Oh, Chelsea is history...I'm with a fox now," said Bruce, when I met him at his workplace, Lowes on Phillips Highway...
I can't remember the point now, but, losing the bike was both a hardship and a blessing.
I Try To Call Mom
After fixing the bike and riding it to Bruce's workplace and then having him toss it into the back of his pick-up truck ("I have a truck now, dude!") and drive us to his new apartment, and then spending the night with him and Taylor, whom I find to be less affable towards Bruce's older street musician friends than the nice Chelsea was, I awoke the next morning almost broke, having bought the cigarettes for the lot of us. Bruce works, but doesn't get paid "until Friday." There was a morning "ritual,' whereby Taylor picked clothing out for Bruce which she deemed "cute." Bruce was soon clad in white pants ("I don't know about white," said he) and his Ramones shirt. We were ready to show ourselves to the world outside.
I got a ride from them to the Barnes and Noble. They dropped me off and then went to go get money from Bruce's parents. Luckily, the Barnes and Noble patrons seemed to love me. They hadn't seen me in a couple of months. Money poured in, and, had I been of the mindset of Larry, for example, I would have played every minute and wrung about 100 dollars out of them. I was worried about the cop that arrested me last time, on the warrant of "failure to pay a fine." I imagined him coming up and telling me "I thought I told you not to come back here," who, though he didn't, not having grounds to do so, would have been in a position to assert his authority and make trouble for me. As soon as I made ten bucks, I took a break and then came back later and made another 20. I was hoping that the cop would show up, having gotten "wind" of me being there, probably from some other off-duty cop chowing down on steak and beer at the Ale House, and, not finding me there, would go off to find other downtrodden people to kick.
Then, I dialed my mom on a payphone. As soon as I dialed the number the phone ejected a bunch of change. I thought this was a sign, but she wasn't home and I got a bunch of static and could hardly hear the answering machine.
Now I am at the library in South Mandarin, consuming some of my tips and staying out of trouble. I might play at the Barnes and Noble after I leave here. It is almost 9pm, though.
I am faced with the ordeal of riding the racer back to St. Augustine sometime. The money is so good at Barnes and Noble that I might just extend my stay, even though it means sleeping "wherever I lay my head."

Retrieving the Racer

I am in Jacksonville to retrieve my racing bike. My green Mongoose was stolen in St. Augustine, after I turned my back on it for 5 minutes. I stayed with Bruce and Taylor (Chelsea is "gone") the first night here. I slept on a mattress, which fit nicely in a walk in closet type of thing. I was able to close the door and give Bruce and Taylor their "privacy," but, when I woke up in the morning, I was half in and half out of the closet. I had also rolled over on my glasses and broken them. Now, only the clip-on shades are holding them together. I got to take a hot shower in the morning, the tube replacement on the racer was sucessful, and then I went and played at the Barnes and Noble. Almost everyone tipped me; to the tune of about 30 bucks. I could have made more if I didn't take so many breaks.
I should have called Chelsea while I was there, but was actually too busy, if that makes sense for a homeless guy to be too busy...

Eat My Carcass

I'm going to have to put so much work into this thing to make it interesting. I am at the bottom of Mt. Everest, and, even though I know I spelled the name of the mountain wrong, I will climb it and have an interesting blog, or...maybe just die and let the animals eat my carcass....

I Need To Regain My Tranquility

After losing my blog. It's going to take a while, like when you put a fish in a new aquarium and it just hovers there, pumping its gills

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.