To All Who Wired Birthday Money...

Thanks, mom.

This is the view which greeted me as I rode my newly repaired bike
towards the French Quarter. Note that, in true New Orleans style,
some idiot in a Neon tried to wreak my shot.
They do it on purpose, I'm convinced...

Most recent picture, allowing all to keep current with
my state of demise...

I got the money at about 9 in the morning, after I got off the train and walked to the Winn Dixie; which was good because I was right by where my bike was hidden (still) in the bamboo by the railroad tracks. I guess the scavengers don't look everywhere, like they do downtown (checking bushes, looking under buildings etc.)

I was able to get an all day bus pass (3 bucks) then ride to Wal-Mart, after getting off at the Goodwill and spending 6 bucks on a pair of new jeans ("the most comfortable jeans on earth" brand) then to Wal-Mart for a 21 dollar tire, a 5 dollar tube, a 5 dollar lock, and a 1 dollar spoon, to use as a tire iron, and then back on the bus for a 12 mile ride out to the bike, where I put on the new tire and tube as carefully as I could, then spent 1 dollar putting 50 pounds of pressure in each tire. (42 bucks to put the bike on the road; it rides very well, and will save me time moving from one spot to another; time which can be spent playing and making tip money. I figure the bike will save about an hour per week just in walking time, which will be 40 extra bucks per month. Also, I can find a spot a few miles out of the French Quarter where possesions can be hidden and preserved, like the bike was -it was about 12 miles out of downtown and was still there-)

I then started heading back towards the library, but realised I wasn't going to make it before closing. I would have to spend the night with nothing but the clothes on my back, and trust the library security to not throw my stuff away (they didn't)

Other than that, its back to the grind.
Now I have to make the bike pay off by patiently waiting for "the season" to start down here. Supposedly, going into November, the crowds intensify and everyone prospers. Hopefully the economy has bottomed out and won't get worse. There are enough scowls on the faces of everyone you see on the street without us having a "slow" season...

I'm sending a letter to Karrie with some printouts from this blog; things that are about her, from a year ago when I still had her on my mind, every other minute...Will No Longer Pur"Sue."
I'm trying to give up on Sue.

I went to her sleeping spot, after having tried to sleep somewhere else and being cold. I only had a tee shirt on and it was about 60 degrees.
Sue acted like I was an intruder, not thrilled to see me; didn't ask me how Mobile was; didn't even seem to have had a thought about me while I was away, nor remember why I went.

Sue, back when she used to bring me water.
Now, she only brings me a whole lot of hurt...

Its tough when you only have one friend and that friend acts like Sue.
She had some other agenda, it seemed.
She got up at around midnight and grabbed her stuff and walked off.
Then, she returned with Steve, a guy in a wheelchair who probably gets a check every month and who could probably get housing if he could stay sober, but yet, who lives on the street and takes advantage of the kindness of the likes of Sue. It seems like unless you are pitifull or a stranded bird, Sue has little interest in you...

I guess I got the bike just in time to find a spot of my own and save her having to say "This spot isn't really big enough for two people," or anything of the sort...

Some people have surmised that Sue is on the run
from some dark, evil past...they think she may
have killed her husband in California (or somewhere);
probably after drinking the same Cobra
Malt liquor that made her kiss me (above).

I had been just thinking about how I was going to carry my sleeping bag around with me all day; everywhere I go, along with my overstuffed backpack and the guitar, and how much the bike would help when I checked the Western Union, just on a hunch...

I will pull up some local maps and explore on the bike, focusing on places that are too far away for the homeless to walk to. The ones that have bikes are generally not thieves. The one's that sold their bikes for drug money are the ones to watch out for...

Disappointment In Missed Appointment



A blown-up and color-inverted view showing
God knows what, sitting on the pumpkin
stalk right behind my head. "Let's just
give it the benefit of the doubt as to its being benevelant," for now,
said Daniel.



It wasn't because I was that late (maybe 6 minutes;) I doubt that.

Maybe the guy thought he had a bike tire matching my needs, and then, discovered upon further scrutiny that he indeed did not have a tire for a bike to sell (bikes can sell tires...) But, the guy wasn't there with the bike tire to sell. I might have to count on a miracle; speaking of which....

