Pork Ribs, Forks And Bibs

We're going to grill tonight!!

Last night, it was cold.

I went into town and was accosted by a young gentleman, who was accompanied by a young lady and another guy, who asked "Can I play your guitar?"

I said "I don't know; can you play any guitar?"

He said that he had been playing for 16 years.

I said "Then, you can probably play my guitar."

I had all the new strings on, and it was about 40 degrees out. I took my guitar out and spent what seemed like forever, tuning it.

By the time I had gotten it tuned, the young lady's cab had come and the young gentleman had suddenly lost all interest in playing my guitar.

I tried to play and my fingers were sluggish. I thought about cancelling the whole evening, but, I tried again in a different spot and actually warmed up so that I was playing at my highest level, in the 39 degree air.

I might have made 10 bucks and probably should have stuck around (it was 1 a.m.) for another hour, but went to the store for a beer, then returned.

I went to the acoustically superior spot and maybe made another 3 bucks. I suppose that isn't bad on such a cold night; whatever.

Food

Food was the priority of the day. In the morning, I had been at Save-A-Lot, and they had a bunch of apple pies that were destined for the dumpster. They told me that they had a lot of food going to the dumpster, so much that it was "ridiculous."

I waited until after dark, and slid under the gate, which allows not obese person in. (If you can squeeze through, you need to squeeze through, is how one of the managers put it). I was then in the Save-Even-More.

I got a bunch of pork ribs and sausage type kilbasas and such; things that the pedestrian homeless guy would leave there, thinking that he had no way to cook them.

I have a way. Tonight, Howard and I will be in the Church Street Gravetyard, barbequing all kinds of food, using a section of the wrought iron fence which protects Elizabeth William's grave (died July 29, 1839) as a grill. Don't worry, I'll return the section to its rightful spot before Liz's spirit escapes.

Strung Along

The weather is forcast to become milder next
week, with highs around 70 degrees.
But, within the next 10 days, I must head back
to New Orleans, and then probably points west.

Can a decent Saturday night allow me
to recover the bus fares and the money
spent on new strings, as well as make up
for having arrived back in town too late to have
played at the Artwalk the previous night??

Yesterday was all about
getting new strings for the Jasmine at the music store. It was also about getting those strings put on and getting back into town, in case the First Friday Artwalk was going down. (If the first Friday falls within the first few days of the month, then the second Friday of the month becomes the first Friday, at least as The First Friday Artwalk tallies it)
I left the library at 4:30 p.m., and began to walk towards the bus stop by the convenience store.
I got there, just as the two busses which go towards the music store went by, on their way to the music store. It was a dramatic foreshadowing of my missing the Artwalk.
The two busses run together because, at some point, they split, and it is common for someone to stop the first bus, tell the driver their destination, wherupon the driver will say "You wan't the bus right behind me."
I wound up waiting 50 minutes before the two busses again came along. I stopped the first, and wound up getting on the second.
I was at the music store at about 6 p.m., but, after a walk over a precarious bridge, where one false step and I could tumble down onto the interstate and go through someones windshield, killing all, I just missed the Dauphine Street by mere seconds!
I waited until 8:10 p.m. for the next Dauphine Street bus, which got me to the heart of Downtown Mobile, just as the First Friday Artwalk was already winding down...please leave the area; there's nothing more to see; please leave the area...
"Poor Time Management" Blamed
It was poor time management. I should have checked the bus scedules online ahead of time; then I would have known that I wouldn't have time to catch the bus stop by the beer store, not to mention, guzzle one down before the bus came.
It cost me a chance to play at an Artwalk, with brand new strings and the temperature in the high 40's.
It was a busking fiasco of grand proportion, this blog is flying at half mast right now....
Tonight will be Saturday night, with possibly a chance to redeem myself.

