The Saturday Evening Post

Is She Coming Or Going?

• The Sue Blues
• The Megabus
• Big And Easy Depression

I didn't post yesterday (Saturday) because I assumed that time was "of the essence," and, Sue was with me.

The switch in our relationship was thrown to "on again" Friday,  as I encountered Sue, sitting on the steps around the corner from Sidney's Beer Wine Liquor and Cigar World. There was an older black man sitting with her, who panhandled me as soon as I walked up.

Sue introduced me to him, told me that he had just gotten out of jail, had been in there for a while, and the man added that that was the reason that he was "out here" (panhandling).

The man soon left us alone on the same steps where, the night before, I had sat  next to her, bored out of my mind, realizing that Sue mostly talked about wrongs, both perceived and actual, which have been done unto her.

I went into Sidneys to get a cheap beer. I had woken up with somewhere around 6 dollars -enough for a bus ride to Baton Rouge and a dollars worth of spending money when I got there.

As the 8 p.m. curfew was drawing nigh, I mentioned that I was going to play at my spot until that time.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"Yes, I would like that very much."

The Girl With The Shaved Head Who Plays The Mandolin, at the spot where I played Friday night

She was carrying 4 bags. One with clothing, one with food; one with Kooky and the last with a pigeon that she found a couple weeks ago, injured and barely able to walk. She has been nursing it back to health and now it can lift its head and almost walk.

I wound up playing at the spot which used to be the spot of The Girl With The Shaved Head Who Plays The Mandolin, whom I haven't seen since returning here.

I made one dollar, while playing a pretty good version of some song.

"Let's just go to Bourbon Street, maybe someone will just give us some money," suggested Sue.

That seemed like our best hope of acquiring anything, on that bleak Friday evening, when jazz bands could be seen packing their equipment up and abandoning the 7 people in the clubs along Decatur Street, who were waiting to hear "The Girl From Opalina."

Somehow, we were getting pretty drunk. You know that you were pretty drunk when you wake up in the morning next to Sue and seeing Howards sleeping spot vacant, ask her "Was he laying there when we came here last night, I didn't notice?"

We had sat in a spot on Bourbon Street not 100 yards from where the horse cops had told me that I was to go to jail if they saw me playing after 8 p.m. It was about midnight.

Despite the influence of all the free drinks that people were handing us, and which I consumed myself, Sue being leery of them having been spiked with a date rape drug, I soon concluded that the risk vs. reward factor was tilted in favor of us getting out of there before any horse cops came.

We went to Uniques where someone told us each to grab a couple of "anything you want" out of the bins of anything anybody could ever want on ice which are everywhere in that establishment.

After that, we went to the sleeping spot and slept until well into the morning.

This was a departure for Sue, who in the past had always wanted to leave at the coming of dawn, so as not to be seen by anyone who might return and rape her the following night.

I took this as a positive sign, that she might actually be serious about leaving here and not concerned about burning bridges and leaving behind rubble.

In the morning, I got up and told Sue that I was running to the store for an energy drink. She asked "Can you get Kooky something?" as I left.

I returned with an energy drink and a can of tuna fish, which Kooky devoured.

We rolled about, cuddling and kissing on each other and we were as happy as we have ever been together.

Then, we were each bitten by a thing about the size of a postage stamp which was shaped like a snail out of its shell and covered with fur the color of a paper bag on top and had suction-cup-like tendrils on its bottom, white in color and had two white spots on its topside, natures way of making it look like the head of a poisonous snake to potential predators, perhaps.

I was woken up by it when it was on my right arm by the elbow.

I didn't brush it off right away, only after I noticed it secreting some kind of toxin which was stinging my skin.

Rather than kill it, Sue lovingly moved it a few feet away with a stick.

It was a Southern Flannel Moth (I Googled it)

The thing, though moving at a snails pace, eventually closed the gap between them and bit her on the finger.

Then, we left around noon and soon were sitting outside Popeyes on Canal Street with her putting a bag of ice over the snail shaped welt on my arm. I could feel pain up and down my arm which felt like it was in the bone itself; a "deep" pain, I guess.

My plan was to make enough money in the afternoon to take the bus to Baton Rouge, where I would busk there, instead of New Orleans.

Walking down Royal Street, I told Sue that I had decided to stay one more night.

She cheered my decision and kissed me.

We were as happy as we have ever been, but all that changed when we got to Decatur Street.

After grabbing a beer at Sidneys we walked along and I stopped to talk to a friend of mine who hand paints wooden doors and further ornaments them using lathes and other woodworking tools.

We were standing there talking when a terror stricken look washed over Sue's face.

'That's him!" she whispered in my ear, pointing to a black guy in his late twenties, who was standing on the other side of me.

It was the guy who has been stalking her; the one who lied down next to her at The Occupation and masturbated and then followed her after she fled to find another sleeping spot -the guy who sits next to her at the library even though there are plenty of other available tables.

The guy tapped me on the shoulder and, gesturing towards Sue, asked "Who is she?"

A few thoughts raced through my mind in that instant.

He's trying to see what Sue means to me...am I going to say 'that's my girlfriend, or just some chick I met today...

I also thought about Sue's tendency to exaggerate things. Like the time she cussed out the guy who runs the Royal Cafe after he asked her to leave, saying "You come in here every day and use the wireless, and you've bought like one piece of toast about a month ago!"

