13 Dollar Thursday

The Most Important Thing

Rain on Canal Street

The most important thing that happened last (Thursday) night was probably that, after blogging at Starbucks until about 7 PM, and then going to The Unique Grocery, for the first beer of the night, I encountered, in that establishment, "Mama Cat," who is a fixture in the quarter, and whom I have had dealings with, in the past.

She said "Travers and Mark were looking for you."

Travers is my Unity caseworker. It is December 19th, and for the remainder of the month, Unity is placing only veterans in housing units. "Everybody else," will be administered to, after the 1st of the year (2015). Just saying "2015" makes me think that we are all in some futuristic movie. Aren't we all supposed to be living in a colony on Venus, by now?

Travers had been looking for me around McDonalds, Mama Cat said. She hadn't said how long ago that was, though.

I hung around McDonalds, where David the water jug player often hangs around, and there he was.

After about an hour of waiting out the rain storm, and not seeing Travers, the rain stopped, and I repaired to the Lilly spot.

It was another very slow night, where there were intervals of 2 or 3 consecutive songs, when nobody walked past.

I know enough to keep playing through these times, for a few reasons.

Some tourists seem to hide in the shadows and listen, out of sight, maybe to see if the musician is really dedicated to his craft and will play for just his own joy; or to keep open their option of tipping  him without revealing themselves, and then hurting his feelings by just walking off (if he sucks that bad). Or to avoid interacting with him, in case he might just be a skeezer, banging on an out of tune instrument missing strings.

So, I kept up a pretty steady set from about 9:45 until just short of 11, and made 13 bucks.

At one point, Lilly's ex husband, who is a pleasant, soft spoken gentleman with a Portuguese accent, came out and nicely asked me if I would move further away from his bedroom window, which was right behind me; just as Lilly warned me that he would. She had told me that I should move down to the other stoop the night before.

I explained that I had only moved down so that I could be in a better lit spot, and that I planned upon getting batteries for my spotlight, and returning to the other stoop. After he grasped this, he said: "OK, play here," then appended "Maybe 45 minutes, or an hour?" To which I nodded and told him that would be fine, as it was very slow out.

The 13 dollars that I wound up making was largely due to one 10 dollar bill from a woman, towards the end of my set.

I spent another chilly night at the sign spot; frequently waking up to readjust the one flimsy blanket which I have to wrap around myself in my 3 tee shirts and 2 sweatshirts and a hoodie, but only a pair of jeans below the waist.

I thought about getting some thermal underwear out of my own money, rather than going through the process of waiting for some homeless assisting operation to be handing out clothing, at some time and place which I would have to arrange my schedule to be at. By Christmas, I could be dead from pneumonia, if I wait upon those organizations.

But, batteries for the spotlight are more important, as they will produce the money for the long johns faster than the long johns will produce the money for the batteries.


And going to The Rebuild Center to use their phone to try to set up an appointment with Travers trumps even that. He may have been looking for me last night to tell me to meet him today; maybe even to show me a housing unit which might be available and to ask me if it was feasible for me (given its location, or other factors, perhaps. At least I don't have a pet...)

It is raining outside, and has been since it washed me out of the sign spot, at about 11 AM. I will have to just walk the 3/4 mile through it, so as to get to The Rebuild Center before they close.

As I was foraging for food outside of Rouses Market, at about 1 AM, this morning (an activity which I can resume, now that I am not tied to the running of the last bus of the night out to Leslie's house) I found a trash bag wrapped around 4 large cans of beer -3 of them Pabst Blue Ribbon, and one Budweiser.

I stashed them in the trees, as I had drank enough for that night, and I don't drink in the morning; unless I'm hanging out with Leslie, who does.

I then hatched a plot to retrieve all the stuff which I had left at Leslie's house as I made my hasty exodus.

I will take the bus out there, and show up at his door sporting the 4 jumbo cans of beer. I don't think he will be able to form the words "You're not welcome here," and look at the beer at the same time.

And, he doesn't have to know that I got them for free, out of the Rouses Market trash cans..."Leslie, I went and bought you an early Christmas gift; as a peace offering....can I come in and get the rest of my stuff?"

But, first things first.