The Sixties

Thursday, after waking up
with 63 cents in my pocket and spilling some of my energy drink on the muddy ground where I had layed, I went into the city.
The temperatures were to rise into the sixties this day.
I went stright to Save-A-Lot, to stash my bag and guitar.
Jennifer, one of the assistant managers (I think they are all either managers, or assistant managers; they may have one "regular" employee to boss around) gave me a pack of Marlboro Special Blend 100's, telling me that they were too strong for her.
I then had 63 cents and the means to sell cigarettes for a quarter each, to at least get one beer before playing that night. I blogged at the library until pretty late, and then made the walk down Dauphine Street, intent upon selling cigarettes and getting a beer. I fixed the two strings which had snapped on the Jasmine, one of which by using an ingeniously tied knot to join the two segments.
As I approached Cathedral Park, there was a black guy in a hoodie coming towards me.
"Hey, guitar man, let me borrow a dollar!," he said, as he neared me.
"I don't even have a dollar, I'm trying to sell my cigarettes to get a dollar," I said to him as he walked past me.
At the mention of cigarettes, he stopped and turned around and said "Give me one."
I really hate bums (like that.) I had just told him that I needed to sell them to get some money, but all he heard was "cigarettes."
One might think that, since I was given the cigarettes, I should be equally generous with them. I am, but I do it on my own terms. For example, if I see a guy picking up a "duck" from the sidewalk, I might offer him one of mine, but a guy who has clearly demonstrated that his needs supercede anyone else's does not get the cigarette.
*A "duck" is a cigarette that someone threw down without having finished smoking it; so named because like the mammal, it is often wet on the "ass end." They are also nicknamed "snipes," by some, which I think is derived from the fact that the eye of a sniper is required to spot them from a distance.*
I then walked toward Joachim Street, where I noticed that the lights of the Saenger Theatre were lit, and that there was a concert going on inside.
The American Dream
It was the band "America" (Horse With No Name, Sister Golden Hair Surprise) still at it; a band from the 60's, now in their 60's.
I knew that this was a good opportunity for a guy with an acoustic guitar to pounce. I believe that America is like five guys with acoustic guitars, anyways, with maybe a bassist and drummer.
I tried to sell a couple cigarettes for 50 cents to a guy outside HopJacks, which is next door to the theatre. He said that he had enough cigarettes, but gave me a dollar.
I went and got one Steel Reserve, then returned to the Saenger.
There were a couple of ladies standing out front. The one with the white hair asked me what I had in my case.
"An acoustic guitar, maam"
"A six string?"
Laughing: "Well, it is a six string now. Last night it was a four string."
She told me that she was 60 years old, and that when she is in a dark room there is a glowing aura around her head. "So, where are you going to sleep tonight?" she asked.
"Down by the railroad tracks," I said.
She then gave me a pep talk about never giving up, and about playing music from my soul. She hugged me, then asked me how I was going to stay warm.
I started to explain that I had a sleeping bag and...
She cut me off and said "I know what you have, you have a good soul but you're homeless and broke!" and then handed me five bucks.
Presently, the black guy in the hoodie materialised from somewhere and said "Oh, you got a blessing, huh?"
His implication was clear, now I could "lend" him that dollar that he had asked for, and maybe throw in a cigarette, or two.
Myself and the lady, who had once lived "all over" Vermont, continued to talk, excluding the black man in the hoodie from the conversation, and he soon walked away. If a lady who glows in the dark chose to ignore the guy, then, maybe my "read" of him was right.
Is This The Right Music?
I went back to the beer store, returning to the theater in time for the letting out of a seemingly very small crowd (unless most of them went out the side entrance).
As I set up and tuned my recently fixed strings, I thought about what kind of music I should play for people who had just heard America, with Jim Messina as the opening act.
I hadn't really settled upon anything, but started to play "Going Down The Road (feeling bad)," by The Grateful Dead, thinking as I did "Is this the right music?"
I got almost 10 bucks in one's from the two dozen or so who walked past. Most of them paused to listed for a minute before tipping me, which is intangible, yet as valuable to me as the buck or two that they threw me.
Then, there was just one guy left, sitting in one of the chairs that the HopJacks people use for their smoke breaks.
"What else do you play?" he asked, as I had transitioned into "Eyes Of The World," by the Grateful Dead.
"Well," I said, and then broke into "Sugar Magnolia," by the Grateful Dead, thinking oops, same band; might not  fit the criteria of "else."
"I can't believe you're gonna sit out here and play on this freezing night," he said, as he put a 20 dollar bill in my case.
After a trip to the Exxon, which has apparently unbarred me, after having barred me previously for no apparent reason, I went to sleep at the railroad track spot, cushioned by the 28 bucks in my pocket, and it was only Thursday night.
This morning, the sports section of the Mobile Press Register, had been layed at my feet by Howard, who seems to be adapting to life in Mobile.
I will leave here soon to take the bus to the music store for some new strings and I hope to play this Friday night. Somebody said that it might be an Artwalk night (If the first Friday falls early enough in the month, then the second Friday is counted as the first Friday, but only in months with 5 Fridays, or something like that) but I'd like some new strings, regardless.

Well

I woke up this morning,
a little warmer than I had the prior morning.

There's Lane! No, wait; is that him?
I can't tell....

