Behaving For Dummies

• World: Behaving Possibly Keeps Me Out Of Trouble
• Health: Howards Blood pressure



Howard has had to interrupt his routine
the past couple mornings to go check
upon the arrival of his high blood pressure medication.
Frankly, it is stressing him out and sending
his pressure "through the roof"
(something rarely seen in homeless men).

• Books: Story To Be Serial?
• Money: 30 dollar night

Avoiding Decatur Street
I went straight to the Bourbon Street spot last night, even earlier than the (Wednesday) night before. It was not only still daylight; the sun was out!!
It was probably a little too early for a lot of tourists to have already loosened their wallets with food and drink, and it kind of showed the first hour -a lot of reserved smiles; a little bit of cash.
I went to Sidney's to spend one of the few dollars that I had made, then returned not once, but three more times, in between breaks* finally knocking off at the well behaved hour of 10 p.m. (there is supposedly another curfew on Bourbon Street, the spirit of which is "You can play there from 6 p.m. until 10 p.m. every night and 'they can't say anything to you about it [assuming your performance is legal]'"
After 10, they can say something...
*I schedule regular breaks now, like 10 minutes every hour, weather I need to use the restroom or not. It seems to have helped me to establish some kind of "order" and keeps me fresh.
I made about 25 bucks for the night, all in ones, plus a lot of change, which I gladly put into my Crown Royal bag.

I just about broke even for the night, though, with the just-arrived-at-Sidney's, Bigfoot Barley Style Ale being almost solely responsible. I blame the brewers and Sidney's and even the girl that rang them up for me, for my demise.
Bag Replaces Railroad Spike
The Crown Royal bag probably weighs about 3 pounds now and has replaced the railroad spike as my "right hand" weapon of choice (left hand, pepper spray). The railroad spike has the bevelled head which could fracture bones; and the pointed end is just a little too medieval for my tastes, and it is quite rusted.
The Crown Royal bag is more humane, as I can put the appropriate amount of coins in it, for whomever I am striking in the head, adjusting the blow to be commensurate with whatever offense they have committed against me.
Karma Better On Bourbon

As part of the privilege that I've enjoyed in the residential end of the street where I play, I'm pretty sure that the nice gentleman in the condo passed instructions to the officer whom I encountered at 1:30 a.m. Sunday morning that went something like. "I don't want him arrested, or given a ticket; just politely asked to move on...could you do that for me?" Imagine wielding that kind of power!
Of course, the officer, having been instructed not to bite; still could not be restrained from barking "Do you want to go to jail!?!" a few times, but that has probably all been related in last Sundays fine post...

Your hair is so shiny, like plastic...your lips are so...
shiny, like plastic...I bet you're shiny all over!

It Could Have Been Me
On that third trip to Sidney's, which is on the street that I was avoiding, I came around a corner and was presented with the sight of four men being issued citations by an officer whom I recognized from him having gotten me twice before.
He might have been playing the "after 8 p.m." angle on them (a curfew that some say only pertains to one side of Decatur -the side the four gentlemen were on- others that it only effects certain stretches of that one side, and there are those that say the curfew is a bunch of malarkey and "There ain't no such law.") or the "obstruction of a public passageway" (but that's a lot to write four times) or the "sitting down" offense (intoxicated tourists might trip over you and injure themselves) the four didn't know at that point; the officer was sitting in his car, citing away...his bald dome made aglow, like the top of The Kremlin, by his "dome" light. It could have been me...
Howards Meds
Howard should have his high blood pressure medicine today. I hope it doesn't make him listless, disoriented, having stomach cramps, vertigo, fatigue, dry tongue, sleeplessness or in some cases dead. That would suck...
Story To Be Serialised?
I will be off working on a story which just gets longer and longer. There is actually something like a 10 megabyte limit to each post on Blogger, here.
I think 10 megabytes could store the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, plus a recording of Frank Sinatra, but, nevertheless, I am thinking of publishing the story in parts; sure am.
I just need to contrive ways to leave my readers hanging each Friday...

Correction

• Daniel Posts Two Consequetive Gains



"Have Something To Say..."