 There was the vacuum in downtown Mobile, which was left by the departure of the Bayfest. It created a low pressure area, and I only decided to stay here one more day, in order to try to get some clothing from the Wings Of Life place...

If you look to the left of my jaw, you will see the
pumpkin stalk which is the focus of the
amazing photo below (or above, depending upon how
your browser renders it...)

Um, here is a picture which was extracted from the famous* pumpkin picture, posted recently...Here is the original:
Yes, something told me to zoom in behind my head and invert the colors on that picture. The muse began after I noted that my shirt and the pumpkins were in, what I thought were, inverted colors. I thought that orange was tourquoise and vise versa.
This eventually lead to me discovering the tiny guy sitting on the pumpking stalk.

Cocoa Cereal To Be Main Course

I am preparing for the ride back to New Orleans, to take place probably tonight.

I will not be able to fix the bike upon my immediate arrival there. I might take the bus into town, I might walk, just to punish myself for having failed to acquire a tire....

I should hopefully have a huge plastic bag of cereal, of the cocoa flavored kind, and a half gallon of almond milk to go in it. I may just ride along eating the whole bag of cereal with the whole half gallon of almond milk, and getting over 3 thousand calories, then sleeping...

One sleeps free from worry about another person coming along and bothering you when you are in a boxcar doing about 70 miles per hour.

It just seems very improbable that someone is going to come in the car, unless they are doing a James Bond kind of thing, walking on top of the train and are going to come in that way....

I will get some liquid, perhaps water (for instant coffee as well as drinking), and something like the total opposite of cereal, maybe sweet green peas...

Mission Impossible

Yesterday's jaunt to
Wal-Mart was a dismal disasterous, fruitless trip. Not only that, it was in vain.
The super dooper Grand Wal-Mart, as big as the Hindenburg and the cornucopia of plenty; didn't have any bike tubes in the 26 inch size. Except for the 10 dollar ones, which repair themselves.
They only had the kind of tires that I didn't want.

The bike remains out of commission and hidden in the bamboo stalks along the railroad tracks in New Orleans.

I am hoping that I can get the thing on the road. I can swear that the tires were less money at the New Orleans Wal-Mart. The people at this local store would not comment about prices at any other store....

But, there is good news. I am meeting some guy in 5 minutes, who might sell me a tire!

Attire And A Tire

My mission is clear.
I must get to the Wal-Mart to get the Kevlar tire and the tube.
The thought of sailing through the French Quarter on a mountain bike (like some kind of god) is just too compelling an image to let go of.
I am still in Mobile, where I will play at Fat Tuesday's tonight, as a contributer to a Raegae Night, when I can hopefully conjure up some of the magic of a vynyl recording of Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Come," which I had as an 11 year old.
Having this album as an 11 year old required me winning it in a contest held by a Boston radio station, as, otherwise I probably would never have known that the album existed.
I think my parents (and thus I) only shopped at stores whose Record Departments only carried artists who were NOT Jimmy Cliff et. al.
Thus, at age 11, my innocence was shattered when arriving upon my doorstep were the top 15 rock albums of the summer of 1972. There was Jimmy smoking a splif on the inside jacket, there was David Bowie standing there naked; in sillhouette, but you could tell; on the inside jacket of Aladin Sane, there was the first albino my green eyes ever espied on the cover of Edgar Winter's "They Only Come Out At Night,"  it was a whole new world beyond Donny Osmond...
I wanted to do a song of mine called "Pat Rose," which I wrote back "in college." (I was technically "taking a semester off to work full time, so I can put aside some money so that, when I went back to school, I could do it a little more comfortably," at the time. Note: The "semester" has turned into forty semesters, and counting.
The song is about Pat Rose, a large black lady; (the color of fudge, who wouldn't budge...) She lived in "The Projects." We lived in The Projects.
The Projects in Amherst, Massachusetts at the time were pretty much equally and sybiotically divided between those young and hopeful college students, who somehow pay full rent, and go off to school every day, then return to their apartments and remain oblivious to the other half of the tenancy which had a good percentage of people, and the other half, who were having their apartments subsidised by various municipal agencies, for any variety of reasons, not the least prevalent of which being a "mental illness" of theirs...
Pat Rose got money every month, under certain special conditions.
One condition was that she would NOT get a lump sum at the beginning of the month, so that she wouldn't spend the entire amount on shoes; again.