I had an energy drink, which I consumed most of (knocked the can over when pulling one of my bags down from one of the limbs of the holly bush; of COURSE I knocked it over...)and the sports section of the day's Press-Register, was laying at my feet, dropped there by Howard, the 60 something year old guy, who is hard of hearing (Howard of hearing? -couldn't resist...) and who left New Orleans after the Occupy New Orleans camp was "blown up" by nice, polite police officers; the same Howard who rode the train with me, to get here.
I had promised him that he would like Mobile "better," and he seems to be adapting. He has found the McDonalds, which is right across the street from this library. I think he lives off of Ronald's cooking. He sits and reads novels for hours on here at the library.
I was feeling slightly guilty over Howard, realising that I had encouraged him to come with me, and so I bear a small responsibility in ensuring his comfort and safety, as a compasionate human being, as well as as a compasionate human being who talked him into coming along with me.
It was cold for a second night, but the chill was no match for my attire, which now is embellished by an additional sweater, which I got yesterday (Wednesday) at the Catholic Social Service place, on a "voucher" which is issued every 90 days to the homeless and unemployed. I am also wearing a new pair of jeans, which fit pretty well and which allow me to go another day or two before I will be "forced" to wash clothes, to avoid smelling like a homeless, unemployed person.
Cold Shoulders
Before going to my sleeping spot, where I thought I would be bored, I considered playing my guitar with the two missing strings. I considered playing it at Serda's Coffee, as part of their Songwriter's Open Mic Night.
It's not that I couldn't have played in the 41 degree (according to Regions Bank) temperature. I have played down to 38 degrees before; never lower, because I can't hang on to the pick below 40, but thought it might be interesting to go to Serda's, where I haven't played in months, to show off the improvement in my playing which came about through my having had to compete with New Orleans musicians. I thought they would all notice the new "polish"* in my playing. (*polish, as in shine; I wasn't going to play polkas...)
Well, I got pretty much "the cold shoulder," standing out front in the blustery 41 degree night. None of them asked me where I had been, what I'd been doing; any new songs? None asked me if I wanted to play.
They were all 20 something year olds, still being supported (in one way or another) by their parents, and dwelling high up upon what Neil Young called "Sugar Mountain." They talked about their road trips to gigs, where the YouTube videos were made, which were going to make them famous, and they talked about how they acchieved certain digital effects using audio editing software, on certain songs, which were going to make them famous etc.
I finally went and got my third beer of the night, then returned under the guise of wanting to hear some of the performers, so that I could sit in the warm room for a while before going to my sleeping spot by the railroad tracks, where I hoped my sleeping bag would still be; and would be dry.
A guy got up with a Taylor guitar.
He said "Hi, I'm Lane. I'm gonna play some music." (Probably thinking that he was being original, but unwittingly taking a cue from David Byrne, who would say things like "We're The Talking Heads, and this is our music," before starting the show)
Lane started to play some music, without even strumming a chord to make sure that the Taylor was in tune beforehand. I think that he was under the impression that a 2,000 dollar guitar never needs to be tuned. It comes tuned from the factory and stays tuned for life. Besides, it's such a fine instrument that nobody is going to notice if a couple strings are flat, right?
Lane sounded like a John Mayer impersonator. Maybe I missed a notice posted somewhere which said "John Mayer Night -100 dollar prize to the person who we judge to sound the most like John Mayer," I'm not sure. His lyrics were also John Mayer-ish, which is something that is hard to quantify, but the kid had it going on.
I spent the duration of the performance trying to determine which of his strings was out of tune, by listening carefully, and noticed that the highest note sounded like crap when he played chords that had their highest note on the "b" string.
After his first song ended, and still nobody had asked me if I wanted to play, Lane said, "Here's another song that I wrote," and actually plucked at the strings, as if checking to make sure that the Taylor was still in the same fine tune as it had been when his dad bought it for him at Guitar Center.
After he strummed an E major chord, I became convinced that his "b" string was (way) flat.
He seemed to notice the disonance...I need a better guitar than this, dad, wtf!...but, to my horror, he tuned the adjacent string (which was in tune) to the corrupt "b" string.
At that point, I spoke up. I was sitting up front and didn't have to raise my voice. I said "I think your "b" string is flat."
I guess "nobody corrects Lane," player of a 2,000 dollar guitar (soon to be a 3,500 dollar one) who has videos on YouTube, and whose friends all come out to hear him play.
"I like it that way," was Lane's "dis" of me, before he started into another song which sounded like John Mayer singing over absolute sonic garbage. Now he had 2 strings flat. Way to go, Lane.
I returned his rudeness (what do you know about Taylor guitars, street musician) with my own act of walking out the front door, before he even got through the first verse.
Familiarity Breeds Contempt
"I wonder if he's ever heard of John Mayer," I said sarcastically to those standing out front.
Their tacit message is clear. "You're a burned out, has-been street musician. You had ample opportunity, when you were our age, to make something happen but you obviously didn't. Now the ball is in our court, the future is ours, we are John Mayer Nation, stand back, homeless guy!"
They are a very musically "inbred" group. There is so much overlapping of style in all their music, it's as if they all took lessons from the same guy.
When I first arrived in Mobile in June of 2010, I was well greeted. I was so different from all of them, (like an exchange student from New Zealand,) they didn't know what to make of me. At first, they embraced my music and would actually request certain of my songs. They seemed eager to mix with a fresh and different "gene pool" of talent. Now, they seem to have changed their minds. It could be that they found out my age, which they originally thought was close to theirs, and abandoned any hope of having an older, more experienced musician in the band, who knows music theory, thinking "older, but not that much older, this guy remembers the Beatles!," perhaps.
For example, Miss Underhill, who works behind the coffee bar, and used to say things like "Good job" to me, after I had nailed an improvised song, said nothing to me.
Jimmy Lee Hanover, spoke only when I spoke to him, and then, very little, followed by awkward silence.
I guess this is another argument for moving on and finding new places. Familiarity breeds contempt.
If I ask any of them about last night, they will probably say something like they typically do: "No, you're always so tempermental, we wanted you to play but figured you were composing something in your head and didn't want to disturb you"
Future Uncertain
Then, I went to sleep.
I woke up with 65 cents, after having come to Mobile almost a week ago with 25 bucks.
I've spent a lot of time writing, and thus sacrificed opportunities to play. I have fixed the "d" string on my guitar, and I think I have a spare "e" string in my bag. I should be able to go out on this warmer Thursday night and at least make something, on a guitar with all six strings intact.
The success or lack thereof which I have this weekend will have a strong bearing upon how long I stay here.
Things are pretty bleak. I am down to about 10 bucks on my food card with 10 days to go in the month. The approaching cold weather doesn't bode well. I may wind up using the guise of trying to get "home for Christmas" in order to try to hitch-hike to somewhere warmer. I would, of course, have to attempt this right after my December 20th courtdate, over "obstructing the sidewalk."
I do have the comfort of the promise of receiving some Christmas parcels, one from a guy named Martin W., who is somewhere in the country and has read my blog, and apparently has the recording musician's dream job of "hotel front desk person." (I used to be a security guard at a huge James River machine shop. I turned the office into a recording studio nightly, then broke it all down and put it back in my trunk before the day shift came in. Some recordings from those sessions probably still exist in Massachusetts.)
Another might be on the way from London via the Lidgleys. Hopefully, I can get them, along with any other "Christmas" money that I might acquire, and get out of Dodge, at least until Mardi Gras.
In return, I will try to make this blog more interesting, which is one of the few things that I can offer at this point.