It is ironic that; in addition to probably missing an opportunity to be placed in my own apartment because I was staying at Leslie's and "missing in action" in the eyes of Unity; I left my phone charger there; my phone subsequently went dead; then, Unity had most assuredly tried to call me last night, to tell me to meet them in front of McDonalds. They may have even handed me a 5 dollar McDonalds "gift card," as they so often do when they go out in the field to find "clients" on the streets.

It is 1:30, and I will now walk through the rain so I can use the phone at Rebuild Center to call Unity; and will not have to bank on my phone charger still being at the Thompson residence.

Leslie has a habit of discarding items; and removing all traces of the people whom he casts out.

When I moved in, he went on a rampage of throwing out stuff from housemates past; valuable stuff, like a box fan, a huge bag of rice comes to mind; and he stopped just short of throwing out the large TV that someone left behind before they ran like hell from that hell.

That should have been a red flag for me...

30 Dollar Wednesday

Wednesday morning, after waking up with about 8 of the 9 dollars, which I had made the previous night ($14 total, after a black guy, who had a wad of cash, handed me 5 dollars when I was in the Wal-Greens, buying a bag of chips and a half gallon of prune juice at 2 AM, on my way to the sign spot; he may have seen the prune juice and felt sorry for me ...I've been constipated before, dude, and it's no fun...) I went to the Starbucks to blog.

I left the prune juice at the sign spot; effectively postponing my Dr. Christophers' 3 day fast and cleanse and mucous free diet project; for at least one more day.

I ran into David the water jug player, who had asked me if I had any weed.

"No, if I spend 5 bucks on a "nick," it will only leave me 3 dollars for beer."

Having at least enough beer money to get drunk is to me what that blanket was to Linus in the Peanuts comics -something which David understood perfectly. "Go about your business, man! To tell you the truth, I'm already high and have drank 2 half pints of vodka, already!"

Music

As I blogged yesterdays post, I was listening to one of the albums which I had burned onto my stick at the library, then transferred to my laptop.

It is convenient for me to check out 2 (my maximum) CD's upon each visit to the library, and burn them to the stick, while I blog on the library computer; then transfer them at Starbucks.

I am starting with the "A" section of the libraries CD rack, and working my way through the alphabet. Yesterday, I burned a Brian Adams disc, and a Greg Allman one.

Record Review

The Brian Adams disc, entitled "The Tracks Of My Years," is full of cover songs, which were meaningful to Brian, back in the 70's; and which had become "engrained" in him, as he put it in the liner notes.

I was immediately impressed by 2 things: The amount of energy the guy puts into his vocals -he really is a "belter,"- and the sound quality, which stirred up insecurity in me about my potential to approach his sonic level, even with the snowball microphone. It really is a "good sounding" album, even if you hate the songs and/or hate Bryan Adams.

A Sound Comparison

Johnny B.'s CD, which he played for me in his apartment, sounded as good as Bryans.

"I spent $30,000 on that CD; It'd better sound good. Plus, my brother is one of the top engineers in the business," said Johnny B., about it.

4 Out Of 5 Stars

The downside of Bryan's album is that, there are some songs which he belts out; where his voice sounds a bit cracked and, perhaps, damaged after years of performing. 

And, it is as the album progresses that the rasp intensifies, as if he recorded them all in that order, in one session. In fact, in the last few, he sounds irritatingly (to me) like Rod Stewart. I have hated Rod's voice ever since hearing "Maggie Mae," when I was in the 8th grade. It wasn't every schoolboy's dream to sing like him. He sounded (and sounds) "horse."

I never pressed Johnny B. for more information, to satisfy my mild curiosity about which famous artists his famous brother has engineered.

He once told me that he, himself, has had songs "on the radio." 

I keep asking him his last name; then keep forgetting it (probably because I brush by him at 2 AM, at the end of my night, and well into a "blackout" stage, often).

I started to show Johnny the snowball mic and extoll its virtues; and he cut me off with: "Dude, there are 15 thousand dollar mics out there; I'm not going to be impressed by any 50 dollar job, out of Radio Shack!"

So be it.

Nice Recording, Daniel!

Maybe I can aim for "1950's Chuck Berry" quality recordings to get me started. Hey, that was good enough to get The Fonz and Pinky Tuscadero Rocking at the hop...