Sue left, but not before going inside and causing a scene by cussing the guy out; the gist of her argument being "You want me out of here just because I come in here and use the wireless every day and I've only bought one piece of toast a month ago and cause I'm Colombian; You're a racist pig!"

I just told the guy "She's my friend."

I didn't have to say any more, as Sue took up where I left off, and began to give him a public dressing down, asking him what his problem was, why was he stalking her and then listing his offenses in chronological order.

The guy who paints doors was saying "Not in front of my business; take it somewhere else."

The stalker was standing there grinning at her, letting her make the case for him that he would later espouse; specifically that she was a crazy lady and he had no idea what she was talking about and that she had some kind of paranoia that he was stalking her.

I managed to drag her away towards my playing spot.

We arrived there, but she wasn't finished.

I had my guitar out and my harp around my neck and my case open and Sue was still yelling at the black man, although he wasn't there.

Tourist after tourist walked past; cutting a wide swath around the ranting Latina.

I "needed" another beer, and I told her so. I wanted her to realize that she was driving me to drink.

By then, she had stopped a couple whom she knew who were walking past. A large black man and his female companion.

She was telling them about the stalker and his close proximity to her at that very moment.

The large black man was asking "Where is he?" in a tone of voice that suggested that he was willing to have "a little talk" with the guy.

Now, I felt that Sue was looking to someone other than myself to stand up for her and protect her.

I went and got another beer; the hard stuff; Steel Reserve 211.

I got back and again prepared to put the drama behind me and play music.

"You don't give a shit about me; all you care about is playing music and making tips. They could find me floating in the river like that lady the other night!"

By now, we had an audience.

Across from where I play, in the second level balcony were about a dozen revelers who had turned their stereo off in anticipation of hearing me play.

Instead, they were treated to hearing Sue ranting, and myself trying to apply cool-headed logic to the situation.

Apparently, Sue hasn't read the dissertation I wrote while in the military called "10 ways to kill someone with a sheet of paper...

I would keep an eye out for the guy to see if he is in the vicinity of Sue in an amount which is disproportionate to that of someone who is coexisting in a 12 block by 12 block French Quarter. I would also see if he showed me any disrespect or became territorial about Sue.

"Sue, I've seen what the guy looks like. Let me point him out to some people I know who have been around forever and have connections; maybe I can find out something about him and if I think he's a threat, I'll set Howard on him."

Not a good time for humor.

"You think this is funny, you think this is a joke?

And on and on she went, as tourists after tourist walked past.

She accused me of being in cahoots with the guy; after all, he had tapped me on the shoulder and asked "Who is she?" as if we were old buddies. Was I helping him stalk her?

"I know how you guys are, it's a male kind of thing; let's get this girl!"

"Let's let the thing run its coarse; you know how the mafia handles business; they don't yell and scream in the street; the guy just disappears one day...You should have noticed that he was behaving himself with me there with you; outside of the inappropriateness of his question...besides; if you come to Baton Rouge with me, you won't have to worry about it; of coarse you probably don't feel like I can keep you safe there..."

Finally, I got mad (What, am I supposed to do; cancel my Saturday night busking so we can sit somewhere and you can rehash this over and over) and told her that I was going to go and get yet another beer, to try to numb myself to all the drama.

She picked up her bags and started to walk off in typical Sue fashion.

I told her that "This is it, then" and that we were probably looking at each other for the last time in each of our lives.

She walked off.

As she did, the dozen or so people in the balcony all stood and applauded.

...great, now THEY'RE all "in on it," too...

I guess they had taken my side.

"You need to find a new girlfriend," a female voice cascaded down.

"Yeah, how am I supposed to play beautiful music with my head full of that?"

"I know, we were waiting to hear you jam" rejoined the same voice.

Instead of getting that next beer, I began to play, noticing that Sue had "forgotten" one of her bags and would have to catch up with me sometime, in order to get it back.

I played alright, knowing that I had a captive audience in the balcony and got one 5 dollar tip during a Beatles song, and about 8 or 9 ones.

I got back to the sleeping spot where Sue was nowhere to be found.

I woke up kind of depressed; thinking about a song that I have been working on which has Spanish lyrics and which I wanted to sing to Sue. I guess now I know a Spanish song for the sake of mere catharsis.

The Megabus

There is a purple double-decker bus which comes right by the sleeping spot, which has "Megabus.com" written on it and lists the cities where it stops; amongst them, San Antonio, Baton Rouge, Atlanta etc...with fares starting at $1 (*plus a 50 cent reservation fee)

• 
  
• Departs 4:45 PM New Orleans, LA , Bienville Ave b/t N Peter St and N Front St
  
  Arrives 11:15 PM Houston, TX , Clay St and Travis St
• 6hrs 30mins
  
• 
• 1 seat = $7.00
  

Well, there you have it; right from the horses website. $7.00 to Houston, and from there to San Antonio is only another 3 or 4 bucks, depending upon departure time!

Why Should I Leave You?

Here They Come Again...

Let Me Count The Ways...

Busking has been shut down at my favorite spot, despite the fact that the residents in the condos around me are cool with it. 

The cops came by Wednesday night at the same time as Tuesday night, and gave me the "Didn't we discuss this with you last night?" thing, and I was given a "summons" to go to court next Monday (25th) at 3 p.m.

"Next time" I am going to jail.

I can play up until 8 p.m.

I have made 5 times as much money on Bourbon Street between the hours of 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. as I have ever made before 8 p.m.

I made 52 bucks in downtown Baton Rouge on a Friday night; most of it after midnight.