Pat went and bought shoes to the tune of whatever money that she had gotten to "live on" that month.
"I like shoes. I really like shoes!" Pat told me.
She had a walk-in closet which contained several pair of shoes. I'm going to estimate at least 90 pair.
Her caseworker gave Pat money in weekly increments, so that she could spend no more than a quarter of her money at a time on shoes, at which point Pat would just wait for the next week's installment, rather than to make the trip to the office to ask her caseworker for more money.
That's what I remember most about Pat Rose, that, plus her emfatuation with Prince Charles, Lady Diana's prince, there..
She had a lot of pictures of (a veritable shrine to) him around her apartment.

She was a large black lady, big boned; weighed around 350, six foot six or more; had a lot of Jerry Curl or something in her hair; dredlocks...used to rock from side to side when she stood, sometimes; like the pendulum to some clock; making you aware of all the seconds that you are spending with Pat, I sometimes ruminated.
I said that I was wanting to do my Pat Rose song, however, this is because it is one of the few reagae songs that I have written. I'm not really sure how to approach the Pat Rose song, except for the melody..
That is the problem of the day. Is it a song, or not...?
The middle part has her standing in my apartment, staring in her hand at the bud that I so graciously gave her, rocking from side to side and singing the chorus "I don't even think this is a JOINT, Daniel"
And the problem of getting the tire.
I got some attire yesterday; a pair of long pants which are some kind of blend of nylon and something; and a shirt, which is kind of tourquoise. The pants are mauve colored, if mauve is like between brown and grey.
Last night, I could have hopped at least two trains. They were running them left and right. Maybe they had to catch up after Columbus Day. They were stopping right in front of me at my railroad track spot, open boxcars and everything.

Time To Get On The Road

I Seem To Be Reaching For Something Higher, Lately...

Sunday Morning,
Found me waking up with $41.99 on me, at the railroad track spot, where I had slept well into the morning, while other less fortunate homeless had already evacuated their spots at sunup and were probably in Cooper's Park, finishing off their "night's sleep."
Friday night, according to my estimates, I made about 30 bucks.
Saturday night, about 35 bucks.
And, last (Sunday) night, about 20 bucks.
I had been hoping to make around 200 bucks over the three day festival, but, am proud of myself for having disciplined myself to play about 8 hours, altogether, and am happy that about 80 people thought my music (or my sign) worthy of a dollar tip, for that is the amount preferred by about 90 percent of The People, in this graceless,. depressed age....
Decision Time
Transportation
Do I buy a tire and tube for the bike, fix it and ride it into New Orleans, (saving $1.35 instantly on bus fare) giving me a means of escape from the French Quarter at the end of each night, when I have to carry all my tip money past the hustlers and the losers; who are all on foot; to a sleeping spot?
I need a larger backpack, like an army duffel bag, but, without the bike, it would only slow me down and make more work for me. The bike should come before the duffel bag, that way I could leave a lot of possessions at a secret, covert and yet-to-be-discovered spot, and ride into the city with just the bare essentials on my back.
A Higher Class Of Homeless Person

I am tempted to parlay what money I have left from Bayfest and whatever I might get for my upcoming Birthday, and go for the juggler, by getting a "Micro Cube" battery powered amplifier, doubling my volume and, likely, my income. I would, of course need a microphone, or at least an electronic pickup for the guitar, to go with it. The whole rig could run about 120 bucks. I have heard countless musicians confer that the louder you are, the more money you make; in New Orleans, or in New Zealand. It's got something to do with human nature, perhaps.
This would be the most highly speculative venture. If carrying a duffel bag around is an encumbrance, then, an amplifier would be in the same category, with the added disadvantage of looking more valuable than a duffel bag. Probably not a good idea to limp past the hustlers and the losers, carrying a nice new Micro Cube amp.
It would be wisest to get the bike on the road, and then fashion some kind of basket type thing, rigged to the bike somehow, which I could use to carry an amplifier, and a microphone, and a microphone stand...as well as all the extra money that I will make by moving one notch up the totem pole, into the "amplified" business.

I listened to Jimmy Cliff when I was 11 years old...