I had stopped at the Veaux Carre Baptist church on Dauphine Street before going to Starbucks to blog; trying to get some more thermal protection out of their clothing room.

I got the two extra tee shirts, and the wool socks; and a barrage of questions from Luke, who was the one who had handed them to me.

He wanted to know if I was "saved," told me that I didn't sound too "sure" after I said: "Sure," and, I was eventually able to escape with the shirts and socks; after being prayed over.

I made a beeline for The Unique Grocery, and my first beer of the evening, feeling like an immoral heathen (the cost of free clothes from a church) every step of the way. Nothing makes you feel like a beer more than having someone trying to convince you that you don't need one for a half hour.

I drank the beer before updating the blog, and then another, as I walked down Royal Street.

The second beer had only cost me 25 cents, after I had handed the Ethiopian guy 2 dollars for a $1.25 can, whereupon he asked me: "Why did you give me 2 dollars?," handed one of them back to me, plus 75 cents, out of 4 quarters, which he (magically?) had in his hand. I normally would have pointed out the mistake to him; but being so broke....

He will remind me tonight, if he noticed; and I will unflinchingly apologize for my oversight and give him a buck.

Maybe the prayers were working...

I had 5 dollars left, and detoured to Sydneys for one more beer, before going to the Lilly spot.

The first hour or so produced no money for the tiposaurus at all, but rather, some sarcastic comments made by some types who reminded me of the kids I went to Catholic high school with. "You're awesome, man! Keep rocking!" Like a kid who is insecure and jealous.

I kept my cool, and tried to push any thoughts out of my head that I was being punished by God for drinking beer after having been prayed for.

Lilly came by and we talked for a while about where I had been; and I regaled her with The Leslie Thompson Story.

I took a break and spent myself down to almost nothing at Sydneys, and then returned, thus fortified, to play some more.

After almost another hour of being either ignored, or hearing more juvenile heckling, by people who all seemed to be of the same ilk from the same cheap country, and with the all the beer gone; my mood began to darken; and I started to slip lyrics like: "What if you worked all night and didn't get paid?," and "It's alright, I don't have to eat tonight" into my improvs.

The "Point Of Quitting" Effect

At the point when I had just about had enough, and had packed up the tiposaurus, but not the guitar yet; a kid of about 18 or so, sat down about 4 feet to my left.

I deemed him a "traveling kid,' by dint of his backpack and attire, though he seemed to have perfect teeth.

I grabbed my ax, and went into kind of a crunchy metal type rhythm and vented my anger lyrically; kind of feeling like I, at least, had the perfect audience, in him (and before he could ask me to play some Sublime or Radiohead).

It became apparent that he had no money; after he complimented my music profusely, and then added the: "I wish I had some money, 'cause I'd hook you up!" which every busker hears, every once in a while.

I played some more, venting more angst; and a guy came and placed 2 dollars on my backpack as, I had been so close to packing up and leaving, that I didn't even have the tiposaurus out, nor my case open.

"The Guy Who Wants To Play Your Guitar" Rears His Head

"Sure, if you put 10 bucks in my case..."

Then, up walked a thin young guy, who had dollar bills pinned to his black tee shirt; advertising that it was his birthday.

He asked me if he could play something on my guitar.

I hesitated and contemplated saying: "Sure, if you tip me 10 bucks, in case you break a string." That is exactly what Jay the really loud singer would have said; I've heard him say that after people merely request a song.

As I hesitated further, he appended: "...or sing along with you," whereupon I agreed, and we both sang "For No One," by The Beatles, as I played.

A lady soon materialized, who was on her phone, trying to locate her husband. She (almost absentmindedly, it seemed) threw a couple bucks to the tiposaurus, which was back out; as I had changed my mind about quitting after having gotten the first tip of the night, which was 2 hours old. The persuasion of 2 dollars...

Now You Can Play

Then, I ceded my guitar to the birthday guy; especially after he had asked a guy, who was wearing a shirt and a tie and carrying a Hurricane drink from Lafitts, and who had quipped: "Sounds good," as he walked past if he would (consequently) throw me a dollar or two. And since, by then, I had placed him with the non-skeezing population of the planet. Even the way that he had asked the gentleman if he would tip me was easy, not skeezy.