My goal is simply to get 5 bucks today, before the last bus leaves for Baton Rouge, and to be on it, and not looking back.

I probably won't go to court, because of several reasons.

Reason One: I'm starting to relish tye notion of living in a place until I "f" it up for myself and then, just getting the hell out. 

The "system" is set up to encourage it. They only run a local warrant check on new faces, as if certain that no other jurisdiction is going to want them back, now that they are somebody else's problem.

There is no way that the City of New Orleans can add 15 or 30 or 45 days back to the end of my life should I sit and waste away in jail for any of those lengths of time.

In those same 45 days, instead of having my skills a trope and then needing an additional 15 days afterward just to get my callouses back, along with my timing, I could be in a new place, being "productive."

I still don't know if I have any outstanding "attachments" from when I lived here before and cops wrote me up over things, but never handed me any paperwork. It's incumbent upon the individual to check with the Clerk of Courts periodically to see if they have any scheduled court dates that they were not made aware of.

Reason Two: See above. Without being able to busk past 8 p.m., New Orleans becomes a big party that you aren't invited to, simply put.

The "day shift" buskers mostly play on Royal Street, and all have amplifiers, even the guy who plays classical stuff on a nylon string guitar runs the nylon string guitar through an amp.

At such a time as I find my fortune when the tide turns and my ship comes with Lady Luck smiling down upon me from the deck, then I can always come back and patch things up using U.S. currency as a fixative.

Reason Three: Sue.

I haven't enjoyed the times that I have spent with Sue.

There was no laughing, no playing around, no sense that we belonged together; just Sue sitting and telling me everything that is wrong between us, starting with the fact that I don't care about her that I am the one that is ashamed of her and I only want to cuddle with her at night, but don't care about her during the day.

I am starting to agree with her. 

The worst relationships that I have ever endured were the ones where the majority of the time that we spent together was in discussing our relationship. There is something unnatural about that.

The situation keeps arising where I am about to go to my spot, and Sue wants to know if I want her to go with me. I answer that I want her to go with me, but only if she wants to go; I don't want her to be bored.

Then, she answers that she only wants to go if I want her to go; and the clock ticks away and I feel like I have a giant key in my back and am being wound up.

I sat with her yesterday after I "happened" to have run into her near Decatur Street.

I couldn't think of anything to say. I was numb of all feelings of affection. I had just been blindsided with having my playing spot and all hope of making a hundred bucks that night, taken away.

Every time she spoke it was to rehash some wrong that had been done to her about which she had already told me more than once.

I sat and stared straight ahead, finishing a beer that I had gotten, thinking that it might put me in a better mood and I could then, in turn, cheer her up.

She wanted to know if there was something wrong, and if I was upset with her.

"I'm just bored," I finally said. I didn't really care if she took it to mean that she was boring me, because that was the truth.

She wanted to explain to me all of the reasons that she was unwilling to come with me to Baton Rouge.

"We always end up arguing, and if that happens in Baton Rouge then, I'll wind up stranded there." ...Yeah, you'll be up the creek without a paddle, Sue...

In between telling me all the reasons that she didn't trust the situation enough, she talked about how desperate she was to get out of New Orleans. 

At one point, she mentioned wanted to improve her diet and eat "real" food, instead of junk.

I had told her repeatedly about my grilling pit behind the boarded up building and all the stuff, from hot coffee in the morning, omelets, eggs, French toast, rice, spaghetti, fish, chicken, stir-fried vegetables and even popcorn(!) which I have mastered the preparation of in the past ten years, during which I cooked over a fire.

I didn't want to repeat it.

I got up and shouldered my backpack and grabbed my guitar and said "Well, I'm going to walk down Royal Street (it was just past 8 p.m.) and see how many people are out and I might play some."

"Your just going to walk away?" she asked before I was out of earshot.

"I didn't just walk away, I told you where I was going and said that I'd see you later"

She then started to say "This is the reason I don't want to go with you to Baton Rouge.." then hesitated.

She asked me if I wanted her to go with me.

I wasn't even going to start the "chicken and egg" logic of saying "Only if you want to..."

"I don't know, I'm bored out of my skull, I'm just walking; I don't care if you come!" And, with that, I walked away.

I don't know if she followed behind me, but if she did, she saw me stop to listen to Tanya and Dorise; Tanya whom she is jealous of...

I couldn't be bothered over the fact that I was pretty sure that I was sending a clear message to Sue, or that she would see it that way, at least: I want someone more like Tanya; she's not boring and I even know more about her than I do you, Sue, like her last name....

Howard Arrives

This morning, I went to take a shower at The Rebuild Center, and there, was greeted by none other than Howard.

I told him about the curfew and the horse cops and the library no longer allowing guitars inside and my woes with Sue.

When I got out of the shower, he had left. He has most likely fallen into his New Orleans routine and is at the library and will be until about 3 p.m. when he will go to the sign spot to read for a while and then take a short nap.  

My Name Is Sue, How Do You Do?

Here They Come!

Yesterday, (Tuesday) was to be the day that I returned to Scotlandville (part of Baton Rouge).  

My plan was to busk for a couple hours before the departure of the last bus out of here at 6 p.m.

I had left the library and was walking across Tulane Street when I heard a voice cry "Daniel!"

I turned around to espy none other than Sue, the Colombian lady, wearing a turquoise colored shirt, a departure from the brown, almost the color of her skin, hues that I had come to associate her with.