• Just waiting on Howard's medicine

The Real Wednesday Night
I erroneously called the night before last Wednesday night
(referring to it as a notoriously slow business night) in yesterdays post when, in fact, that had been Tuesday night when I got the 35 dollar tip for playing "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan, and then "Dear Prudence," by The Beatles; both with harp solos.
Last night was the real Wednesday night, the notoriously slow one, and I made about 21 bucks in three sets of almost an hour each.
I thought I played like crap, though, as there were a few things on my mind.
One of them was the fact that the painter guy was out on the steps across from me, playing his guitar.
Brooding And Disturbing
I think that he was trying to busk for some money, and, if that was the case, it was a faux pas for me to sit right across from him. He was probably too proud to ask to sit in with me, probably having gotten the message that I had taken off a couple of nights prior, because I felt that I could make more money if I didn't have to split it with someone who wasn't matching my "intensity"...
He is a decent player, but there is something about his music that makes it seem like he is too shy to say something with it, if that makes sense.
One of the compliments that I got from Lawrence, who plays with Dorreen's Jazz Band was "I can tell; you've got something to say on that guitar." The painter guys music seems to say, I'm a quiet yet deeply complex person and you would never understand me, just like this minor 9th flat 5 chord, which sounds brooding and disturbing.
My goal when I started was to play "nice" music.
I had a creepy feeling that the gentleman in the condo behind me was still hosting his guest, the one that goes to bed at 10:30 p.m., and even though it was early (before sundown) my intuition told me to stick to nice songs, "smooth, light and easy so you can relax" tunes, or to make myself vulnerable by improvising lyrically intensive stuff about love lost and heartaches i.e. sing about Karrie, (the girl who was supposed to follow me to Mobile, Alabama almost three years ago and who never showed up...)
I didn't want to go balls-to-the-wall, full tilt boogie with the painter guy across the street trying to make a buck, if that was the case. Again, communication would have been a valuable tool. I stopped to listen to him during one of my breaks, but didn't think to appologise for the way I took off on him Sunday night..

Paul, the guitarist (far right) has become a good friend of mine;
"Yeah, San Francisco?...I don't know...you should probably stay around here,"
was his reaction when I told him that I was leaving.

This morning, I woke up about 8 dollars richer than I had started the day with; the second consequetive positive gain, after having come up about 40 bucks Tuesday night.
Tonight will be Thursday night and I intend to "behave" by avoiding Decatur Street and staying within the "6 p.m. until 10 p.m." Bourbon Street Residential Area guidelines..
Frantically Turning Knobs
I really seems like I have doubled my income by adding the harmonica, and in fact I rarely sing much at all now; or play guitar solos -unless they are "double solos" between the harp and guitar. That will hopefully change after I get a microphone. It is good to have a balance between singing and harp playing, but, right now the harp is louder than my singing voice on all but the "loud" songs, like "Have You Ever Seen The Rain," by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
When I switch from harp to vocals, it reminds me of when a band has "technical difficulties" and the soundmen are frantically turning knobs on the board, trying to bring the vocals up LOL!

Two Steps Forward

Let me see if I can connect to my GPS Daniel-Finder
application and see where he's jamming...

Last night I made my earliest arrival
at the Bourbon Street spot. It was still daylight.
The condo owner across the street was sitting on his steps and greeted me.
I played for about 45 minutes and 8 bucks, then took a break and came back twice more, with another break in between.
At one point a pedi-cab (a little cart pulled by a guy on a bike; similar to the "harness racing" rigs) stopped in front of me. A guy and a lady were riding in it.
The guy got out and approached me, asking me to play something.
I played a couple choruses of "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan, with a harp solo thrown in, during which, he threw a bill in my case. When I stopped, he said "That's all we get? For twenty bucks?!?"
They got more, while the cab peddler rested his legs. I played a request for the lady "For another twenty bucks," which turned into another 15 bucks, as she had nothing else smaller than a hundred (See; the wealthy have problems just like the rest of us).
Soon thereafter, the gentleman told the cab peddler "Come on, I want to hear some others," and off they went.

I think I would just put the tourist in the seat,
and then give the horse a little crack
of the whip; and let 'em go!

Harder To Leave
All in all, it was a 50 dollar night, and on a Wednesday; which is deemed to be one of the slowest days of the week, in the estimation of many performers that I talked to.
It makes it that much harder to leave New Orleans, now that I have been making decent money; but not as hard as it would be to leave New Orleans flat broke and picking half smoked cigarette butts off the ground...
We are only waiting on Howards "high blood pressure" medication to be ready for him at the VA Hospital, either today or tomorrow. It is hoped that it will help his headaches.

Back Peddling

I am off, working on a ghost story,
to hopefully be ready for Friday

• Move Delayed Another Day
• Cash Reserve Takes Hit

Last night, I was back out there, peddling
my "wares" on Bourbon Street.
The nice gentleman in the condo behind me asked me if I would stop playing at 10:30 p.m. because he had a guest who would be trying to sleep at that time; someone who isn't used to being lulled to slumberland by a blues harmonica player, I assume.
I was able to make some money, but not enough to stem the flow of outgoing funds.
I finished the day about 15 bucks poorer than I had started it, with more-expensive-than-usual beer being one of the culprits, and then things like the silly, frivolous purchase of a lottery ticket an example of another...shouldn't drinking better beer help me make "better" decisions?