Wait until he turns his back....

Going back to New Orleans presents the problem of finding a new place to sleep, now that the Occupy New Orleans site is no longer available. It also presents the problem of doing so without the help of a bicycle, as mine was stolen about a month ago (see "They Stole My Bike," from about a month ago...)
I saw a guy riding around on it all the time in the French Quarter, when I was down there. He is a larger, black guy with a little bit of flab on him; probably in his late 30's.
My first impulse was to confront him with "Hey, that's my bike, I want it back!" But, like a chess player, I could already see his next move: "What 'chu talkin' 'bout, I paid for this bike! I bought it for 50 bucks! You need to talk to the dude that done sold it to me. I ain't no thief, don't be calling me no thief!" -easy to read a mind when it is in large print and mostly cartoons-
The suggestion of Helen, the artist formerly known as "the girl with the shaved head who plays the mandolin," was to "Wait until he turns his back on it and then steal it behind his back, like he did to you..."
She used to be a gutter punk "until I grew out of it," and said that, in their culture, if they think that you won't go to the trouble of fighting over something, they will just take it.
No wonder there are so many stabbings and shootings in the French Quarter.

I Am

I have two broken strings, it is under 40 degrees out
there, and I lost my can opener, and the can of spinach
at the camp mocks me, along with the vinegar.
I might try to play something in the cold on the 4
string guitar. By the way, it's missing the "d" and the high
"e" strings. I am working on adapting 4 part hymns, out of
the hymnal at the mission,  and
playing them on the 4 string guitar.
The missing strings are actually the right ones to be
missing if you want to play 4 part peices on the guitar,
in my opinion.

Away working on a story...
I have been in Mobile three days, and have gotten a lot of writing done.
I have managed to play a few hours for very sparse "crowds," and have gotten 3 or 4 bucks each night.
The weekend is coming, promising some money, at least.
The weather turned cold yesterday. Last night was probably in the high 30's. I had enough insulation that I didn't need to put my jacket on inside my sleeping bag, but, it started to rain lightly, reminding me of why I had been planning to sleep at a different spot, one with an overhang.
I have broken 2 strings on the guitar. Getting strings is more of a hassle here, involving a bus ride.
I played the 4 string guitar last night and came up with some pretty decent stuff. I made 4 bucks.
Am spending 3 hours a day writing, which is what I came here for. I guess I can get by on 5 bucks a day.
Will have to return to New Orleans by the 20th.
The college national championship game is going to be at the Superdome. That might be my going away party, as I am thinking of heading west, and at least spending January somewhere warmer, like Tucson.
I have a few friends there, who could at least tell me where they have seen buskers play and not get run off before.
I think I will be looking for a job picking fruit soon, to come up with some things to make my life more comfortable and to give music a rest. When you start to get tired of things that you normally love to do, it stresses you a bit.
Maybe after filling 50 bushell baskets with kumquats, I will be more than happy to go back to music...

Composing



For this photo, I used a Sprint LG cellphone with a
3 megapixel lens, zoomed to the 1.3x setting.
Special lighting effects were achieved by standing
under the Save-A-Lot bathroom light. A cigarette was
smoked beforehand, so that the residual smoke hanging
in the air would soften the tones...
Today, my goal is to go through with scheduling surgery
to remove the electrical conduit pipe and outlet, which
I found embedded in the side of my head when 
I woke up this morning...