My plans to busk for a couple hours then take the last bus out changed, as I realized that I was free to do whatever I wanted, including staying another day, so as to spend time with Sue.

We walked towards The Unique Boutique, while Sue regaled me with tales of being stalked and harassed, and reaffirmed her resolve to get out of New Orleans at any cost.

Sue Ratted Out Over Cat

I suggested that she come with me to Baton Rouge, after she told me that she had been at the Greyhound station the day before planning to take a bus "anywhere," (she hadn't known that I was in town) but, one of the street people who hangs around working (i.e. panhandling) that area, saw that she was on the verge of escaping, and that person went to the Greyhound security people and reported that Sue had in her possession a live animal (to wit: a cat) in one of her bags, whereupon Sue was shaken down, Kooky discovered, and her ticket money refunded.

"They're trying to stop me from leaving!," she said, almost on the verge of tears.

We went to Uniques where I bought a pint of Heavenly Hill Whiskey and a large can of Arizona "Arnold Palmer" Iced Tea.

We then went to PJ's Coffee on Grenier Street to sit on their couch and plug in this laptop so that Sue could hear my last five creations with the Audacity program.

We each had our palms wrapped around an "Arnold," which is what I dubbed the concoxtion. I guess you could say that we were both Arnold Palmers!!!

*pausing to let the laughter die down a bit before continuing*
 .......
The Backbone Of My Sound

Sue was very complementary, as she listened in awe but, from where I sat, shoulder to shoulder with her, what I could hear bleeding through the headphones sounded quite often out of pitch or obnoxiously out of balance, and after she kept mentioning a certain "fuzziness" in the sound mix, I had to explain to her that it was caused by cars speeding by about 90 feet away from where my little "studio" was.

When others (such as Alex in California) have panned the recordings, my stance became one of "Well, it's not THAT bad, it's just that....etc" and I would be focusing upon what did come out well, either a guitar melody or a harmonica riff or something.  

Hearing Sue's lavish praise of me ("I love your voice so much") made me take the opposite tack and become extremely self-critical, hearing only the flaws. "It's not THAT good, there's way to much echo here, the mix is muddy there; and that sounded like a garbage truck just then..."

But, I am still determined to make better (Facebook worthy) recordings. 

I am listening to freely down-loadable mp3s of artists who just play acoustic guitar and sing, and taking note of the way their stuff is equalized and mixed, since those two elements should be the "backbone" of my sound.

More Doors Close

Sue became pretty intoxicated after drinking her Arnold. She could have used a designated driver. She sat, trying to iron things out; while I putted around, trying to decide upon which course to take..

We started to walk towards this library, where Kooky was secreted in the storage room, and she broke down in tears and beseech-ed: "Why did you leave me here all alone. I needed you, but you left me!"

As she sobbed on my shoulder, I reminded her of my unsuccessful attempts to get her to come along with me.

Then, as we sat on the steps of the library, she struck up a conversation in Spanish with a Spanish guy.

I told her that I was going to go play my spot.

She gave no indication of wanting to come along with me; so I walked off, towards my spot, wondering how someone who was so broken up over my leaving town for a couple weeks could decline to accompany me on what could be one of my last few evenings here.

The Sound Of Hooves Approaching

I played at my spot, after having run into a medicinal herbalist in Jackson Square, who had silver and black skin and who wrested 14 dollars from my grip, leaving me with 5 bucks (after having woken up with 32) and had recovered about 7 dollars of it when up rode three cops on horses. It was a little after 10 p.m.

The one cop, who spoke for all three said "Your not supposed to be playing here, this is residential"

I thought about Barnaby, the condo owner across the street's advice to me on how to handle that particular contingency. 

He had told me that the best approach would be to put myself in the mindset that "The guys with the badges and guns are always right" and to be overly apologetic and say "Yes, sir. No,sir. I'm sorry sir, I wasn't aware of that, sir. Thank you, sir. I appreciate the work you gentlemen do, sir..."

"I have the blessing of the people in the condos around me...until 10 o' clock," I said, forgetting to append "sir" to it.

"The law says 8 o' clock," said the spokes-horseman.

At that point I made an effort to follow Barnaby's advice and managed a weak "Oh, I wasn't aware of that, I'll move on..." but my heart wasn't in it.

I put away my harmonica, scooped up my tips and was tying up my case and noticing that the same horse cop was stationary in front of me, as if wanting to follow through on seeing me actually get up and walk off.

"I'm going to leave, sir" I said. "I mean, I don't want to waste your time..."

"That's OK, I don't need to be anywhere."

I left, with half a mind to set up on another spot somewhere, which I did, on Canal Street across from the casino, but it was feeling too much like a Tuesday night and I knocked off around 11:30 and went back to the sign spot, where Sue and Kooky were already in repose.

I had stopped at Rouse's Market and bought one peach, one apple and a 12 oz. jar of peanut butter. I would have brought something for Sue and/or Kooky to eat or drink; but I think if I had, then she wouldn't have been there. I think that is how that works...

I drifted off to sleep while Sue stroked my hair and kissed my neck.

I woke up with 7 dollars; and a slight feeling that Sue's forebodings of being trapped here might be contagious.

Monday and Tuesday nights are the only ones upon which I had ever had any confrontations with the law here. Funny how they had ridden up right after 10 p.m., even though "The law says 8 p.m."