So, It seems that I will leave this library, here in Mobile, and go to the Wal-Mart, where I will purchase the nice "Kevlar" tire, along with a tube, for the bike, and then will hopefully gain a means of transportation, thus making myself a "higher" class of homeless person.
Then I might stay around for the open mic night at Fat Tuesday's, which is a predominantly black club where my songs have been well received before. They are having a Reggae Night, and it was suggested to me that I learn a reggae song.

Dying To Be Written

Bayfest

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

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

"Dances With Corrie" Not To Be

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

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

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

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


Is There A Novel Here?

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

Free Rides In This World

I am back in Mobile, Alabama for the Bayfest Music Festival.
I have a shirt which reads: I ♥ New Orleans, a sleeping bag, and a brand new set of strings to show for my last foray into the seedy atmosphere of The Big Easy.
I Guess that this is an even trade for what I lost there in a dumpster fire of suspicious origins, specifically, my other backpack which was larger and better built than the one that I was given by the church people from Dallas (bless their hearts,) which is already ripping where the straps are affixed to it.
The Train Ride
I took the #94 bus to the train yard Thursday evening and got there before the sun went down. Perhaps this is why the rail yard security guy saw me and gave me a ride to a truck stop about 4 miles away, telling me that I could get a ride to Mobile out of there.
I sat "there" and watched  a documentary about Kurt Warner, (the quarterback who Tom Brady beat for the Patriots first Superbowl win,) for about an hour.

Sight I awoke to, well rested after 8 hours of sleep.

Then, I decided that I didn't want to ask anybody for anything, not even a ride to Mobile.
I have been told by travellers that this is the way to go, as, whoever gives you a ride has ample time to hear your life story and often will dispatch you with some cash and/or cigarettes or food or all three.
Or leave your dead body in a ditch by the side of the road....
I walked the 4 miles back to the yard and, managing to elude the security guy, found a train behind two locomotives which were idling and pointed towards Mobile which also had an open boxcar about 12 cars behind the engines.

The walk into Mobile; rough on shoes...

I slept for a couple of hours, after eating my soup and sardines, until at 2 minutes before 3 a.m., the little engines that could; did, and I didn't wake up until shortly before this picture was taken.
Here is a picture from the train ride. I think this is the one of the creek in West Mobile, where the train slows down because the tracks are under badly needed repair. I had to hang on so as not to drop the camera or get bounced out the door.
Bayfest
I am here for the Bayfest Music Festival. "Duran Duran" amongst others are slated to perform.
Last year, I did pretty good at my playing spot, knocking off after I made about 50 bucks, only so I could go watch other acts, as I recall.
I also danced with Corrie in a parking lot (See "Dances With Corrie" from about exactly a year ago..)
Richard Found Dead
I would be remiss if I didn't mention that, upon my arrival in Mobile, I was given the news that Richard, who slept on a grave not far from the grave that I slept on (I can't recall the name of his deceased) was found dead upon his tomb last Sunday.
The newspaper didn't even mention it, so, I am paying Richard the respect of adding this to my post. I guess the press saw nothing out of the ordinary about the discovery of a dead body in a graveyard...
I had my problems with the guy, but all is forgiven now; It's hard to hold a grudge against poor Richard now...I guess he is stealing Jesus' food and clothes now.... 

Not Even A Meow

This morning,
I woke up next to Sue.
I had eaten all of the food that I brought the night before, which was a granola type cereal, along with milk.
I haven't really had milk in about 25 years. I have a tollerance for it, but I wonder why I would want cow's mammary. I bought it mostly for Sue.
Sue told me "I don't eat cereal."
She didn't eat the soup that I bought for her (at $3.20 a can) because it was "I don't eat cold soup," the other day.
She wanted me to spend money on food for the bird yesterday; food that the bird may not have even eaten.
She told me that she released the bird by a pond in Louie Armstrong Park, and the bird immediately took to finding and eating food, all around the pond. After spending 4 days in captivity under Sue's stewardship, the poor thing must have been starving.
I have concluded that she is too scatterbrained to be a potential girlfriend.