Howard, taking every opportunity to
inform the ladies of his marital status...

Maybe Next Monday?
It almost seems prudent to stay through one more weekend, to tie up some loose ends (like how is Howard going to tote his blankets and quilt; under his arm, all the way to Texas?!?).
I need to talk to Howard, to see if he is actually dragging his feet (figuratively, I mean -he has literally been dragging them a little since I met him) over the pending move. Part of the problem is that we only speak for a few minutes each morning before we launch into our individual routines.
It being Monday, I resolved to avoid Decatur Street entirely, except to walk its length looking for a certain Rastafarian guy, or to run into the punk with the dog of a girlfriend and the dog (as an aid to helping me get "off the fence" and end the procrastination over leaving here, hitting the guy in the face with pepper spray then not hanging around to give him a chance to retaliate, might be "motivational" -and the police consider the spray to be a "defensive" weapon, and assume the sprayee to have been the aggressor, I am told -plus, it will help flush out his mucous membranes.
But...what if the punk and his girlfriend are leaving here soon, to move out to the Bay Area of California, after a brief sojourn in San Antonio, Texas?!? *twilight theme plays*)

Eve Of Departure?

The guy who probably owns the condo across the street,
holding his $2,000 Dean guitar, after bringing me a 6-pack
of Harpoon IPA, which I wasn't too impressed with but drank anyways,
so as to not look a gift horse in the mouth...
My harp looks like it is mangled and laying on the concrete, but
it is actually in good standing (note its shadow). I was using my
"Street Musician Stimulus Package" sign on that night
and made about 55 bucks, to include a 2 dollar bill that someone threw.

• 25 dollar night could have been better
• Howards Headache delays exodus

Yesterday, Sunday, was not a typical one, as
There were a bunch of Kentucky and Vanderbuilt University people in town for the SEC Tournament.
It was with some anxiety that I woke up this morning.
It had started raining sometime in the middle of the night, and I made a run for the Simon Bolivar statue spot, as claps of thunder seemed to be saying "you'd better!"
Waking up this morning under Simon, I thought: This was supposed to be the day of our departure from New Orleans.
I also felt a little bit of guilt over the way I had treated a certain oil painter the night before...
I was at the Bourbon Street spot at around sundown Sunday (last) night, where I was immediately greeted by one of the guys from the condo across the street, the one who is an oil painter and a guitarist.
He is a pretty decent guitarist and can play some J.S. Bach pieces that I would have to study and practice for a few hours, in order to duplicate.
We had jammed once in the back room of their condo, about a month ago, with "mixed" results. He had a tendency to play softer, the louder I played, that time.
He seems to do pretty well selling his paintings (I think he gets hundreds of dollars for them); at least enough to be able to rent a condo on Bourbon Street.
He acted as if he had been waiting for my arrival.
"Hey, do you want to jam?," he asked. "I need to make some money, I haven't sold anything all week."
I agreed, without having tried to come to an agreement about how that "money" would be distributed between us. Normally, I would argue that, since I have two voices (harp and guitar) to his one voice (guitar), that the money should be split at 60/40 ratio (to make the math simpler) but I didn't mention that; thinking in the back of my mind of the times that they had supplied the the gin, cigarettes and other things while I played. "If I can sell my painting, I'll break you off something," he said.
"Cool," I said.
His roommate, who owns a very expensive Dean guitar (partially shown in photo) that he has only begun to learn on, and who probably owns the condo, was sitting on the front steps with the door open behind him.
He is the one who came out Saturday night and told me that, for the past week he had been sitting in the front room of the condo with the window open, playing along with me, and had finally "found the courage" to approach me to ask if we could play something together.

He's even left handed....

He gives the impression that he would trade all his wealth for a little tallent, and it is funny how deferential he is to me -I'm the one that should be kissing his ass, in order to be able to sit in front of his condo and (the past three nights) make about 11 bucks per hour- but he almost treats me like a celebrity "There were a couple kids playing earlier, but I ran them off; they weren't up to your standards at all," he told me one night, for example.
I sat down next to the oil painter, whose guitar was a bit sharp to mine, and since mine was fine-tuned to the harmonica, it became incumbent upon him to tune to me. I offered him my electronic tuner, which he used to at least get him in the same pitch as me.
I started jamming away, just doing what I normally do, while he tried to follow along. I was soon in "the void" and was hardly aware of his presence, hoping he wasn't feeling ignored.
He had leaned one of his paintings against the wall between us "If I sell my painting, I'll break you off something..." It was a bright-orange-dominated acryllic, which I later felt rude about not having appraised, beyond the cursory glance that I took at it.
With him being further removed from me by the extra distance of the width of the painting, it became hard for me to even hear what he was playing, without decreasing my own volume.
I finally just did what I have been doing the past month; played in certain keys and wailed on the harp, learning and earning.

