Wednesday The 15th

I am being sustained by the dream of going west...

Last night, I
made about 20 bucks in about two and a half hours.
I was playing  "Didn't We Almost Have It All," the Whitney Houston song, on the guitar and harmonica, as well as improvising over the chords to "For Fruits Basket," by the Japanese female singer, whose name I will have to fill in later.
20 bucks in two and a half hours. I will be back out there, shortly.

Sue is still acting like she is upset.

Cool Rain Not Very Cool

Last night, my "money" song was
"Didn't We Almost Have It All," by the recently late
Whitney Houston, shown at my spot.
It is in an excellent key for the G harmonica!

It is Tuesday.
Last night, it rained.
It was raining so hard that the rain was going both up and down. For about a half an hour.
Sue wasn't with me.
We had had another falling out over us allowing a kid that she randomly met to crash at our spot.
It is a spot where two people can almost be invisible in the shadows.
The third person, Howard, is graced with an appearance which would make almost anybody feel like crap by calling the law on him and reporting him as a trespasser. The guy doesn't smoke; doesn't drink, but merely sits and reads books most of the day.
The fourth person, who Sue hastily introduced to me as Jeff, from San Francisco, initially layed down right under the bright glow from the street lights, almost daring someone to notice him.

I got him to move into the shadows behind the sign, but Sue interpreted that as me relegating him to a less comfortable (for him) spot. "I'm the one who invited him here; you don't own this spot, who are you to tell him to sleep back there in the inhospitable bramble?"

The guy wound up being totally cool with the arrangement. He had arrived here "dead tired" and was just happy to have found any spot to rest. It isn't easy to do so in the French Quarter. Welcome to Downtown New Orleans...

Sue was upset the next (Monday) morning, and I haven't seen her since.

She missed out on a good soaking from head to toe, by not joining me -her loss, I guess.
One Year Ago Today
I was in Mobile, Alabama, working on a college paper for a Bangledeshi guy.

The Coldest Night Of The Year In New Orleans

Lower the temperature about 30 degrees and make it
night, and this might be the parade that we saw...

Friday Into Saturday
By the time
1 a.m. had arrived and I had amassed Friday night's 55 dollars in tips, the wind had started to pick up from the west. It was blowing cold.
Forecasts were for the temperatures to drop Saturday into Sunday, as a cold front was to blow in.
Saturday Into Sunday

First priority: Just staying warm, as Howard
continues to read in his sleeping bag (third from left).

Saturday morning, the dreaded cold front was blowing in.
I came to this library and blogged, deciding that there would be no busking that night, only trying to stay warm and hopefully getting some sleep (despite having a Colombian woman in the same sleeping bag as I).
The library closed early (2 p.m.) because of the Mardi Gras parades scheduled to run into the evening.
I went to the "sign" spot, to find Howard braving the elements and reading a book.
Adding the last of the clothing hanging in the trees to my wardrobe, I left to go into the quarter, thinking that I probably wouldn't busk, but curious to see how many tourists were about.
I ran into none other than Sue, the Colombian lady at the first intersection.
She was laden with her customary 3 bags, and also holding a white Styrofoam, which she gave to me after I told her that I indeed was hungry. "I'm full, I was going to give it to someone else," she said. I don't know how full she may have been, but I know how suspicious she is of food of mysterious origins.
Not prone to look a gift horse in the mouth, I chowed down on what turned out to be rice and beans -"gumbo" to the natives.
Sue then produced two Monster energy drinks, which she gave me. "They were giving them away off of one of the floats," she said.
"I wish I had brought my hot sauce," I said, which produced a couple packets of Tabasco Sauce from one of her bags.

I invited her to walk with me, towards The Unique Boutique, to check out the sights and, would she like a beer. That was the least I thought I could do in return for all that she had given me.
I was able to find two cans of NOLA Blonde ale in the 99 cent bin, which I grabbed and which Sue deemed "delicious," as I had done upon first trying it.
A parade was "about" to start, if an hour and a half away qualifies for "about." There were people gathering along the barricades, giving the impression that the wait would be shorter than what it turned out to be.
In the meantime, I ran to the store for another beer for each of us. Then, twenty minutes later, a third.
"I'll get this round," said Sue, handing me two dollars.
I found a fancy pair of Mardi Gras sunglasses, which were molded into a gold crown, sitting in the bin with the 99 cent beer.
I grabbed them and returned to where Sue was *still* waiting for the parade to start.
We were having a good time by then. When I had returned wearing the sunglasses and crown it took her a few seconds to recognize me, whereupon she burst into laughter. We took pictures of each other wearing the thing on my newly resurrected Sprint LG phone. (I will post them here, as soon as I get a new USB cable, which turned out to be the phones only problem).