This is a good example of "The New Orleans Scowl,"
seen on at least two faces
These are what I've heard called "gutter punks,"
they often have musical instuments; often can't play them...
They are inveterate panhandlers, just standing up with their hands
out. I really get bothered when they make more money than myself, when
I am playing my ass off and they are aggressively getting in people's faces and
begging. Many people choose to give them a little bit of money, (which to them is
usually 5 or 10 bucks) just to get them out of their faces...
I love to get 5 dollar tips, because I think that someone appreciated what I was doing.
By the way: the gutter punks wanted money after I had taken this picture of them...
What do you think it is worth???

Sue left our little spot this morning, to do God-knows-what, probably to feed her cat and give food and money to certain homeless, who trade in their sorry facades; the ones who sit in wheelchairs and beg, and who have apartments and checks coming in every month; the ones that pull the wool over Sue's eyes, making her think that they are like pond birds, lost on Canal Street and in need of Sue to come to their rescue...

Sue, with the can of soup which she couldn't eat, because it was "cold,"
and the can of chicken breast that I paid $3.50 for, and which Kooky ate,
and didn't even thank me with a meow for...

I have decided that Sue doesn't need me.
She started to tell me about some of her past, last night. She said that her mother died before she was born (yes, that's right, before she was born) and that she never met her father and that she was never close to her brothers and sisters.

This might explain why a cat and stray birds are the most ilmportant things in her life.

Maybe when she met me, she saw me as something as helpless as a pond bird in the middle of Canal Street. Maybe, now that she sees that I have some initiative, she is not as interested...

Just some thoughts on Sue...
I am leaving to go to Mobile for the Bayfest.
I invited Sue, but she doesn't want to go, even though I have given her compelling reasons to come with me, not the least of which being that it would be fun..
I am seeing her as just a casual friend, who sleeps next to me for protection, and because I don't try "anything."

Last night, after
I finished playing and making only about 23 bucks, I went to the spot where I had slept the night before, after losing the spot under the construction ramp.
Sue was waiting for me. She had cardboard spread out, and one of her blankets.
We now have all of the stuff shown in the photo (left). Most of it was acquired by Sue at about the time that my other backpack was going up in flames in a dumpster.
We need to devise a way to hide our sleeping bags better than they are hidden now. When it gets colder, there will be people out shaking bushes, looking for sleeping bags to steal. That just comes "with the territory."
Sue is off this morning, determined to relocate her bird.
The bird hasn't eaten in a couple of days, because Sue is as picky about the bird's diet as she is her own. She won't give it canned fish, only fresh; and so, the bird hasn't eaten in two days.
I told her I couldn't spend my whole day on the bird; I hope she finds it in her heart to forgive me...

First thing in the morning; I'm loving the McDonalds
restroom. Someone removed a character from the "Baby Changing
Station" Now it is the Baby "hanging" station.
this is New Orleans

This morning, I sat by the Riverwalk, just to tune my guitar,
though I put one of my signs in my case, just in case...
A lady gave me some change, and apologised for not having more...

My Audience

I have only two minutes to post.
The weekend was so hectic that I couldn't bring myself to bring myself to the library to update this blog because I felt that I would be missing out on opportunities.
To find a highlight, which I could put here in one minute:
Sue and I may be having a falling out...

2011 Sep 26 14:00 – 2011 Oct 3 13:00

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Sue, the last time we seemed to be getting along...

Monday Morning
I woke up depressed.
"Why, what's bothering you?" is the typical response to a statement like the above. I think that depression is caused by unnamable things which, by their nature can't be dealt with rationally, though, in my case, I have an idea that my sadness was brought upon by a few specific things.
Sue
Without putting things in any particular order, Sue and I seem to be drifting apart.
She refused to tell me where she sleeps. This could be because there is another person sleeping there, who had her promise not to divulge the location to anyone. This makes sense given that she has been seen without Kooky, her cat, on several occasions. Another person could keep an eye on the cat back at the sleeping spot, which probably turns into a getting drunk spot for the other person, after Sue leaves.
I saw Sue Sunday night.
I had spent the afternoon listening to football games on a radio which I found atop a trash can on Daphine Street, right after I left Vieaux Carre Baptist Church. It needs to be plugged into an outlet, which I did down by the river, using The Aquarium's power. I was pleased that they were broadcasting the Patriots against the Raiders on the local sports station.
That was a blessing, though I felt like I was squandering opportunities to play for the masses of conventioners who are in town.
Other musicians were overheard to say things like "I made a lick," which translates into them having been thrown large bills by generous tourists.
This contributed to my state of mind. I feel like I cannot afford to take any time off at all, without suffering a loss.