Shortly after "My Favorite Mule," came the straw
that broke the camels back...

During "My Favorite Mule," which I wrote when I was missing the "g" string and which I had no idea at that time that it was going to become "my favorite harp" song; three guys sat down on the green steps on "my" side and listened.
I thought I did a compelling harp solo (if I can say so, myself) and when I finished the song, they threw a balled up bill, which landed in between my backpack and my leg, where I let it rest, while I thanked them for it by jamming hard for a few seconds on a flurry of riffs.
It is a common practice of buskers to play close to 100% throughout the course of the evening, saving their "105%" for the rewarding of people who tip. It's kind of like having an "after-burner" in your trunk. Ricky the Clarinetist, for example, will execute a flashy turbo charged, "jazz from hell" riff at double speed, as soon as the money lands in his case. He can't really say "thank you" with the horn in his mouth, otherwise.
A Jamacuum?
During the jam, I couldn't even really hear the oil painter guy. He had gotten softer in volume and was holding his head down next to the strings of his guitar, as if trying to make sure that he was in the right key before increasing his volume. He may have just stopped playing and sat there listening to me.
After the three guys had walked off towards Lafitt's Tavern, I took a break.
The oil painter guy jumped off of the steps to my right and bounded over to where the bill lay against my leg. "Look, we've made 20 bucks, already!" he said, before unfolding what indeed was a 20, and tossing it in my case. He sat back down with renewed vigor, as if thinking "This might be a pretty good night, afterall..."
I thought that he showed a lot of nerve in staking claim to half of the money, based upon what he contributed musically. I was able to control my ire by reasoning that the three guys may have been accounting for his presence by throwing 20 bucks, instead of 10 -but I couldn't help wonder why they seemed to be aiming it at my pocket when they threw it; putting it in the case would have been a clearer indication that it was for both of us. And, maybe they had been here for the whole SEC Championship Tournament and had walked past me each of the past four nights and on this, the last day of it, were "tightening me up," so to speak...I couldn't help wonder.
I played some more and the oil painter guy picked what I couldn't hear some more, and the next few groups of tourists all threw at least a buck. When I could hear him, he was gingerly playing up and down scales, as if looking for one that "fit."
After the third or fourth group of them (tourists) -the group which was like the proverbial blade of hay which injured the proverbial camel- I said "Do you want to just split this 20 now? I need to use the restroom and then go to Sidney's for another beer; but I'll be back..."
"I have a ten," he said, producing one.
As I walked off in the direction of Sydney's the owner guy, who had been sitting on his front steps and listening asked the oil painter if he/we were "quitting already."
I couldn't hear what the oil painter said, but I heard the owner guy reply "OK."
I returned about a half hour later and they were nowhere to be seen. I played another hour and made about another 15 bucks.
I almost feel like I owe the guy (painter) an appology for the way I took off, my main motive being to carve some fat off of my "operation," and go solo. We hadn't worked out any songs together, and the sum of the parts was almost indistinguishable from my part alone, in my opinion. I need to come up with a "snigglet" for a guy who benefits from anothers playing while barely adding anything. (a "jamacuum?")
I hope that tonight they don't show up and say "We've bent over backwards to accomodate you playing here. Did you know that the lady in 2504 was ready to call the police but we convinced her not to. We've given you expensive gin-based drinks etc...the least you can do is help our little buddy here out" or words like that.
They could just as easily say "My buddy didn't mean to ruin your hustle; we felt like crap afterwards."

Looks like New Orleans is the only place getting f****d,
right now...Texas looks fine...

Howard's Headache
The reason I even mention seeing them tonight, rather than seeing mile after mile of scenery roll past, is that our trip has been postponed one day due to Howard feeling that it wasn't a good day for travelling, due to the overcast conditions, and the fact that he has had a headache for a couple days and thinks that he might have to see a doctor tomorrow. I still have 9 days to be out of here, or give the judge a very good reason why I need to stay here. Having found a spot where I can make 50 bucks a night is not a very good reason.
I need to remember that I can make the 50 bucks (or more) per night in other places; places where you don't typically get punched in the eye for not giving some punks girlfriend a cigarette.