The guy threw 2 bucks.

The birthday guy played "Crazy Love," by Van Morrison on the Takamine and we harmonized, while more money went to the tiposaurs. 

Then, after a few verses, I recognized that the chords were the same as those to "The Weight," by The Band, and I broke into that; and the birthday guy knew it; and we sang and harmonized and a splendid time was had.

After he handed the guitar back to me, I played one of my originals, which he liked so much that he pulled one of the dollars off of his birthday shirt and gave it to me.

By then, there was another young lady listening, and I felt like I was playing and singing well enough to welcome her attention, and her 2 dollars. There

"Wow, You Weren't Even Playing!"

It slowed down, traffic-wise, as midnight approached, and the traveling kid and I had a metaphysical discussion about time and mass and energy and the power of love, etc. during which a guy came "from out of nowhere" and put 20 dollars next to the tiposaurus.

"Wow, your weren't even playing!" exclaimed the traveling kid.

Maybe he was tipping our conversation about the power of love...

Skeeze Not, Want Not

To his credit, the traveling kid never tried to skeeze me, and I ultimately asked him if he needed a couple of dollars (out of the 30 or so).

I saw a correlation between the disproportional amount of 2 dollar tips, rather than ones, and the fact that the kid was sitting by me -with perfect teeth; and looking like River Phoenix or Johnny Depp or one of those guys.

I'm not a good judge of beauty in other men; but the predominately gay part of the quarter where I play is...

He didn't need a couple of dollars.

That fact, and the perfect teeth lead me to believe that he was probably the kid of wealthy parents, who was sowing his oats, or going astray, depending upon ones perspective.

Now it is Thursday night, as I wrap this up; it is 6:07 PM.

It is lightly raining. And about 55 degrees. Darn.

The Recovery Is On

I bought razors, showered and shaved at the VA, and am on my way to get batteries for the spotlight; so that I can be illuminated, after 3 weeks of darkness (and ranting, raving lunacy).

The only thing I am missing is patchouli oil (Lilly likes it).

9 Dollar Tuesday Night

Tuesday night, I made it to the Lilly spot, after having spent all my money, except for one quarter.
I had only had a couple of beers and sat down to play, and struggled.

It was pretty dead, but I attracted the attention of a few of the 25 or so people who walked past.
They stopped to listen, but, as I struggled; I wasn't even really entertaining myself; and so, wasn't surprised that nobody threw me more than a dollar or two.

Barnaby was sitting on his stoop, drinking gin, and offered me a beer which was better than the one which I was drinking; and then suggested that I learn to play "Careful With That Axe, Eugene," by Pink Floyd.

I am listening to it now; and can pretty much say that, unless it has lyrics (which it hasn't had yet; 3 minutes into it) then nobody is going to recognize "Careful With That Ax, Eugene," except hard cores. And, to arrange slide guitar and bass and keyboard synthesizer, and the whispered lyrics (which have now started)....yikes.

He also advised me NOT to attempt to sing "Closer To The Heart," or any other Rush songs. I guess Geddy Lee's voice is sacrosanct to him. I wouldn't have to try to mimic the guy; there are lower keys...

A couple from Halifax, Canada stopped and talked for a while, requesting Steve Earl (whom I have only heard of, but never heard) and I was able to get a dollar out of them by playing an original; and then another dollar in change, after joking around with them and warning them about the "shoe shine guys" on Bourbon Street, who will bet you 20 dollars that they can tell you "where you got your shoes" ("you got one on your left foot and one on your right," or "You got 'em on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, now pay up).

I knocked off with about 9 dollars for 2 hours of playing, minus one Canadian quarter, which is non-spendable here (...wonder where THAT came from...)

I then spent a cold night at the sign spot, sleeping miserably and watching the time, so as to go out and forage for more blankets, or thermal underwear from the VA Center.

I got there around 10 PM, and was informed that "We're not doing clothes, today."

Of course they weren't doing clothes today; and seeming to derive pleasure from telling me so.

There is one black lady there, in particular, who seems to love enforcing trivial rules. "You can't put your bag there, you're blocking the hall!" "You can't put it there, either, you're blocking that entrance." "You can't take off your sweatshirt there; go in the restroom to do it."