"Every time I have a good night, something happens to screw it up" -Sue the Colombian lady

Find Out What Happened Next!!!

 And, as it would turn out; we weren't out of the cold yet....

Cosmic Check

Back to the cosmic...
Is The Shamin Trying To Squeeze Me??
There was another "chance" encounter with Caveman Guru, the shamin who lived in a cave for "a thousand days and a thousand nights" in apparently, Hawaii, meditatiing upon Shiva, the feminine diety, and sleeping in a hammock and whose father is the king of a tribe somewhere along the Amazon.
He claims that they were in Venezuela, along the Amazon, but I have yet to google-map it to see if that river even runs through there.
I remember sitting in his Shiva-deco apartment the first time I went there, as he played back some of the "tribal music" which he had recorded, and which featured a drum that he played, which came from along the Amazon in Venezuela.
Quite frankly, as I listened, the thought he should put this stuff online, so the whole world can hear it wasn't exactly within the top 1,000 thoughts on my mind.
He reitterated his offer to pay me 20 dollars to create a blog for him.
I reitterated that I would feel bad taking 20 dollars for something that he could do himself by clicking a few buttons. He could come to this very site and click on "create a blog" and then just follow the easy instructions, and soon, he would tickling people pink all over the globe with his no nonsense approach to the feminine divinity.
I felt like just asking him, are you a homosexual with a really good hustle? You know, the statues carved out of rainforest wood, the insence, the candles, the "yoga instructor" angle....
The Cosmic Fabric
So, here is the cosmic fabric as it is woven at this point:
Sue was reading the book called "Human Sacrifice."
After we have "a little falling out" I find a book at the Rebuild Center's free-books-for-the-homeless, at-least-the-ones-who-can-read, rack called "Hawaii."
I start to read it, while Sue is across the Mississippi, under a hemlock tree reading about human sacrifice at the same time, having removed herself there after our spat over the money that the Russians had given me for playing "Imagine" 5 times.
"Hawaii" wasn't two chapters in, when the theme started revolving around the people of the island of Bora Bora, who are involved in human sacrifice...*twighlight theme music*
Somewhere around this time a box arrives from Alex in California, who once lived on the island of....let's all say it together: Hawaii *again* The box has a harmonica in it. It is a Lee Oskar harmonica.
I start to crave coconut around this time (Maybe because of the fat content; it being "winter" here). Soon, I am eating a coconut milk based thing almost every night. I find another book, "All Woman And Springtime," by an author whose bio states that he is a classical guitarist and metal sculptor, who lives in the state of, of course, Hawaii.
I am playing my Lee Oskar harmonica on Decatur Street a few nights ago.
A man walks up and asks me if I know a man named Stony Brown who he claims lives in the back of the building right across from my "Maryjane's Emporium" spot on Decatur, not 200 feet away.
He goes on to tell me that I should check that guys harp playing out, at a certain blues open mic, where, according to the gentleman, Stony "plays the hell out a harmonica" at that venue as one of its hosts.
*cue the twighlight thing*
He then added that Stony Brown was a world famous harp player and, in fact his "claim to fame" is that he's the guy who replaced none other than Lee Oskar in a certain band, whose name I will have to google. *da da da da dee dee da*
Making Sense Of It All
So, there is the connection between Hawaii and coconuts, Hawaii and Caveman Guru, Hawaii and Alex in California, Human sacrifice and Sue the Colombian lady, Human sacrifice and Hawaii, (I found a pina colada, untouched sitting atop a staircase on Bourbon Street last night, btw).
Is it possible that Caveman Guru is practicing some kind of mystical art and that I am being called, called, called... to the cave in Hawaii, to serve the feminine divinity and watch waves crash, over and over??
I Can Thrive; 55