 I am off, composing my next Flashback Friday piece. It will tentatively take place in 1984, the year that Purple Rain, by Prince was screaming up the charts.
I have scheduled the publising date to be 11/25/12, almost a year from today...
This will be pretty cool, should I die before that date, because I will get to publish "from beyond the grave"...
I have also "back-edited" last evenings rant about the problems encountered in composing a memoir from the adolescent years. I lost one (1) of my "followers" after posting it, and this could be due to the graphic, unflinching nature of the original post...or due to unrequitted sarcasm.

In Other Words, I Got Drunk Instead Of Composing Today's Post

The girls are arranged in "Olympic" style, with
the first place winner (Farrah) at the top, and the
rest is intuitive.
Jacalynn (sp?) Smith is a full 8 inches above
Kate Jackson.
Note: There was a kid in my 8th grade class
who professed to believe that Kate Jackson (bottom)
was THE finest Angel.
He was overweight, and might have been selling himself
short and "giving up on Farrah" in life, in general;
and at such a young age...

I have spent the past 3 hours, working on a Flashback Friday feature, which might be ready for this Friday
People, I am hell bent upon washing my clothes.
When you are on a freight train, barrelling down the tracks, and you have to take a leak; you don't necessarily perform the gymnastics involved in getting yourself to a spot where your urine won't blow back in your direction, due to the whirling eddys of air current, because these are also the "if the train hits an out of line rail, (which is rare, I will admit; but it happens...) you will be tossed off" spots...and if you don't die, you might wish you had.
I have spent a lot of time on a memoir, which keeps annoying me by stretching back, further and further in time...with incidents needing to have "light" shed upon them, to the point now, that
I fear that I will soon have to be mentioning my obsession with Charlie's Angels, (I would be remiss to slight that aspect of my development) -as that was as good an essence of my fifteenth year as one is likely to come up with. There, I admitted it (other "Angelheads" come forward); ..by the way, Kate Jackson really "did" it for me.
One might ask: "Why not Farrah Fawcett?????" And, I might reply that "I just didn't feel worthy of her; which sucked,sure, but, you kind of evaluate yourself in terms of attractiveness and even though you might conclude, after looking in a mirror, that yours is a "beauty" that is present, just not instantly recognizable, (not even to yourself, actually...) you just can't make the Farrah fantasy work.
You're fantasizing  Farrah as your partner, and your experience is ruined time after time by the irrepressible, unstoppable thought of her looking at you and saying "You realise that I'm just teasing you; don't you? I mean, for real...I was just messing with you. You don't think that I would...LOL...LOL again...yeah, and again," 

Charlie's Angels have always been
the most reliable indicator of a young
man's self esteem. They had a clearly
delineated division between the girls.

I guess my point  is, that we, as young men growing up in the Charlie's Angels era; we tended; I think: to pick the Angel who was kind of in the ballpark of what we might; factoring in our self-esteems; expect to land in life.
Jacylyne Smith (sp?) was the consensus runner-up to Farrah, (you can't compete with the protruding nipples featured in her best selling poster) Fawcett, and if you place any credence in the opinions of 13 year old boys, opinions that come right from the source (hormones), then you would agree with the order that we had.
There were some who would shock us by revealing that they indeed though Jacylyn Smith (sp?) to be THE finest, hottest, most wifeofmykids-able Angel, but these tended to be the the outcasts; the obese, the lotus eaters, the one's who have so "given up on Farrah" in life itself, and at such a young age, that you pity them, because their lives are no longer truly worth living.
Myself,
Myself, I liked Kate Jackson the most. I thought that Farrahs red bathing suit would get "old," but Kate's purring voice (one purr and I was very interested; indeed) would not ever get old. I wanted to hear more.
I don't believe that I was selling myself short. I don't think that I was settling.
She was the "smart" Angel, and looked the cutest when she had a pensive, inquisitive expression on her face, like she was thinking very hard...

Immobile In Mobile

I am in Mobile,
planning upon staying for at least a week to work on this blog and other writings, taking advantage of the fact that the computers here have no waiting list attendant to them, and one can stay on "all day," more or less.
I took the train here last night, accompanied by Harold, a 60 something guy who was staying at the Occupy New Orleans sight; a sight which has been posted with "no trespassing after 10:30 p.m." signs recently.
It was a pretty easy hop, though we had to walk about 2 miles from the Family Dollar, where we got off the bus, to the actual train. This was a strategic error as, I could have gotten the food and snacks at a different Family Dollar, and then we could have gotten off the bus close to the train. I didn't realise my folly until trying to walk the two miles to the train with Harold falling further and further behind, and wanting to stop to rest. I'm glad that it turned out to be an easy hop because Harold had never jumped a freight train before, and I could envision him whining and complaining should we have had to have sat for hours, waiting for the right train...
I had assured him that Mobile would be "no worse" than New Orleans for him. He doesn't panhandle nor want to stay drunk all day so, there was no wisdom in his staying there, especially after the Occupation was dispersed.
Not much more to report; the train ride wouldn't make an interesting story. It went fast. It was a "hotshot," loaded with Christmas merchandise bound for somewhere -high priority, every other train just got out of the way for us, with our load of Barbie Dolls and Play Stations. Three and a half hours from NOLA to Mobile. It has taken twice that long before.
From here, I must go back to NOLA on December 20th for mine and Sue's courtdate, and to possibly pick up a Christmas parcel from The Lidgleys, my friends in London.
From there, the world will be my oyster and, shucks, I just don't know where I will go.
I would probably stand a better chance of making enough money in California to go all the way from California to Massachusetts to visit my friends and family, than I would trying to make the money in New Orleans to make that shorter trip...