Yesterday, she had seemed to enjoy telling me that the hygiene kits (razors, shampoo, toothpaste, etc.) were all gone. "You have to come early for them; they all gone by nine.."

They must judge me as a draft dodging hippie, rather than the veteran that I am.

Tonight will be equally cold, and I have only two additional tee shirts, and a pair of heavy wool socks to add to my ensemble. And, it wasn't really my top half which was chilly last night.

I might just play until way into the morning (there are always those who stagger out of Lafitt's Tavern at their 4 AM closing time) and then get most of my sleep in after sunup, as the temperature rises.

Pretty depressed is the mood here; at 8:12 PM on a chilly night, barren of tourists.

I am thinking of playing the off ramps where sign "flying" skeezers perpetually stand; jumping on the spot when they run for their free feeding at the Rebuild Center; and holding my ground until I have hopefully made the 35 to 60 dollars per hour that I used to make in similar spots in Jacksonville and St. Augustine, and Ocala, Florida.

Getting out to Tucson, where I have friends, to pass the coldest months, then returning here for Mardi Gras in late February would be the tentative plan....

9 Dollar nights can get a man thinking such thoughts....

Nice Try

I was determined to start a juice fast yesterday, and to abstain from alcohol.

I made it through most of the day, drinking expensive bottles of things like an apple cider vinegar drink and an organic white tea and ginger one; purchased at the big Rouses Market on Baronne Street off my food stamp card in the early afternoon; while I blogged using their wi-fi.
Then, I walked the mile to the Starbucks on Canal Street, where I had planned upon going inside and working some more on this laptop.
Having varied my morning "routine," by waking up at the residence of Jim (my friend who has Parkinson's Disease) and then walking to the Unity office; the big Rouses Market, and then into town; I found that it was easy to be unshaken in my resolve to stay sober.
Once I reached the familiar haunt of Canal Street, I started dying for a beer; and I felt a huge vacuum sucking me, along with the $2.65 in my pocket, across the street and to The Unique Grocery.

I had one more struggle with my inner self, and I walked across the street to in front of The Old Saint bar and restaurant, to think.

I saw that one of my number one excuses for imbibing, Monday Night Football, was an hour and a half away from kick off.

I decided to get a beer.

Turning back towards The Unique Grocery, I came face to face with none other than Leslie (who may just have materialized out of the ether, the instant that I opted to get a beer).

He was carrying his mandolin method book.

I told him that I had sneaked off the prior night because he was starting to become angry...
"...over stupid things," he finished my sentence.

He apologized again (the 3rd time, if you're keeping track) for being "out of line."

Then, he asked me if I was in a position to help him out with bus fare. This would indicate that he had not enough money (out of the 400 dollars which he had gotten 5 days before) to get one more beer, and then take the bus home.

"I have, like, 2 single dollars, and I don't even know how much change. I didn't play at all yesterday; just drank and watched football..."

Then, an amazing thing happened: Mr. Hard-to-get-rid-of replied: "Well, I guess you're headed to the spot to play," and then walked off.

I then went to get my first malt liquor of the night, over my own protests.

Dire Straits For Johnny B.

I walked down Royal Street, and past Johnny B., who was playing across from the Hotel Monteleone with a thin black guy on saxophone, whom he has been jamming with, lately (and reporting a spike in revenue; even after splitting 50-50 with the guy).

He called to me, and I returned.

He asked me if I was still outdoors; and after I replied in the affirmative, told me that he was in dire financial straits; having had a "terrible week" and having had bills come in unexpectedly. He said that we might be able to work something out.
I hadn't been pretentious enough to think that he had been offering me a chance to freeload, at least not for more than one night; but now he was laying his cards on the table.

Too embarrassed (or proud) to say: "Dude, I have $1.32 in my pocket," ...and it's Monday night; and as I look up and down Royal Street, I am not seeing just as many tourists as I'm sure you're not seeing... So, I told him that I had watched football and spent money the prior day.

Johnny B. has told me that he considers me talented, and told me that I "always sound good," (after I had mentioned that, with the stuffed up left ear, I couldn't hear myself very well and wondered how I sounded) and he probably equates this to my having an income level approaching his.

Again, the short answer is: Johnny B. has a Roland Street Cube amp, and a Shure microphone, and plays a $3,000 Taylor guitar (I looked it up on Guitar Center.com).