Their faces may have frozen in that
expression, just like their mothers once warned
them that they would

Maybe the 55 bucks that I made last (Friday) night is a good portent of what the rest of the Mardi Gras might bring, cash wise. At least. Pina colada-wise, and food wise, things look promising, also. I saw, as I moved from spot to spot, gutter punks chowing down on heavily laden styrofoams of everything from seafood to Thai.
Gutter Punks In Grand Spirit
There is a glowing optimism and a diminishing of grouchiness in the deportment of the gutter punks. One girl, who was carrying a backpack the size of a bean bag chair, was absolutely giddy over having had very good fortune in the reception of various people's charity.
On her way from Oregon to New Orleans, people had given her things, which she then stuffed in the bag, and she arrived in time for Mardi Gras and much the richer.
I think "humble gratitude" would have been a more appropriate demeanor, rather than her attitude which seemed to convey "This is awesome; I'll never work another day in my life!!"
Many people mentioned the harp while putting the 55 bucks in my case, especially at the Bourbon Street spot, where it is quietest.

Perhaps, A Hat

Howard tapped me on the shoulder

And, to make matters worse, it's raining!

at 7:05 this morning, waking me up, as per our agreement and saying "It's 7:05, are you going to the Rebuild Center?"
I had wanted to do some laundry there, which requires signing a sheet of paper at 7:30 a.m. and then waiting to see if your name is one of the 12 or so selected. They can only handle so many loads per day.
Those whose names are not picked have to trundle their dirty clothes back to wherever they hide them, or carry them around, hoping for better luck the next day.
The "lucky" ones sit for up to 5 hours, wearing hospital scrubs if the clothes being washed are the ones off of their backs. The clothes are washed in the order that the names are drawn in the lottery, leading me to think that the nuns put the names on slips of paper to be drawn "at random" out of, perhaps, a hat.
This makes me wonder at least a couple things.
#1:do they blindfold the nun who draws the names out of the hat, spinning her around first, so as to remove the possibility of corruption?
Second, wouldn't the randomness of the process make it mathmatically possible that some poor, very unlucky; perhaps cursed; slob might never get his clothes washed -ever- and walk around the French Quarter stinking so bad as to be actually noticed above the stench of the Quarter itself?
These thoughts went through my addled, on only six hours of sleep, mind and I came up with a quick solution.
"Thanks for waking me up, Howard, but now that I think about it, I'm gonna just go up there around 9 for a shower and wash a set of clothes while in the shower, then come back here and hang them in the trees"
"OK," said Howard.
Phone Functional
While at the Rebuild Center, I got Sister Angie (-a sign of the times; when I was in Catholic schools, as a youngster, the nuns had nice biblical names, like Sister Mary Theresa; but I digress-) to plug my Sprint LG phone (the one that Sue wanted as ransom for the mp3 player) into an apropriate charger, and in doing so she, well, she resurected the phone, I guess would be the best way to explain it.
Now all I will need is a new USB cable, or to repair mine and this blog will once again have custom photos (not taken from Google), to go with the stories.

Wednesday Night

Was so close to being forgettable,
that, I kind of....what did I do last night...?
I played on Decatur Street for a couple of hours and made just enough to cover what I had spent that day, and I woke up with the exact same 11 dollars and change in my pocket, after another cold night, braving temperatures as low as 49 degrees (and that's farenheit, folks!)
The computer isn't showing me the clock ticking down in the corner of the screen, so I am going to save this

"Ninety Percent Of Life Is Showing Up"

A "fast" night in the Big Easy

-Woody Allen
Last night was what you might call a slow Tuesday night in the Big Easy.
I played the Decatur Street spot for a couple of hours, curious about what the reactions of the merchants to my left and right would be to the addition of the harmonica.
They have been very supportive in the past (the guy from the store that puts artwork on doors gave me a new gig bag; the guy from the smoke shop bought me strings once; the lady across the street sits in front of her store and smiles and waves when she sees me; the Asian lady from the massage place gives me food etc).
I know these merchants are relieved to see me, and not gutter punks making a racket, and being nuisances with their heroin and their needles when they think nobody is watching!

You Can Always Be A Living Statue Here...