No More Guitars

And, I was just informed by the security guy at this library that "She doesn't want any more musical instruments coming into the library."
"She," being the lady who decides what comes into the library and what doesn't.
I guess I will be blogging from the coffee house when here, rather than try to hide my guitar somewhere before coming to the library.
There are people that would fan out and look for it if they happened to see me without it on my back..maybe even borrow a bloodhound from a gutter punk for the job...

...Can't Trust That Day

Monday,

I extended my whirlwind tour of The Big Easy one more day, as Sunday had been break-even kind of affair.

Yes, I made $25.53 and I spent 70 cents more than that.

I should have reported waking up Monday morning with $24.83, but was ashamed and embarrassed by my recklessness...although I DID have almost a full pack of smokes an energy drink and enough medicinal herbs for three days...

There have been times that I went back out and played an additional set, knowing that I would be holding myself "accountable" on this blog, and feeling that what I had made so far was unacceptable.

I went my regular route, still snatching ducks off the sidewalk to store like a squirrel for the upcoming times in butt-on-the-ground-less Scotlandville.

I am sure that I have avoided mugging attempts because of that habit ...sheet, he ain't even got fighallas (five dollars) for a pack o' squares (cigarettes)! It keeps my $24.83 safe and me humble and reminds me that I shouldn't care what people think; a lot of them are going to find a reason to hate you no matter what you do.

Then, as if reading the mind of Alex in California who would comment that I must have to urinate quite frequently, like some esoteric Asian warrior, I bought a half pint of Italian brandy for $4.35 and proceeded to walk and gulp my way down Royal Street.

Go Make That 11 Dollars, Now

Sue?

It being a Monday, there were fewer buskers out, and the ones that I walked past seemed to have very few one dollar bills in their cases. It is my belief that Royal Street is "for" traditional New Orleans Jazz type instruments, (bring your clarinet) but I'm not foolish enough to tell the guitarists that have three dollars in their case after their first hour that there are better spots to play an acoustic guitar at. I like those spots to be vacant when I go to them.

I was keeping an eye out for Sue, who is half of the reason that I stayed an extra day. If I don't see her today, I might never see her again.

I went through Jackson Square and along Decatur Street and didn't see her.

She wasn't at Sydney's either, buying a 12 oz. Pabst Blue Ribbon for a dollar, to chase down Italian Brandy.

And the rest of the day is kind of a blur.
I blacked out at some point, but must have played alright.

At one point a young guy came by and gave me 10 bucks for what I had left of the 10 dollar sack of medicinal herbs that I had bought the previous day (about 2 bucks worth; he was that desperate)

I woke up this (Tuesday) morning with 32 dollars and no change on me. I had an energy drink and two cigarettes.

Apart from the herb transaction, it was a minus 3 dollar day; and, let's see I probably spent about 11 bucks on brandy and beer (9 bucks is usually the blackout "threshold" unless I'm drinking swill and can accomplish it for 6) and $2.70 on a pack of smokes (50 cents off Pall Malls at Sydneys; offer good while they last) and, I gave a bum a dollar after he offered me a piece of the chicken he was eating...so, I guess I made around 11 dollars busking.

Back To Red Stick

I will stay today, just long enough to look for Sue and to busk until right before the last LA Swift leaves for Baton Rouge (red stick) at 6 p.m.

I will arrive there with traveling money in my pocket.

Then To Shreveport

Howard and I WILL, probably Thursday night; take the last #10 Scotlandville bus to the stop at Choctah Road, where we will get off. It could quite literally be the last #10 bus that we ever ride on. *dramatic music plays*

Howard may or may not go into the Burger King and get something to eat. The food might send his body into shock because the time will be around 9:50 p.m., not 6:08 a.m., not 11:35 a.m., not 5:35 p.m.

We will then walk a half mile to the rail yard and conceal ourselves in one of the hanger type buildings and wait.

At midnight we will issue forth and stealthily make our way to a spot in between the fourth and fifth tracks, counting from the St. Mary Street side, and station ourselves about 200 yards back from the little white building, in between the rows of cars, some of which will be waiting to be pulled to Shreveport and then into Texas.

Sometime within the next hour or so, a train will pull into the yard. The conductor will get out at the little white building. The train will pull through the yard and stop with its hindmost car at or around the little white building. A switchman will then throw a switch so that, when the train starts to back up, it will be routed onto the forth or fifth track, counting from the St. Mary Street side.

The train will start to back up.

As it begins to sidetrack, it will become obvious from our vantage point which track it is on, the fourth or the fifth. Howard will probably ask "Is that the train?"

Having spent our idle moments in waiting searching the rows of cars on each track for ridable ones, Howard and I will have about 45 seconds to throw our stuff onto the car and climb aboard.

After doing so, we will soon be on our way directly to Shreveport, Louisiana, Do not pass Go; do not collect 200 dollars.

This was all laid out for me by the knowledgeable train rider whom I met in front of the Greyhound station in Baton Rouge.
A Generous City

Once in Shreveport, I was further informed, I would be in a place that is "great for busking." 

The train riding kid said that he "made" $200 standing at an intersection holding a sign in that generous city. While he was doing so, his girlfriend (the one that broke his guitar in a previous post about our first meeting at the rail yard -the time Howard and I were unsuccessful in hopping out) was making another $250 holding another sign at another spot.

$450 in one afternoon, not bad. They DO have a dog to feed, though...

About 25 Dollars And 72 Cents

I Shake The Bushes Of Jackson Square, But No Sue

Early Sunday morning, it began to rain hard...

I woke up well into it and only after the white noise of heavy rain hitting the leaves of the tropical plants around me became loud enough to rouse me out of my dreams about Sue. 