He is loud enough to stand up to the saxophone guy who plays acoustically (but, they are in an enclave which reflects the sound) and, turning the "effects" knobs to add reverb and echo also adds money to his tip jar; giving him about a 4 to 1 advantage over myself, money-wise.

I have never exaggerated the amounts of money which I have reported making; the times that he had been curious. Maybe the 136 dollar night which I had almost a month ago now, stuck in his memory.

I tried to hint at a ballpark figure of what I might reasonably be willing to chip in on his rent in the future by adding: "I would have to have at least a 50 dollar night, before I would consider breaking some off to stay inside....that would leave me enough for my daily expenses..."
He nodded, without hesitation, and said: "I understand" in a tone which at least indicated that he would charge less than 50 dollars per night. -minus "my daily expenses" he might be thinking around 20 dollars per night.

Economics 101

My rule of thumb; established when I used to rent.....um....circa 1998, is that 20% of my income was comfortable; 25% do-able, and rising above 30% began to put a strain upon my finances.



So, if I DID have a 50 dollar night; I would be comfortable giving him 10 bucks to crash on his floor; $12.50 would be do-able; and I would probably rather wake up at the sign spot with the whole 50 dollars on me than sacrifice 15 of it....

"Well, if you do get blessed tonight, I'll be here 'til 11," he said, as I walked off.

I walked towards the Lilly spot, stopping at Rouses Market, to get a second beer, knowing that it would mean that I would be starting out with no seed money

But, I had come up with a solution to that problem by tearing into dollar sized strips the cover to a pamphlet which I had found which was pretty close to the right shade of green, and had designs and patterns on it which were close enough, in the dim light of the Lilly spot.

I still haven't gotten batteries for my spotlight, as I am trying to get them while they're still on sale at Wal-Greens. (32 batteries for 10 bucks plus tax).

There were hardly any tourists out. The excuse was that they were all inside places, watching the game. The Saints were playing.

I took a couple breaks to peek in on the action, finding almost full and cold due to the weather, beers each time. The second one a...

The Curse of the Thompson Residence

My business really has fallen into disarray through the course of the 3 weeks spent at Leslie's house. And the recordings which I made are small consolation.

Reaches Even Deeper

Plus, the Unity worker at The Rebuild Center this morning, asked me where I had been, and reiterated that they were placing "just veterans until the first of the year" and that I had been "missing in action."

TueNight

Now, on this Tuesday night, I go out with one 25 cent piece in my pocket; the tiposaurus jar

Not Working Is Not Working

Watching Others Play

Yesterday (Sunday), I woke up at the sign spot (left), after having spent a second night there.
I had bought a bag of unsalted peanuts; which I fed to the pigeons that haven't seen me in almost 3 weeks, while I sipped cold instant coffee.
After the football games kicked off, I headed for Bourbon Street, to see which games were visible from sidewalks. I stopped for a can of malt liquor on the way.

At halftime, and on my second can; I went to Rouses Market where Doreen's Jazz Band were playing out front; showcasing Doreen's vocabulary of Christmas jazz riffs; and guitarist Paul's amazing consistency accompanying her.
At times it was just his guitar, her clarinet and a drummer.
Paul's job is to sink into the background, yet still be the "backbone" of the music. You are only going to notice him if he makes a mistake; and thus; he goes basically unnoticed.
Paul's Advice
His suggestion to me has been to "keep doing what you're doing; Elvis Costello songs and you're "Weird Al Yankovich type originals," and to get a used Telecaster and a decent amp and mic.

The latter is the standing advice to all who want to busk on Royal Street with an acoustic guitar.

Paul and I talked football for a while during their break, then I went off down Royal Street, to get my 3rd beer of the day; passing Tanya and Dorise along the way; and stopping to chat with Jay, the really loud singer.
Jay was just wrapping up one of the (8?) songs which he plays, "Turn The Page," by Bob Seger.
I have heard him sing it about 25 times as I have passed by.
He sounds like Johnny Cash on steroids (or crystal meth) singing in the same low register, and he always omits a certain G chord, which is kind of a "false cadence," musically speaking, and one of the "hooks" in that song, which is so simple that it can use all the hooks it can get.
It's the chord which falls right before the titular words "turn the page," as a matter of fact.