The brightly lit storefront just above the trolley car
in the foreground is where I got my latest ticket...

I think I will work
on a memoir, which was originally intended to be posted as a "Flashback Friday" feature, but which has taken on a life of its own and which now is up to 15,000 words, according to Microsoft Word's "word count" function.
I will have to count the words in some of the current fiction being released to see at which point, using that as a guide, I could submit my manuscript to a publisher as a "full length" novel.

Last night was only memorable for the improvement in my harmonica playing made on Bourbon Street, where, from about 9 till 11 p.m. and for the entertainment of no more than two dozen people, I pretty much learned by sounded out "Heart of Gold," by Neil Young, including the harmonica part, which was easy to find and which I instantly recognized from hearing it a thousand times in my life, since the first time on AM radio.

My favorite "living statue," in Jackson Square

Then, I ran into Clean Guy, at his favorite spot across the street from the Hotel Monteleon.
He was wearing the same dinner jacket as he has been, since I met him a month ago; but it was clean.
He was jamming with the bald headed electric blues player and the Spanish looking 12 string guitarist. It looked like they had only made about 10 bucks as a group of three, about 4 more than myself, doing "Heart of Gold," over and over.
It is important for the busker not to become angry or frustrated over not making much money, before asking herself "How many people actually walked by?"
I find the  proportion of people that have been throwing me tips to be a good sign, heading into Mardi Gras, when 6 tippers out of 25 passers by could inflate to 120 tippers out of 500 passers by.
The harmonica seems to be helping.

Reading The Lips of Polar Bears (appended)

You don't punt the ball back to the Giants in that
situation; you just DON'T!!

Hostile New Orleans Winds
Yesterday, Howard and I
left our "sign" spot at around noon, having slept through the morning to recover the sleep lost during a cold night, which had us each waking up and fitfully repositioning fleece throws around feet and flipping ourselves to put the zippered side of the bag to the "leeward" side of the hostile New Orleans winds, blowing 55 degrees, mercilessly..
Noontime meant that the pregame shows for the Superbowl would be starting, 6 hours before the game.
We stopped at a couple stores, where Howard bought chips and salsa, which we planned to smuggle into Felipe's Taqueria.
The plan went without a hitch. We found a table for two by a window, where we could watch the game with only a small light fixture hanging from the ceiling in our way. Howard ordered chips and guacomole, and then kept replenishing both from out of his backpack. Anyone observing us might have thought we weren't very hungry, and had hardly touched our chips and salsa, well into the game.


Madonna opted for a "less pasty-skinned looking"
backup singer for her Superbowl gig than myself,
shown here at one of the many rehearsals.

 I ran to the store 3 times, during commercial breaks, for 3 beers. I knew I was missing some of the best commercials that money can buy that way, but I still made the sacrifice. The Patriots were driving me to drink by the third quarter.
Howard must have acquired some special skills, from being almost deaf. The sound from the TV was mingled with the noise of the revellers and I missed a lot of the audio, but Howard burst into laughter and said "That was cute!" after a couple of ads which I hadn't even comprehended. He must read the lips of even polar bears.
The Superbowl cost us each only about 3 bucks that way, though I wound up paying a much higher price, emotionally.
Patriots Punt Away Hopes


Hey, do you feel like singing?!?

 (Second guessing Bill Belichek)
All was for not, though. The Patriots lost in the same frustrating way as their previous losses to the Giants. They were conservative, as if they thought there was so much time left that they would eventually establish a rhythm and overtake the opponent.
The next thing we knew, there were less than 4 minutes left in the game, and the Patriots had to hope that their 17 total points were going to hold up.
They should have "gone for it" on 4th and one, in the 4th quarter. The probablility of their offense making a yard, was better than the prospect of their defense protecting the lead. 
They could have milked some of those 4 minutes off the clock, if they made it, and maybe have taken at least a 20 to 15 lead in the process, and then given the ball back to the Giants with under 2 minutes left and them needing a touchdown. 
Even if they didn't convert, then the Giants would have had a shorter field, scored more quickly, and given Tom Brady the ball back with more than the 57 seconds that he had to work with.
"Are You Going To Sing?"
As we left Filipe's with the sounds of celebrating Giants fans ringing in our ears, Howard turned to me and asked me "Are you going to sing?"
I realised at that point as I thought "You've gotta be kidding me!" that, for a truely professional musician, "the show must go on" despite losses and tragedies, and despite being in no mood to perform.
"My team just lost, it's gonna take more than 20 seconds to get over it, Howard. I haven't even thought about "singing!"