I grabbed my guitar and pack and galloped like a gazelle across the 80 yards or so of grass to the nearest ramp leading to the elevated memorial of Simon Bolivar. 

My flashlight and a bottle of sesame oil fell out along the way, but they would have to wait to be retrieved. 

As I scurried under the ramp, I thought about Tanya the violinist in her house. I was depressed for about 7 seconds, but wound up being too tired to stay up and brood in self pity. 

The next thing I knew, it was morning, and the sun was up over the "nine O' clock" building to the east of the sleeping spot. 

It was when the sun crested the top of this building that Howard would close the book that he would be reading and make his move towards the library; in other words 9:15 a.m., hence the "nine O' clock" building. 

The building/clock offered other readings; when its shadow was aligned with the 4th floor of the building to the west of us, 7:45 a.m, for example.  

The shadow reaches Rampart Street at 11 a.m.* 

*These times need to be adjusted for each season, but not radically, as they face almost true east or west, the effect of the tilting of the earth to the north and south is minimized, and they only needed to be tweaked about 2 minutes per week...

Look At All The Pretty Umbrellas
I started to head for the Westin Hotel with its electrical outlet, table, chair and Starbucks all within 50 feet of each other.
It started to pour down rain as I walked Canal Street.
I scurried from awning to overhang to awning and made it to The Unique Boutique, where I purchased a Rip-It energy drink, resisted the urge to flavor it with vodka, and then scurried from parking lot to awning to overhang to doorway and got to the Westin, where I posted yesterday's lengthy entry, drank two tall cups of coffee with nutmeg, cinnamon and turbinado (sp?) sugar and messed around with Linux Bash Shell scripting.
The "Songlist" Program
I am working (at the level of "beginner") on a program which stores my list of songs and will eventually have a script to add songs, maybe a database "back end" and maybe a GUI front end.
It now tells me how many songs are in my repertoire (69, at this writing, but I am constantly remembering songs that I had forgotten that I knew -like "Have You Ever Seen The Rain," by Creedence Clearwater Rivival, and adding them) -big deal -but, I am only in Chapter 2 of Bash Scripting Tutorial.
I was there until about 4 p.m. when I left there and switched from coffee to beer somewhere about half way to Sydneys on Decatur Street.

Sue Seen

Paul (standing) saw Sue "yesterday."

I took a circuitous route through Jackson Square, where Sue claims to frequent, but where I have never seen her.

There, sitting on a bench with a guitar alongside a black guy with a trombone, was Paul, from Doreen's Jazz band.

They played some pretty traditional sounding jazz standards (type stuff) and Paul told me that he had seen Sue "yesterday."  

At Sydney's, I paid $2,50 for a beer which boasted 10.2% alcohol content, and that it was good, on its label.

It was a brand called "Lawnmower" and I had the "triple IPA" variety -delicious, 97 pts.

Then, I went back inside the store, thinking that I couldn't afford another one of those, and so was headed towards the Torpedoes, when my vocal praise of the Lawnmower brew prompted a discussion amongst the patrons and employees about favorite brews, and one young gentleman who is the latter, bought me a bottle of a ginger and grapefruit flavored beer, made by Shiner's, insisting that I try it, and assuring me that my life would be changed by the experience.

Well, the Shiner's stuff was just alright. Not enough ginger, not nearly enough. (I like to buy Jamaican "ginger beer" and then spike it with powdered ginger until it makes my tongue sting when I drink it.)

So, I followed up on my original plan, got a Torpedo to wash the taste of the grapefruit out of my mouth and then headed for my playing spot, taking a circuitous route which brought me past Checkpoint Charlie's where I ascertained that they still ran an open mic on Sunday nights; and where I parted with 10 dollars for some medicinal herbs sold by a teenaged girl with purple hair and a lot of tattoos.

15 dollars and 50 cents in arrears, I sat at my spot and played for about an hour, and made only 3 dollars, but got a nice complement.

Taking a break, I launched another Torpedo and then returned and had better luck, as the sun was going down and there were swarms of tourists up and down Bourbon Street.

I wound up getting three 5 dollar tips and a total of about $25 bucks for the night, which concluded at about 11 p.m, an hour after the unspoken recommended time for knocking off in residential areas.

About 28 Bucks

• Late Start On Bourbon Yields $28
• No Sign Of Sue By Sign
• The Weather Plays Its Hand

I woke up around 9:30 a.m. behind the building on the corner of 8th and Main Streets in Baton Rouge.

I had about 19 dollars left of the 22 and change that I had made Friday night on 3rd Street, having spent $2.50 during a dash to the beer store at 12:30 a.m. and then $2.00 on a hot dog from the cart of the guy across the street from where I play, who lets me park my backpack and guitar in the back of his pickup, so that I can quite literally dash to the beer store at a trot.

This is important, as the beer store, affectionately referred to as "the hood store," is in what is not so affectionately referred to as "crack town."

A guy half jogging and passing by so quickly that the bums can only get "Excuse me, do you have..." out of their mouths before he is out of earshot, is better off than a guy hobbling along under the weight of a backpack containing a laptop (50 dollar crack rock value) and a guitar (20 dollar crack rock value) and whatever cash he has in his pocket (redeemable at face value for crack).