Let's Go

Like, Ricky the clarinetist, I have gone "worldwide," I guess. Below and to the  (if my HTML is up to snuff ) left, are part of my "stats" showing where the "audience" came from and how many pages they viewed...

Ricky, the clarinet player. Has played with famous
musicians in big halls all over the world.
He had a 100 dollar bill in his bucket, probably
the one visible.
He has been very encouraging and supportive, despite
us having gotten "off on the wrong foot."

United States  258

United Kingdom 43

Ukraine 28

Russia 20

Canada 15

Germany 10

Bulgaria 3

Malaysia 3

Argentina 2

Spain 2

I ran into Ricky, the clarinet player Thursday night, on Royal Street. He had a hundred dollar bill prominately noticable in his bucket..."You got a hundred?"
"Of course, I've been out here for years doing this!" *resumes playing traditional jazz*
I guess Ricky's point is that perennial tourists who come here just to hear people like Ricky, and who see them just once per year maybe, will drop a hundred bucks on him, because it has to last him until "next year."
When I had only been in New Orleans for a couple days, I was playing on the exact spot where Ricky is shown. He approached me and said something to the effect that he had been planning upon playing at that spot.
I stood my ground and was actually kind of rude to the world famous clarinetist, who has been "doing this for years."
To his credit, he became a good friend, either through having garnered a respect for me for my having stood my ground, or through forgiving me for the same....
The Letter We Didn't Want To Get
I don't mind that much because I was leaving to go to Mobile anyways, but, this morning a group of police officers came to visit The Occupation and handed out the flyer partially shown. They were very nice officers. The ones who came to our particular spot were very polite.
The skinny of it is, we must leave the park by 10:30 p.m. each night, or be subject to arrest. We can not have tents, pallets,  structures or any "other items." (why didn't they just say that we couldn't have "any items?") Oh, well.
I am leaving this afternoon at about 2:30 for the railyard, with a final intended destination of Mobile, where I hope, by fortune of having arrived early enough, to do some busking on Dauphine Street.


Last night, I blew off hopping the train for one more night.
The reason was mainly that I still had the "same" 10 bucks, which I had on the previous day, and I just didn't want to try to do Mobile on 10 bucks a day.
I went to Decatur, to see that the guy who strums open chords on an acoustic guitar was at my favorite spot, strumming away.
This meant that The Great Music Spirit wanted me to play on Bourbon, which I eventually did, and made about 30 bucks in two "sets", which were broken by a brief intermission during which I replenished myself, and ran into the nice Helen (the artist formerly known as the girl with the shaved head who plays the mandolin), who let me take her picture for my blog.
She had just "beaten up" her roommate, who is a guy named "Stoker." Stoker rides a motorcycle upon which he perches on Royal Street, and plays and sings blues on guitar and harmonica. He has a couple portable amps, which he totes around on the motorcycle.
He is kind of a skinny guy; how skinny you might glean from a look at Helen "I beat the @$%#$@ out of him, because he's a mysogenist and a racist," the artist formerly known as the girl with the shaved head who plays the mandolin.

Self Explanatory

I didn't notice any abrasions on Helen's knuckles, but that might only mean that she is a clean puncher who has developed callouses.

Hopping and Hoping

It is time for me to make a decision about hopping on the train, bound for Mobile, Alabama, where I will be able to use the computers at the library for a much longer duration, without the 60 to 80 minute wait, which is customary here, at The New Orleans Public Library.

I almost went last (Thurday) evening, but decided -just barely decided- against it.

I thought that too many things might have gone "wrong."

If I had to wait too long for an outbound train, then I would have been in a really bad area after dark, and then might arrive in Mobile too late to catch the morning bus to Fairhope, for their First Friday Artwalk.

I also thought that if I played last night, I could augment the 10 bucks that I had on me, and make for a more stress free trip, ending it with money in my pocket.


Texas Bound?

The evening was a "wash," with me somehow covering what I had spent and waking up this morning with the "same" ten bucks.
I am leaning towards taking the 39 bus to the 94 bus, after I leave here in 31 minutes and 18 seconds, and then looking for a train which is pointed towards Mobile, hopping on it, and then hoping that the conductor hadn't, for "grins and giggles" decided to push the train, rather than pull it and take me to somewhere in Texas.