Gulps Of Air

I would say that I would sit just to the lady in the blue shirts right,
so that the wall behind me will project the sound.
I may set up some sort of basket with a bulls-eye on it, so that
the gondola passengers can make a sport of tossing quarters...
-just trying to make it fun for them, that's all...

"I suppose I should go out and at least try...It's Friday, after all..."
Said I, to Howard, about a couple hours before nightfall.
The Royal Skirt
I went to The Unique Boutique and stocked up on 200ml of Heaven Hill whiskey, and then proceeded towards Decatur Street. I didn't take my usual route along Royal Street.
I have found the walk down Royal Street to be a negative experience.
Musicians who are new in town wind up playing there, many of them suffering the disappointment of "3 dollar" days, or worse, flanked by Ricky the clarinetist and maybe even Tanya and Dorise to the other side of them.
Upon arriving here, and knowing nothing about the city, I too went to Royal Street after someone told me "That's where all the musicians are"*
*[That's where all the competition is and that's where the average person who doesn't eat sleep and breath music might have heard "enough" by the time they walk past you, or the average person who isn't wealthy -at least not "above average" wealth- may have given the first couple of street performers decent tips, not realising that they were Performer 1 (of 25) and Performer 2 (of 25)]
I don't like the scowls from those who are not doing well and see yet another guy carrying an instrument, and on the other hand, I don't like to watch 10 times as I am hoping to make that entire evening, going into the case of someone who isn't just a sub average musician; he's a sub average musician with a sound system with all the "effects."
I skirted around Royal Street, even though that is where Sue the Colombian lady has been spotted in the past.
I went to Decatur and walked its length, seeing if I could spot the gutter punk who punched me the night before, leaving me with a slightly black left eye.
I was going to give him a chance to either ignore me, apologise to me or start the same crap with me all over again. I had pepper spray in my left hand, and a piece of re-bar in my right (re-bar has uses besides reenforcing concrete) for the contingency of the third scenario described above...
I never saw them the entire evening and wound up playing the best that I think I have since coming here, or maybe in my life, for that matter. Maybe a punch in the head can be a blessing in disguise.

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The Gentleman In The Condo
I went straight to the Bourbon Street spot, because night was falling and I was going to end up there anyways, and sitting at the same spot on Decatur Street might cause the gutter punk to respond in the same way, like a dog returning to its vomit.
The gentleman in the condo behind where I sit (shown above!) came home around 7 p.m.
He was an elderly man, dressed very sharply and wearing a hat which even said "wealth" if you listened hard enough.
He stopped and mentioned that I had been there pretty late the previous night, and went on to add that he enjoyed my music and that he was all for me practicing my art form and "If music bothers people, they need to move to Wyoming, not here!"
I appologised about playing so late the night before. I told him about a previous time when I was there and a voice came through the leuvered shutter behind me informing me that it was 12:30 a.m. I said that I had set a boundary for myself at around midnight based upon that, but I had lost track of time the night before. I didn't mention being punched in the head.
"That was me," he said, solving the mystery of the voice behind the shutter.
I told him that I appreciated the way he had communicated to me, without hostility.
"Oh, no...I...I harbour no ill will; I enjoy your playing and..." then he went inside.
I played until exactly midnight, when, despite hourdes of tourists walking past at that time (and making 3.4 times as much noise as a guy with a guitar and harmonica LOL!) I knocked off.

Economic Indicator
It had been about a 45 dollar night, played in three sets of 1 hour, 1 1/2 hour, then 1 1/2 hours, with breaks in between; a steady 11 bucks an hour.
The last time in life that I made 11 bucks an hour, I could buy two ounces of .999 fine silver boullion with an hours pay. Today, I can buy a third of an ounce...just throwing that economic data out there...
Each time I stopped to take a break, I felt like I was all played out and was going to quit, but after a walk to Stanleys, I came back "refreshed" in more than one sense of the word, each time.
Only 15 of the 45 bucks had come in five dollar bills. In other words, over 30 other people came by and threw something; I could see them out of the corner of my eye, and have gotten pretty good at saying "thank you," in between gulps of air for the harmonica.
Foot Loose And Book Free
Howard has gone and done all of his laundry at the Rebuild Center. I had casually mentioned that cleanliness is going to be more important to our plans of hitching a ride than if we were to hop trains. He got the message.
The next couple of days will be spent lightening loads, jettisoning hard cover books, for example. There should be plenty of books in Texas, and they will even be bigger, I imagine...
I will play as much as possible, to store up "travelling" money, or "beer in far away places" money, if you will...