At 12:30 a.m. I had made a whopping 6 dollars and hadn't had a beer all night. I was poising myself to return in time for the "stretch run" of 1 a.m. past 2 a.m. (when the bars close) until about 2:45 a.m. (when it has finally dawned upon the last stragglers that, indeed, the bars have closed, nothing more to be done here; throw the busker a couple bucks and then go home)

It was during this stretch, invigorated by the exercise and fortified by 40 ounces of beer, that I made another 16 bucks

At about 3 a.m. I asked the hot dog guy if he had any "stray dogs," to which he replied in the negative; sensing that I was asking for a hand out.
We agreed on a price of 2 dollars, which was a 33% discount off of the regular price (of 3 dollars).

After eating, I helped him load his tables, chairs, tent, coolers etc. in the back of his truck and then hopped in myself to be dropped off nearby 8th and Main to sleep for what amounted to about 6 hours.

Saturday morning, as I walked towards the bus terminal to get an all day bus pass, so that I could "shoot" to Scotlandville to pick up some clothes and grab the two computer books that Sue had checked out for me and which are due this coming Tuesday, I started to think that leaving that stuff there was a tactical error.
Tactical Errors Costly

First, I should have ran behind the building Thursday night when rain began to pour down, instead of standing under the overhang watching it, thinking ...look at it come down! instead of  I'd better hurry up and pull all my clothes off the rack and under the overhang so that they will be dry enough for me to take with me Friday afternoon, so I won't have to burn 2 dollars on a bus pass to come back and get them Saturday...

And, I had left Sue's books there, which probably weigh about 4 pounds, because I knew that I was going to walk about a mile from the terminal to my playing spot, not having in my possession that Friday afternoon, the 25 cents required to transfer to the "Downtown #14" bus.

(...this is something that I can't seem to get the bums to understand when they look at me in abject incredulity after I tell them that, no, I can't spare a quarter...You can't spare one quarter? One quarter?!? ...you a greedy, stingy uncaring @#$%!!)

I was thinking that I probably should have bitten the bullet and lugged the books with me as I headed towards the terminal.

As it turned out, my backpack would become loaded with books anyways.

The Yard Sale

The Society of Saint Vincent De Paul had a big Yard Sale going on in its parking lot.

I went in, and the first thing that I saw were a couple of laptop cases, 3 dollars each, but, unfortunately they were sized too small probably made for notebook computers.

My 19 dollars was still intact, but then I saw about a dozen boxes containing books of all kinds, paperbacks 25 cents each.

I thought of Howard.

I wondered if He would reimburse me should I grab a couple dollars worth of books on the speculation that he would like the looks of them, or that he would not already have read them.

After setting aside about 20 books, I whittled them down to 7 in an excruciating process when great feelings of sadness, loss and regret were stirred in my heart as I left behind, for practical purposes, such gems as The Tibetan Book of the Dead, and an Ann Tyler novel, an Aldous Huxley and others that I wasn't familiar with, but which had "New York Times Book Of The Century*" and similar encomiums emblazoned upon their obverses.

*How long is "The New York Times Bestselling Author" list, anyways? I only found a few paperbacks which were NOT written by one of those inductees! Maybe whomever donated them only reads "Great" works...

Laden with the 7 books which had now supplanted Sues computer manuals (I knew there was a good reason I left them behind...), I went to the bus terminal, after taking advantage of the noon "feeding" at the very same Vincent De Paul soup kitchen (I was in the neighborhood anyways).

I saw the 12:45 LA Swift bus to New Orleans just boarding passengers, and had an additional twinge of regret for not having packed for that trip on Friday.

But, I had invested $1.75 in hours of reading pleasure, and was doing a good deed in bringing Howard in on the deal.

The Greg Iles and Michael Connelly titles that I had picked out, met with Howards approval ...hmm, I don't think I've read this one...but I couldn't bring myself to ask him to reimburse me 50 cents for them.

But, the good deed was rewarded as, the guy who washes cars in front of the boarded up building washed about a half dozen cars that afternoon, as I cooked spaghetti over a fire out back, and he gave me 10 dollars, for "watching my stuff for me, back there."

He gave me the advice to run off the guy who takes our aluminum cans, and to call the police if we have to, because we have permission to be there, while he, along with being a terrible car washer was just "rotten" and "won't take no for an answer; you can't be nice to him, he'll take that as weakness; you need to get right in his face and tell him to get the !@#$ out of here!"

I made it downtown with 20 minutes to spare before the last (6 p.m.) running of the LA Swift to New Orleans.
Just A New Orleans Thing
Arriving in "The Big Easy" around 7:45 p.m., I went first to the "sign" spot, where I was made uneasy after seeing no sign of Sue.

The tree limbs were barren of all bags of clothing, books and all live animal carriers. It looked like she may have gone for good, and took her pigeons with her.

I was confronted by my emotions and only then realized exactly what proportion of my enthusiasm for coming to New Orleans lay in the hope of seeing Sue, and what was left over for sitting by myself and playing music for strangers on Bourbon Street.

I felt a little bit alone in a sometimes hostile and uncaring city; but then pushed the thoughts away by telling myself that Sue wouldn't even come to Baton Rouge with me; she is always going to be just a New Orleans thing, I'm starting to think...

Named After The Bourbon Family

I began my traditional walk, picking butts off of Canal Street, making a left on Royal, stopping at The Unique Boutique where I recieved a chorus of "Acarlu!" from the staff there, who hadn't seen me in two weeks, and spending myself down to about 6 bucks with the purchase of a can of Cobra Malt Liquor.

The Cobra, which was a passable brew in Scotlandville, tasted watery and flavorless on Royal Street.