Got 'em again! Yee Haa!!!

"I'm sorry," said Howard.
Are The Patriots The New Red Sox?
They have built up our hopes each of the past few years, only to fall to a team from New York which apparently "has their number." No matter how well they play during the season, even if they amass a perfect 16-0 record, it won't matter, because in the end, they will fall to the team from New York that has their number. Just like the Red Sox.
Are we going to hear, during one of the next few seasons, sportscasters say for the first time:
Sportscaster #1: "Now that's a throw that Tom Brady would have gotten to the receiver, a few years ago!"
Sportscaster #2: "No doubt about it, he just didn't put enough mustard on that one. A younger Tom Brady would have thrown a touchdown pass there, instead of his third interception of the game!"

Harp Well Recieved

I decided to check the mail at
the Rebuild Center, as the next opportunity to do so, wouldn't be until Monday.
I thought that if the harmonica and holder from Alex in California had arrived, then I would be squandering the chance to play it over the weekend by letting it sit in the mailroom.

A brief walk to that center, which is dedicated to the "rebuild"ing of lives, soon led to the nice mailroom nun handing me a box, which contained the harmonica and holder, along with an instructive book.
I skimmed through the book, concerned about being able to bend notes in order to sound the ones that are not indiginous to the 10 holes on the thing, while using a holder. Would notes have to be bent by using two hands as kind of a carbeurator?
I got to the Decatur Street spot, after a fitful session in an alley, trying to install the harp into the holder. The "spring metal," which the manufacturer guaranteed would "bend back into place," was extremely hard to bend "out of place," with just my bare hands (and a steel resolve) and a Steel Reserve.
I finally worked the harp into the holder; but it was upside-down. D'-oh!!
I was glad to arrive on Decatur with the harp already installed and already around my neck.
How They Do It In Detroit

I had walked past The One Man Band, who, upon seeing the harp asked me about it.
I told him that I had climbed far enough out of the primordial ooze to have evolved a harp around my neck.
He then informed me that the search for the neck brace holder which he thought was in his van, proved to be fruitless. "I must have left it in my storage box in Detroit."
Somehow that didn't surprise me. I wonder if he had started to feel like he was supplying "the competition" with ammunition, by giving me a neck brace holder type thing, and decided that it had better stay put in "Detroit." LOL!
A lady approched us, as we were chatting.
"Would you guys like some wine? I can't take it on the flight," she said as she extricated a bottle of Yellow Tail Cabernet from a large purse.
"Oh, sure!" said The One Man Band.
"Oh, Australian! That's very good, I've had it before," said I.
"This is the best gift, I've gotten all day!" said The One Man Band, before he unzipped one of his bags and put "you guys" bottle of wine in it and zipped it back up.
I guess Joe felt like it was "his" spot and that all gifts rightfully go to the bearer of any spot. Maybe that is how they do things in Detroit.
The One Man Band went something like 8 years without drinking, but, has started again "off and on," he said.
Harp Well Recieved
.

There's My Cue!

Nothing but constant rehearsal, break, rehearsal, break, rehearsal, etc. etc...

It is a little too cold to go out and busk, here in Indianapolis. Plus, I'm pretty beat after rehearsals. One of the sound men lent me money for a couple beers last night, which I practically had to sneak behind Madonna's back.

I'll be glad when this is over, especially if the Patriots win.

Eeek!

Last night, I eeked out about 10 bucks, playing on brand spanking new strings that I thought I was wasting upon the sparse crowd.
The plan is to stay out of jail until Mardi Gras starts.
The cops sweep the streets and try to lock up "undesirables" before the toursists start to arrive. They have started to arrive already, as the Mardi Gras kicks off this coming Saturday, as follows:

I can't wait...