Friday Morning

It wasn't any of these; (I don't recognize
the dogs...)

Flashback Friday
I am keeping this short so I can try to finish a story for my Flashback Friday feature...
That being said.....
Departure Date Set
It has taken me 42 minutes just to read/reply to my email, yikes!
We are leaving here "Monday or Tuesday" (3/12/12 or 3/13/12) according to Howard. He is kind of "in the drivers seat" because if left to me the departure would be procrastinated away indefinitely.
He also has a steady flow of income; I'm not sure how much per month, but it is insurance against things like "Busking is totally illegal here in Anytown, they'll take you to jail and you'll never get your guitar back"
I Am Attacked By A Punk
Last night a guy punched me in the face because I wanted a quarter for a cigarette.
He walked by my spot on Decatur with a girl and a dog (of course, a dog). The girl said, "Hey, will you sell me a cigarette?"
I said "25 cents," wherupon the boyfriend got in my face and started yelling "How about I beat your ass. I'll take your whole pack!"
Then, he grabbed my "whole pack" (with about 8 left).
I tried to snatch it out of his hand. He punched me in the head with his other hand, sending my glasses and harmonica flying.
I stood up, mainly to protect my guitar from whatever he might do, wherupon he kept advancing upon me. As I backed up, holding my guitar away from him, I said "All I said was I would sell a cigarette for a quarter!"
Then, he wanted me to call him "sir," or he would throw me through "that window."
By then, we had the attention of the shopkeepers near my spot.
Three of them approached, saying "Let's see you talk to us like that!"
Rather than talk to them like that, the punks decided to walk off, with my cigarettes and the three bucks that I had in my case, which the girl or the dog must have snatched in the confusion.
The shop owners helped me locate my glasses and harmonica. They told me that I should have attacked him with my bottle of Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA. I told them that it was still half full, and we had a little chuckle over that.
I wasn't in the mood for busking just then.
I was mostly pissed off over the fact that he took advantage of my vulnerability, with me having the guitar and harmonica around my neck, and being like "a sitting duck," and the sleazy way that the girl (or the dog) grabbed my cash while he was threatening me.
I got my pepper spray (thanks, Alex from Gilroy) and a heavy flashlight and went looking for them. I was going to hit him in the eyes with the spray and then aim for his head as hard as I could with the flashlight -then backhand the girl across the face and say "That was worth three bucks and some smokes!"
I won't kick the dog, though.
Then, I was harassed by a cop on Bourbon Street, who told me that I was playing in front of a residence, and that it was 1:30 a.m. I told him that the residents knew I was out there and didn't mind.
He started with the all-too-common idiotic question of "Do you want to go to jail?!?" which, to me wasn't much different from saying "How about calling me Sir!"
The punks will be easy to find, tonight; I'll recongize the dog if I see it again. 
I can get him at a few spots where none of the witnesses will have seen anything at all when questioned, and have told me so much.
@Alex in California: Does the pepper spray completely expell with one use, or can you blast it twice? Do you have to aim directly for the eyes or does it fan out like a shotgun? Just wondering...
I will probably just point him out to any one of the people that have kind of "had my back" because of my musical "connections" and then just wait for something bad to happen to him. Something "French Quarter" bad...

Best Way To Move Freight

I just remembered that I haven't done The Leaving Song,

in a while -nice fingerpicking arrangement on that song...
A No-Brainer?
Leaving New Orleans is a "no-brainer." Mode of transportation, not so much.
I am looking at this coming Sunday as being a possible day of departure.
The weather is forcast to be pretty wet for the next 4 days.
Bill Of Laden: Two Homeless Guys, 325 lbs.
I am leaning towards taking the #94 Bus down Broad Street, all the way to where there is a truck stop which has a Burger King, for one thing, and TVs playing sports for another thing..
I have had a 5 dollar Burger King gift card in my pocket the past two months, having not come across any of their establishments in my ambles around here.
Being able to talk to people at the truckstop, assess them,  and find someone who would appreciate company as they make their way west would be an advantageous situation.
It is more comfortable to ride in a truck; and the driver can drop you off at a specific spot and tell you where you are.
Riding the rails, on the other hand -the train stops and you had best know where you are, and if you should hop off; or you might have to walk 10 miles to get to civilization..or 20 miles.
Someone giving you a ride and conversing with you along the way may develop a compassion for you and get the sense that you could be helped by havind currency placed in your hand, after being dropped off and wished luck.
Rarely do you ever find money inside empty boxcars.
So, it seems a no-brainer...except...I just love it when the train starts moving, taking you somewhere -the mystery is part of the adventure.. 