Another Gift Unwrapped

Wednesday (last) night,
I was at the Decatur spot in the evening, where I thought I played pretty well for all 10 people who walked past. I think one of them threw a dollar, and another, some change.
I drifted down to Royal Street, where I entertained a notion of playing by Rouse's Market. On such a slow night, I would have been surprised to have seen any of the "major" acts performing there, like Tonya and Dorise, or Doreen the clarinetist. I only half expected one of the "second tier" performers to be there, like Ben, the cello player, but if he had been there, I think we would have played at least one Grateful Dead song together.
Ben and I have jammed once before, perhaps documented in a previous post. Running into him, playing cello in a tie-dyed shirt with an array of Grateful Dead related trinkets on display, which were being sold by his girlfriend, I couldn't help but think that I might have stumbled upon a "Godsend."
I envisioned myself on guitar, and Ben on cello, ripping up Grateful Dead and other cool songs, like a psychedelic version of Tonya and Dorise (who probably clear close to one thousand dollars each on a busy day). I would only be one small battery operated amp away from being able to step into that role.
His cello playing was not bad at all, and it sounded like we were either at the same level musically, or that one of us would "push" the other gently, only having to suggest small "tweaks" in order to compete with Tonya and Dorise.
Our jam exposed the minor weakness that Ben favors the keys which are easily facilitated by the cello, which is understandable. It wasn't until after we had done a fair version of "Eyes Of The World," by the Grateful Dead that he said "You know, E major is like THE hardest key to play a cello in!"
The cello is also a fret less instrument and he probably could have found the key somewhere up the neck, but, he may favor his open strings, the lowest of which is tuned to "F," a slippery note to work into the key of E major.
There were about 6 bucks more in his case after we completed our "rendition," though.
Too Cold, Man!
Ben was not there, at Rouse's Market, but "the moody, brooding black guy with the acoustic guitar" was.
He was sitting across the street with his guitar, but not playing it.
More often than not, when I see him, he is not playing his guitar but rather, sitting next to it brooding over some insult or injury which he had suffered and which had stolen all the joy and love out of his heart.
"I'm supposed to be out here, spreading love and joy, but; after what that guy said to me, I can't even play; can't even play, man!" was what he told me on one such occasion.
I asked him if he was going to play more.
"No, too cold," he said.
Just then up rode, on her bicycle with her little amp in her basket, none other than Butterfly. She was looking good, and looking for a spot to play; the very spot that "the moody, brooding black guy with the acoustic guitar" said that he was relinquishing because of the cold (it was about 65 degrees out).
I told Butterfly to go ahead and take the spot, as I was going to head towards Canal Street to perhaps try to play by the casino.
I started to walk towards that street and was soon overtaken by Butterfly, who said that the brooding guitarist had NOT relinquished the spot to her. She pedalled on, in search of somewhere.
By the time I got to The Unique Market, she was returning from a fruitless search for a place to play. I suggested one of my favorite spots, by the casino. I wouldn't indiscriminately tell other musicians about a spot where I seem to always be able to knock out 15 bucks or so, in a pinch, but, I told Butterfly about it, and gave her directions. Then I started to walk towards it, to make sure that she found the place that I was referring to.
I got down there, and she was close, only a half block away, under the lights of a store.
I pointed to the actual spot where I liked to play, and said "That's where I actually play sometimes."
"I'm in the light," she said, which was true. She was under a dazzling array of neon lights, on display as if in a jewelry case.
I instantly understood her logic. A pretty female musician must optimise the "visual" aspect of her presentation. Plus, a dark corner in New Orleans is what it is: a dark corner in New Orleans; not always pretty-female-friendly.
She was all set up and ready to start.
I backed off about twenty feet and stood by a newspaper stand, and listened to her play one of my favorites of hers: a song which has a chorus of "Woman, shut your mouth; don't advertise your lover; don't be a fool," which is probably a well known (except by me) song from the 1920's, like most of her repertoire, and by someone like Robert Johnson. I guess it takes records a while to reach Japan.
I then went to fortify myself with a funny cigarette, after which treatment I had the sudden epiphany that playing along with Butterfly (if she would allow me) might be the highlight of my day. 
I went back to where she had been. She was there then in the company of a man who was wearing cover-alls and who shook my hand, introduced himself, and offered me a shot of his vodka -a nice guy (shaking hands, and all).
I started to take my guitar out, but paused to ask Butterfly "Do you mind if I see if I'm in tune with you?," noting as I did that there were only a couple bucks in her case.
"No, please pray!," she squealed with enthusiasm.
I was soon in tune with her, then I got down on my knees and played. She repositioned her mic stand in front of me and I did one of my humorous songs, while she supplied backup vocals, and the guy in cover-alls burst into laughter at the punchline to each verse. It felt liberating to know that Butterfly probably didn't understand much of the song, due to the "language barrier," so she wouldnt' be bogged down with questions like: "What's that verse supposed to mean?"
Withing minutes there were 8 bucks in my case, which I'm not obtuse enough to doubt that tourists viewed as "our" case. (Butterfly keeps hers almost hidden, as if trying to downplay the commercial aspect of what she is doing. It's probably a Buddhist thing...)
Then, the nice guy in the coveralls turned into a figure out of every street musician's nightmares, by becoming "the nice guy in cover-alls who wants to play your guitar."
"Mind if I play one?"
His "Gulps Worth"
Butterfly handed him her guitar. He played.
He played for about a half hour, during which time the 8 bucks in my case was in danger of dying of loneliness.
I thought it would be best if Butterfly and I resumed what we had been doing, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I asked her if she wanted to play. She said that she did. This produced no visible change in the cover-all guy.
He kept playing, with an air of possessiveness and entitlement which prompted me to ask Butterfly if he was her boyfriend (or does he own the guitar...).
"No, I just met him tonight."
This presented me with a quandary. I felt like saying: "Look, sir. Butterfly has a dog to feed. She has a beautiful voice, one of the best acoustic lead guitarists on the streets of New Orleans by consensus, and she's out here trying to make money. Would you mind giving her her guitar back, so she can take her fluttery flight and join me up in the sky?" but I didn't know if it was my "place," to say that. ...plus, you're running her batteries down...I think you've gotten your gulp-of-vodka's worth...
I think Butterfly defers to males, based upon some centuries-old tradition of walking 20 feet behind them, or something. I don't know if she was hoping that I would run the guy off. It's still a mystery.
I was watching for a sign from Butterfly, -a yawn, a glance at her watch, a sigh, a pleading look at me, a glance at her guitar case, a frown, a tantrum where she goes "kung foo" on the guy; something...