"When you're standing still, your going backwards" 

Saturday, I had played the whole day, in about 7 different spots, making a couple bucks here (Decatur), four bucks there (between Bourbon and Royal), 7 bucks in one fell swoop (in front of the Marriot for about 15 minutes before being run off..), here a buck; there a buck; everywhere a buck, buck...
I woke up with about 30 bucks Sunday morning, thinking that it could have been more like 45. I had been generous to the beer store owner, as well as having gave a tarot card reader a dollar, after she promised me a "free" reading. Her reading was disturbingly accurate, though she spent half the time complaining about the lady next to her, who was sitting there, knitting and selling baby hats. "She needs to go!! Who is she to tell me what to do? I've been here since Katrina!"

Tanya (and Dorise)
Then, there was my encounter with Tanya and Dorise, shown to the right.

Tanya Huang was born in Taiwan and has been playing violin since she was six.  She has played in a variety of venues ranging from concert halls to streets and subways all around the world, and has long favored playing in the streets of New Orleans

Tanya is arguably the best musician in New Orleans.
A large black lady who plays the clarinet is a close runner up, along with myself, of course.
She is mesmerising and draws crowds of people, who listen for a long time and then typically put a twenty dollar bill in one of their baskets, taking a CD along with them.
She plays the most beautiful songs in all styles. She did a Mariah Carey song, for example, with the violin mimicking the vocal to include every quiver and vibrato from Mariah's recording; and then takes off on soaring improvisations which would make Paginini stop and stare..
Her accompanist, Dorise, well understands her role and plays solid background chords, extending them just enough to supply Tonya with a pallete of colors to paint her masterpieces with. She wears a perpetual grin (as seen in the photos) which seems to say "I'm glad I hooked up with this chick!"
The Grand Canyon
The Totem Pole
They realistically might make two thousand dollars per week each (or more) - six figures per year, tax free.
They DO work hard at it, playing 5 hours in the morning and 5 more after a lunch break, 3 or 4 days a week. That's 50 bucks per hour for you mathmatically challenged, and the hour that I watched them play seemed to support those figures, no pun intended.
Their success starts with them being at the top of the "totem pole" of New Orleans street musicians.
The violin is top dollar.
Females are top dollar
Add 50% if the performers are amplified
Add 25% if the performers are young
Add 20% if they are a duo that works well together
Add 100% if the young female amplified violinist is a virtuoso who makes people stop in their tracks and gape in wild wonder, as if they just stumbled upon the Grand Canyon.
I have no problems with this phenomenon, except having to swallow the bitter pill that a guy playing an acoustic guitar alone and without an amplifier is at the bottom of the totem pole..
I have sat and listened to them for an hour before, when I could have been on my spot making my own money.
Saturday night, I was listening to them play in front of Rouse's Market. Sue was there, next to a famous blind harmonica player named Grandpa something (he was featured in a movie set in NOLA which made him world famous, though I can't recall his nor the movie's name).
I didn't walk over to Sue, which was a small breach of our prior protocol, but stayed put after noticing her sitting by Grandpa whoever.
She walked over to me, though, with a demeanor that suggested that the breach of protocol was not lost upon her, and chastised me for not being on my spot playing. There were shades of a nagging wife in her tone. "Why aren't you out there, playing?!?"
She asked me if I was drunk. She seemed drunk...
She splke only briefly and then returned to sit next to Grandpa.
"Are you going to buy me dinner?" she yelled from that spot, more for the benefit of Grandpa and those around him, I thought, than an actual address towards me. I felt like she may have portrayed me to them as a pushover, whom she has wrapped around her finger and who buys her food.
I have been buying her food, because she let her food card expire, despite being unemployed, rather than take required classes on resume writing and interviewing skills, etc.
She also balked at coming to Mobile with me, where she could have her card activated within 5 days, just by being homeless and unemployed. (This is one of the reasons that Mobile is a cesspool of the lazy beggars that swarm there, but that is another story.)
I remained where I was and didn't talk to Sue after that.

Those two baskets were half full each.
I couldn't see anything smaller than a 5 dollar bill
in one of them...further fueling my depression...