Super Wednesday

• Court "Gives" Daniel 15 Days
• New Food Card Balance $253.00
• Off Working On Feature Story



I will make a few "business cards,"
to leave with select individuals, before
I embark on my journey to look for gold in
the mountains of California

• Righteous Gigging On Bourbon

This morning, I woke up at 6:05, just as Howard was arising to make his habitual morning run to McDonalds and thn to get coffee and a newspaper from Brother's Market.
I layed back down to sleep until my alarm clock (thank you, Lidgleys) rang at 7:05.
I should have been able to shake off drowsiness and make it to the bus stop in time for the 7:40, (which would have gotten me to the courthouse on time) but it seemed to take me forever to sit up, change socks, put on sneakers, pour some instant coffee into a bottle of spring water and chug it down, roll up my sleeping bag, put it in the trees, fold up my cardboard, put it in the trees; glance at the sports page, glance at the weather page, answer Howard's "How did you do last night?" habitual morning question, bag up my trash, use the porto-let, and then go to the bus stop.
The 7:40 pulled away right in front of my eyes.
My only hope then, of making it to court on time, rested in my ability to make a run for it.
I would have to run like the wind, with backpack and guitar around my neck, and cover the mile to the courthouse in under 10 minutes.
Instead, I had a cigarette and waited for the next bus.
Attorney Howell was livid and told me that being 45 minutes late was a big deal, in the eyes of the judge.
The Deal
However, she had worked out a deal with the City Attorney, whereby my charges would be dropped and instead, I would recieve a 15 day suspended sentence for "contempt of court" for being late.
If I am "caught"* in New Orleans after the 15 days, then I will serve the 15 days "or more," said the judge, who seemed like a nice Irish fellow...
*being "caught" would mean being cited for something.
"It's what they do for the tourists, so they can pay their fines and then leave without having acquired a 'record,'" said Attorney Howell. "They hit them for 200 dollars a pop, which you don't have, though"
"Consider yourself lucky," seemed to be the implication of that.

Finally havind the food card credited means shopping at
the big new Rouse's Market (this morning) which is the
"official grocer of The New Orleans Hornets."
Hopefully, some of the magic of their now 12 win-31 loss season
will rub off on me...

Clean, Well Rested And Unmurdered
She basically told me that it is hard to pull oneself up off the streets of New Orleans, "If you're not 'together,' it's hard to get it together," is a paraphrase of what she said.
She added that I should go somewhere "to (build up resources)" -i.e. to rest- and if I want to return in the not-near future, I could do it on a grander scale, like the performers who have equipment enough to sound good, and loud, and who make 4 times as much as I do, playing the same songs, though not necessarily even as well as I do, and who can get a motel room the same night of their arrival, so as to stay clean, well rested and unmurdered.
Outside the courthouse, she handed me 10 dollars and wished me luck in my travels.
Jammin' With Jeff

Jeff from San Francisco, er, Virginia.

I ran into Jeff From San Fransico, who told me that he is actually Jeff From Virginia, only just recently of The Bay Area, last night. He told me that it was his last night in the city because he is leaving (this) morning.
He was playing at the spot on Royal Street, across from Rouse's Market.
I have found that to be a hard spot to make money, and after we only made a dollar each, despite delivering of ourselves what I thought was an excellent jam, I told Jeff From San Francisco as much.
I told him that I was going to my spot on Bourbon Street, where I actually have been making money, and where I have the blessings of the residents in the condos across the street, and "exclusive rights" to play there have been bestowed upon me.

The trolleys all seem to be headed to California...

We had another excellent jam and made about 8 bucks each...

Am Off, Loaded With Calcium

I am off, working on a feature story, to hopefully be ready for this Friday's installment of "Flashback Friday" it is from 2002 and depicts some bizarre occurrences.
By Friday, I will also know the outcome of the court proceedings, which my freedom to travel could be dependent upon.
Eating 100 crawfish kind of gave me an icky feeling the next day...I felt like I was developing an ecto skeleton; the webs between my thumbs and fingers felt funny...  I'm sure that I was loaded with calcium...

Happy To Get Away From Cellophane Man

Somewhere in the shadows of Pravda,
content to have Sue back in my life, if only for
two and a half hours...