It's Wednesday

From The Third Quarter; Saints vs. Giants

The weather
is kind of in the news, as the temperatures have been dropping into the 40's at night recently.
This was a burden on Monday night, when I went to the Superdome to play guitar outside.
There was a merchant to the left of me yelling "Ice cold beer; ice cold water!"
I soon had composed a song called "Ice Cold Music," which I prefer to think went over the heads of many, rather than think that I only made about 7 bucks because the song sucked.
Soon, I couldn't hold on to my pick, due to the numbness in my fingers. I dropped my favorite one and never found it. Then, I broke a string.
I could have sat there and just banged on the instrument and made more money, I'm pretty sure of it, but again, to do that makes me feel too much like a beggar, rather than someone with something to offer.
I went to Rouse's Market (the huge one near the stadium which is newly opened) and bought a Pauliner Double Bock beer for $2.50, and that was my Monday night. The Saints killed the Giants, but I wasn't there to feed on the carcass.
Tuesday was forgettable.
I went to the music store; "bright and early" (at 11 a.m), to get a replacement for the string which had broken outside the Mercedes Benz  Superdome the previous night, after working about 4 hours on a story which will be a Friday Flashback feature, one of these Fridays.
I could see along the way to the music store that the city was devoid of human beings, except for the bored looking ones, standing behind bars and at the doors of restaurants, holding menus. I heard a bartender from one bar, who had walked into another bar, ask the other bartender "Are you guys as slow as us?" I didn't wait to hear the reply; they were the only two people in the place...
The music store guy confirmed that it had been "dead" all day.
I played anyways, about 50 feet from a table of diners at a restaurant.
A man came by, holding a little girl, whom he placed down in front of me and to whom I played "First I Need To Be In Tune" which I made up as I tweaked my strings. Then, I played a bit of China Cat Sunflower, to her visible amusement. The man gave her three dollars, which she placed in my case.
Then, a couple of the diners, who had been hearing me for an hour at that point, threw a couple more dollars on their way past me, and, on a night when only a dozen people walked past, I made about 5 bucks.
A Box, Inside A Box, Inside A Box...
Then, I went onto Royal street and stole a glance towards Rouse's Market and beheld a sight which immediately altered my mood toward the positive.

The nice Butterfly plays while a random
tourist shows give Aiko some attention.
Often, tourist leave food for musican's
dogs, which doesn't always necessarily
reach the animal's stomach.
The guy on guitar, is someone I don't know,
but, for some subconscious reason,
I hate him!!

It was none other than the nice "Butterfly," getting ready to play and sing the blues. She had her medium sized black bulldog, Aiko with her, who was restless, and with whom she struggled.
I wound up getting a can of salmon, some green peas and carrots, and a small bottle of vinegar and making one of my "gourmet meals for under 4 dollars," which I will feature in a chapter of my upcoming work: "Homelessness For Dummies."
Aiko was straining his leash (and chomping at the bit, for that matter) on the other side of the street, as I ate and listened to Butterfly, seemingly trying to get its nose as close to what I was eating as possible. The slight breeze was drifting his way, redolent with the mouth watering fragrance of my salmon and green pea masterpiece.
In between songs, and with pretty much a full stomach, I asked Butterfly if it was alright if I gave Aiko some salmon.
"Oh, Yes!!" gushed Butterfly. Who then continued to giggle and squeal and thank me profusely as Aiko made sure there was not even a trace element of salmon on either of my hands.
Butterfly goes through life, it seems to me, like a person opening one of those gifts which turns out to be a box inside a box inside a box. Only, she is getting so much delight from opening the packages that she is actually glad when it is just another box, and not the gift (but the gift is coming). I think I am the same way, when it comes to Butterfly.