I was enfatuated with Tonya Huang by that point.
Tonya And I Talk
I struck up a conversation innocently enough with Tonya, after they had finished playing.
I asked her which songs I had missed, which she thought came out well.
"We did The Godfather theme, that was interesting" then she hummed a litte of it. Her humming was perfectly intoned -go figure...
I had spoken to her on two other prior occasions.
The first unwitting time, I had told her that she needed "a good guitarist," a statement that I later had to eat.
I had only caught the very last song which they did. It was probably a request. They were probably improvising it out of thin air or from distant memory. I should have given them the benefit of the doubt at the time. I thought Dorise was playing too simply, or somthing in my Steel Reserve haze...
I was surprised that Tonya (and especially Dorise) spoke to me the second time, after I had said such a jackass thing..
We spoke at length, Tonya asking me if I had been to college, and then saying "I thought so, you seem very educated; I can tell by the words you use" after my answer. She asked me what my favorite book was. I told her "Great Expectations," which brought a frown to her face. "I had to read that in high school..." she said.
"I must admit that the language and the phrasing is complex and I even had to read over some sentences twice to get the meaning."
We had an interesting conversation. We talked about the fact that the basket which is open faced so that the whole world can see what is in it, was the one with all the twenties and tens and fives. The one which is shaped like an urn and which allows money to fall into its recesses, out of sight, was full of one dollar bills.
"A lot of people want to take credit for giving you a good tip," we both agreed.
To make a long story short, I came away realising that there are other fascinating women out there, besides Sue.
Sue Finds A Bird
Now, Sue is  nursing a pond dwelling bird, planning upon relocating it to a different habitat than the middle of Canal Street, where she found it.
Early Tuesday morning, Sue gave me a sleeping bag, as I passed a spot where she was sleeping in between two bums. Someone had given her a huge bag full of blankets, and two sleeping  bags. She was snuggled up in a blanket and woke up as I was giving Kooky some fried chicken.
She had heard that I was upset that she wouldn't tell me where she was sleeping. She asked me if I was mad at her, sounding hurt.


Sue Bird



Sue's Bird
No Longer In The Heart Of The French Quarter

Bag Thrown Into Dumpster, which later catches
on fire.

My sleeping spot, which is right in the French Quarter, under a temporary ramp on a constructions cite, has been "blown up," to use the parlance of the homeless.
I had a tendency to sleep "late" there (past 6 a.m.) and, as a result, I had been spotted by the construction workers in the morning. I usually woke up when they started making noise, especially when one of them would stamp his foot on the roof above my head for the explicit purpose of waking me up "before the boss man arrives."
"How do you expect a homeless guy to sleep with all the noise you're making?!?" I said once, which brought laughter.
Well, Monday morning, as I went by to retrieve my other backpack, which contained the rest of my clothes, which I wanted to wash, along with some hygiene stuff and, more notably, my jar of instant coffee,
I was told by "the boss man," that I could no longer "stay" there, and that my bag had been thrown into the dumpster; conveniently located for just such a purpose. he went on to say that the dumpster had caught on fire, as a probably result of a lit cigarette being tossed into it.
I am not sure if my bag was thrown into the dumpster before or during the fire, myself perhaps being deemed the cause of the conflagration...
The previous night, Monday, after I had showed up at Checkpoint Charlie's, (the place where Blue had bought me a shot of whiskey), only to learn that the Open Mic Night had been changed to Sunday nights,  I played on Canal Street without any success other than succeeding in developing a hatred for all mankind, especially the well-dressed types who walked by me and didn't seem to realise that I was trying to entertain them.
I kept my music uplifting and spiritual as long as I could, and then started to throw fried chicken, which I had taken out of the Popeye's dumpster and was intending to give to Sue for Kooky, in their general direction, when they were ignoring; close enough so that they got the "message," (whatever the message was.)
One of the challenges of playing street music is to change the mindsets of people who seem intent upon flaunting their "superiority," -i.e. they are The Rich, (who will wilt away like flowers) -by perpetuating the dynamic that "the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer" by not tipping a cent to a performer, probably hoping to see him die of starvation, wherupon the rich would have a feast in celebration.
"Ignore-leans," is my nickname for this city...



Sue and I reconcile...