• Friday Through Sunday
• Days Away From Leaving

Friday night, I made about 30 bucks
but spent it down to about 12; probably thinking that Saturday would be as good, if not better.
Saturday the temperature dropped into the downright frigid range, especially so, for those tourists from south of certain lattitudes. It was a slow money night, even though I jammed with Jeff From San Francisco (the guy whom Sue and I argued over letting stay at the sign spot) and an accordian player.
We had two acoustic guitars, the accordian and two "G" harmonicas all going at the same time and got a good response during the 20 minutes that we played and wound up dividing 10 bucks three (ouch) ways.
Techno Speak
Jeff said that I was the best guy that he had ever played with (in all his 20 years).
He plays original songs that other musicians have had hard times assimilating, but I am familiar with the types of chord constructs that musicians who compose by ear often come up with; based upon moveable symetrical shapes on the guitar neck, causing one of the chords to have a non diatonic tone; this is the "defining" note in the progression and it is childs play to exploit it in a solo...

Not exactly "top shelf," but "middle shelf,"
none-the-less...

A Crustacian Sensation
Sunday, I got out in the late afternoon and made about 8 bucks before a guy came by and threw a bracelet into my case, which would allow me to eat all the crawfish that I could, at The Pravda Bar/ Restaurant -a $15 value.
I headed towards that venue, planning upon getting a beer at Stanley's before going in.
A guy, who had set up a piece of visual art* on the corner asked me to watch the thing (and his tip bucket) for a minute while he ran to Stanley's, offering me a free beer in return, which materialised into a Sierra Nevada "Torpedo" IPA. *it was a figure of a man made out of taped together cellophane, wearing surfer attire and sunglasses and stuffed into a trash receptacle with only his head, arms and legs hanging out, and a sign stuck on the front of the can which read "Trashed in New Orleans."
His tip bucket was brimming over with ones, as it seemed that every tourist wanted to take a picture of the thing and then threw a buck into his bucket.
As I stood there in embarrassment (I thought it was sophmoric and was glorifying dissipation) I wondered how he worked a "hustle" off of it. Did he prompt people with "If you like my art, feel free to leave a small donation?"
He answered that question by saying that "every person is different," but that if they started to walk off without tipping, he would politely say "This is how I make my living, folks, as pathetic as that may seem," or words to that effect. I didn't think to get a picture of the thing, myself.

Pravda, an establishment which is up to Sue's Standards

I was happy to get away from the cellophane man!
And then Sue, the Colombian lady came bounding across Decatur Street, "from out of nowhere,' which is her style; wearing a red hoodie with the hood pulled tightly over her little head. She said that she needed to talk to me.
She asked me where my stuff was.
I told her that it was in The Pravda Bar, where that I had access to all the crawfish that I could eat, as soon as the next batch was ready. As is typical with all-you-can-eat specials, there is a wait of about 20 minutes (the time it takes for the brain to realise that the stomach is full) between servings.
I invited her to join me in eating crawfish.
She voiced concern over whether or not she would be allowed in the place, carrying her bags and all.
I assured her that I had found the staff to be very amicable people. The fact that they assumed that I had forked over 15 dollars for the bracelet may have warmed their hearts a little towards me.
Sue and I had about 100 crawfish each, over the course of an hour.
"This is the first time I have eaten in a place like this, since I came here. I heard so much about how good the food was in New Orleans, but I couldn't even afford to try it!," said Sue, in between snapping tails and sucking heads of what looked like miniature lobsters.
It seems very important to Sue that she is treated equal to the beautiful wealthy tourists.
I think that she was a "lady" once -in the 1800's sense of the word. Her teeth are perfect, at least...
Then, we sat on a staircase and I tried to get her to come sleep at the sign spot.
Sue kept repeating that she didn't want a relationship. Time ticked away and the window of opportunity for me to add to the 8 bucks in my pocket was fast closing.
I think Sue wanted me to persist in begging her to come with me until such a point that she determined that I had paid my dues. Every time I kissed her neck, she moaned with pleasure, before saying "No, Daniel. We can't do this!"
We started drifting aimlessly towards Bourbon Street, which was also the general direction of the sign spot.
I finally told her that I was going to go play, because I was down to 8 bucks, but she was welcome to either come with me, or to just go lay down "you can use my sleeping bay" at the sign spot.

I sat and played and a couple came by and stopped to listen. They were both Physicians, explained the husband.
They envied my "freedom," and told me not to discount the life that I lead as being substandard. And then they raised my standard of living by about 20 bucks to go along with about another 8 bucks; all of which I would have forfeited, had I pursued Sue...
Court Wednesday
Meanwhile, Howard and I are awaiting the outcome of my court proceedings on Wednesday, after which we will either try to hop a train out of City Park and have a one-in-three chance of landing in Houston, San Antonio or Austin, Texas or having the train derail and kill us, or taking a 5 dollar bus ride to Baton Rouge, where (we have been informed by those in the know) it is easier to discern the correct track to take to a chosen destination. San Antonio is our choice, for at least a temporary stay.