Krewe du Vieux



Date: Saturday, Feb 4, 2012
Location: French Quarter
Time: 6:30pm

Shedding Layers
As the temperatures have been climbing into the 70's lately, it is almost time to start thinking about jettisoning some extra jackets, sweaters, sweatshirts and such.
I wish there was a place to put them (in moth balls) for about 9 months. The good news is: Less stuff to carry when the eventual move away from here happens.

Madonna Called, And...

When Madonna came upon me on Decatur Street , almost 5 month's ago and joked "You need to come up and jam with me when I do my Superbowl gig, I was flattered, to be sure. I figured that she was saying it to be kind, but.

It appears that her inner voice told her to follow up upon that idea, and I guess some of you, about 75 million, or so, will be seeing me on TV Sunday.

I actually can't tell you what songs we are going to do, because people have paid advance fees for the exclusive rights to our performance, and, if I should mention a song which might cause a negative public reaction, then I would be in danger of being sued, or something. 

I need to be at the airport by tomorrow night, around "nine or so" (Madonna said that the plane would just wait for me, I was the only passenger) and, wish me luck. 

I'm going to be able to plug into the sound system; pretty awesome; there are some pretty savvy professionals running sound and such, not bad... 

 

Howard and I got out of our spot just before the
approach of the orange clouds...

This morning, I was surprised
to see "Wednesday" on Howard's morning paper. I lost a day somewhere.
I am anticipating watching the Superbowl with Howard at Filippe's Taqueria, which has large screen TV's and the waitresses don't bother you about continually spending money.
The Patriots/Ravens game only cost me 6 bucks in there, mostly because I gave in to the temptation to try their "agave" margarita, which cost me 6 dollars. Howard got by on some chips and guacamole for under 3 bucks.
I want to try to arrange for us to have clean laundry, will probably do it tomorrow at the Rebuild Center, so that neither one of us will smell too homeless, should the bar be crammed like a phone booth on a college campus.
One Gold Dollar

Last night, I played on Decatur Street, after following what has become a routine of mine of grabbing two beers at the Unique Boutique, and then cutting through a certain alley, hunting for "ducks," or half smoked cigarettes, which can be re-rolled.
I think my irritation over the fact that 9 out of 10 times when you light a cigarette in downtown New Orleans, you are decended upon by bums is actually displaced anger at myself for continuing in a habit that I feel that I will quit eventually.
How I would love to be able to truthfully say: "Sorry, I don't smoke" and then smile, rather than have the urge to say something snide like "No, I only got 20 in this pack; no extras..." or "What do I look like, the Salvation Army for Cigarettes?!?"
As soon as the pack is out of your pocket, you become aware of movements out of the corner of your eyes, much like a quarterback whose "pocket" is collapsing in upon him. Sometimes, I answer their initial "Excuse me," with "This is my last one, pal," saving them some breath.
What bugs me is that the same people would never come up and say "How's it going? Doing alright?" out of concern; it is always followed by "You wouldn't have an extra cigarette, would you?"
But, anyone who reads this blog knows that this has been an ongoing peeve of mine.
Keeping An Eye On Sue

I have re-routed myself these past few days, so that, after exiting "duck alley," I walk further down Royal Street, past my former cut through spot, keeping an eye out for Sue.
Last evening, her backpack, but not her person, was sitting next to Grandpa Elliot on the corner where he sits. I think he is harboring her.
I was surprised that Sue would entrust a blind man to keep an eye on her backpack.
I think ol' grandpa sees, but only what he wants to see. He handed sue a wad of money once, and asked her to count it for him and arrange the bills in order of denomination. "I could have told him anything and kept some of his money!" she repeated more than once, in repeating that story more than once. I think grandpa was testing her, and knew the amount of money that he was handing her.
After seeing her backpack under the "watch" of grandpa, I went to Decatur Street, where I played well for about a dozen people. One lady put a gold dollar with Abraham Lincoln depicted upon its obverse, in my case. Then a guy came along and told me that he had seen a musician being harassed by the police, the night before (Monday). I remembered that Monday and Tuesday are the nights which that seems to occur on, and I decided to take my gold dollar and leave.

It MUST be KA-ME gluten free
brown rice crisps, no substitutes!!

I went to the sleeping spot and made and ate my "coconut ginger noodle" meal, for the 4th straight night, feeling sorry for people who were inside the 5 star restaurants on Bourbon Street, spending hundreds of dollars.