I stopped to talk to the older "grizzlied" guy with a gray beard and a cowboy hat who sits on the corner of Iberville and Royal and plays a pretty nice Takamine guitar and sings through an amp and who sits aside a large "menu" of songs propped on an easel which he does barely recognizable renditions of; who told me that he has had nights where he had made "only about 7 bucks, up until midnight, and then some one drunk guy will come over and hand me a 20."

I soon told him that I had better get to my spot. I didn't tell him that, on my spot, there were nights when I had made only about 23 dollars up until midnight, and then some drunk couple will come over and hand me 40 or 50 dollars.

He plays for about 12 hours each day. He is there when I am on my way out; and he is just getting warmed up when I am on my way back to the sleeping spot.

Tanya And Dorise

Then, I walked along and heard Tanyas violin before I even saw her or Dorise.

I stopped and listened on the opposite corner.

Tanya played one of only a handful of sour notes that I have ever heard her play, during a song that I had never heard them play.

Maybe it is new material that she is struggling with, or an off the wall request ...maybe she rises to the occasion and plays flawlessly when she knows that I'm listening...

Then Dorise spotted me.
I approached during a break between songs and she gave me a very curt, almost masculine sounding "What's up?"

Tanya was more warm in her greeting.

After she turned around to see who Dorise had greeted, she smiled and said "You're back!"

Tanya Apparently Roller Bladed To Work This Day

She was dressed for the heat, with denim shorts which revealed tan lines on her silky smooth looking legs. She just keeps getting more beautiful. I almost complemented her upon them (her legs), but hesitated because there is some speculation that her and Dorise are in a relationship of some kind... 

I couldn't help notice the correlation between beautiful violin playing and those two baskets that you see in the photo having to be emptied every 3 hours of so, to make room for more money.

I also noticed their apparent indifference to money.

They never acknowledge people who come up and put tips in their baskets. Some people, wanting to show their appreciation on a more personal level, will hold a 20 or 50 up in front of them before dropping it in the basket, as if to tell them "this is how much I appreciate you," and that person won't even get any eye contact from either of them.

They act that way, but, I wonder if they were in jeopardy of losing their houses and their cars and their hot tubs and ski trips to Colorado, if they would then even pay attention to the money going in the baskets.

Maybe it's a ruse to make it appear that they are so "into" the music that they are oblivious to all else EVEN MONEY! -which of course produces more money, because people love to see performers get "into" their music.

And, Dorise has the apparent attitude that the universe is providing for her (of course I own a house, why shouldn't I own a nice house??) and she has no attachment to possessions (type of philosophy) but, I really want to ask her, in a way that wouldn't imply anything negative. "Have you ever tried busking just by yourself, no Tanya?"

I think the income that she would be ignoring would adjust itself down from $1,500 a day to, maybe what I make; maybe...

She is a very "competent" rhythm guitarist, don't get me wrong; and the black and Chinese combination is enchanting and exotic...

Well... judge for yourself click here to see the video that goes along with the picture above, and tell me if you think that Dorise should say a special prayer of thanks each night for having Tanya by her side. 

She just seems to take it for granted, that's all I'm saying; and yes, I would love to accompany Tanya on guitar (and am even down for the "relationship" part, too) so I know this might sound like sour grapes. I would be more aware of the two baskets, I must say though, call me worldly or materialistic or addicted to alcohol and tobacco...

I swung by Sidney's and spent myself down to 4 dollars by buying a 2 dollar bottle of Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA Ale, to take the taste of the Cobra out of my mouth; and in keeping with my habit of only drinking brews named after things that can kill you; Hurricanes, Cobras, Colt 45's, Torpedoes...and I suppose Mickey's (if someone slips too many in your drink).

I took a lesson from the grizzlied guitarist and decided to bump my playing time up to about 5 hours (from 3.5, average) -there is something to be said about the "numbers game" in New Orleans. The longer you are out there, the better the chance that that "big fish" will swim by. And, the big fish are out there; people set aside thousands of dollars for their trips to The Big Easy.

I reaped dividends last night when a girl threw me 2 bucks "for the Tom Petty song" that I had played 2 hours earlier, when they had been passing in the opposite direction.
I was thrown one 10 dollar bill, and one 5, both from the same group of people. I was playing "Crazy About A Crazy Girl." 
In The Interest Of Brevity
Well, I don't want this post to run very long...
It's 2:06 Sunday Afternoon. I have $25.55.
I am at Starbucks, where I still have about $13 on the gift card which The Lidgeley's sent from London back in January...
I will head towards the spot and take a path to get there, which passes some of Sue's known haunts -I'll see if she might happen to be in the beer store, looking at Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA Ales, too. She might be...

Shreveport In Sight

I'm in downtown Baton Rouge

"Go To Shreveport, Dude!"

I have 7 cents left after having taken the bus down here.

I guess I am managing to live off of what I make on the weekends, for about six and a half days.

There is a slight chance of rainfall tonight.

I didn't pack for New Orleans. 

I will shoot up to Scotlandville tomorrow, after hopefully making enough tonight to finance the trip; grab clothes, which should be dry by then, and the two books that Sue checked out of the New Orleans library for me. They are due on the 19th.

That's about it.

I will scrounge for tobacco before it rains; and then get ready to sit and play for as long as I can stand it.

Shreveport

Shreveport is on the horizon, after my talk with the train hopping kid last Sunday.

He said that it is great for busking (and panhandling) and that getting a train from there to Texas is childs play...