I am repeating from a previous post here, but, when I pointed out to him that there was one more chord at that point in the song, he pulled a wad of cash out of his back pocket and, fanning it in front of me said: "I don't need no extra chords, bro!"
So be it.
A guy who had been standing nearby walked over and put a 20 dollar bill in Jay's case, saying "Thanks for the song; that was awesome!" He never mentioned the missing chord.
"Business as usual," said Jay, as he scooped up the bill and pocketed it; leaving about 7 singles in the case. ...easy song, easy money...

He keeps arguing to me that an amp and a mic are the way to go on Royal Street.
I walked away, envisioning a time in the future when I might be playing that very spot with a mic and an amp and being thrown 20 dollar tips, and he might think: "I never should have given him the idea...darn it!"

On my 4th beer, and with the Sunday Night Football game about to start, I encountered Tanya and Dorise again; and we chatted. I hadn't seen them for almost 3 weeks.

I am always amazed to see them still playing after I might have been doing other things for 3 or 4 or 5 hours. Sometimes, after I play the Lilly spot for 5 hours or so (a long set for me) they are still at it when I walk past them; headed "home" for the night. They might have reached their 12 hour mark, at that point.
Is it easier to go that long when you are making enough money to take 4 days off and live in luxury? Probably.
Is it easier to go that long when you are playing a nylon string Bluebird guitar which requires hardly any pressure to get the notes to sound?
Probably.
Is it easier to go that long when you are totally sober, don't smoke anything, and are eating vegan food out of a health food store (and maybe some chicken or salmon in Tanya's case)?
Even more probable.
Is it true that China is a nation of a billion people who all work 16 hours, 7 days a week?
Possibly.

We talked about music; and I was able to sing a few melodies in Tanya's ear, to refresh her memory of certain songs like "Reminiscing," by The Little River Band, and "Taking It To The Streets," by The Doobie Brothers.
That was fun, but as I recounted my woes revolving around my living arrangement, and told them that I was back on the street ("and will probably be seeing you more often") I started to suspect that Dorise, who owns property, and is known to rent to musicians at reasonable rates, was holding her tongue on that matter.
Not Working Not Working
And the deciding factor was probably the fact that, for all appearances, I just didn't work enough.
I walked past them 3 times that night, a little more drunk each time.
Granted that Sunday is the one day of the week which I try to take off to watch football and had been doing just that all day; but I get the feeling that Dorise helps those who help themselves, and she was just finishing a stretch of 3 days when they had squeezed 40+ hours of busking into; and wasn't in the mood to be sympathetic to a guy who was walking around with a guitar on his back, but not playing it, and lamenting to all he encountered that he was homeless and broke.
Fair enough.
One of the carrots in front of my nose is the thought of her someday congratulating me upon an extended "dry" period, and noting that I looked better; spoke more coherently, had myself a little amp/mic rig, and was making ("75 dollars is good, for 3 hours") good money.
To The Present
I encountered Jim last night, as I was watching the end of the Sunday Night Football game, too drunk to entertain notions of playing in the almost empty streets.
He invited me to crash at his place; which I did.
Jim has Parkinson's Disease and his right arm shakes a lot.
He used to be a musician, and had 3 acoustic guitars at his place.
His place was not far from the Unity office; and so I went there this morning and left a message for my caseworker; telling him where he could find me and adding that I was a veteran; something which I hadn't thought important enough to mention previously.
I then walked here to the big Rouses Market where I am laying the groundwork for another juice fast and cleanse and period of abstinence from alcohol and tobacco.
The time is right; the writing is on the wall.

Leslie Encounter
I encountered Leslie last night in front of The Unique Grocery.
He was all apologies (again) and told me that he had bus fare for me, if I wanted to return to the house of horrors.
Twice bitten, three times shy, was all I could think of.
He was almost to the phase of intoxication when his Jekyl turns into his Hyde, and I could see it just under the surface. He became angry after I simply asked him if he had traded his bongos in on the mandolin.
"I would NEVER trade my bongos in; what are you talking about!?!" he yelled, a bit too loud and a bit too aggressively, and I started to think of a way to give him the shake.
He offered to buy me a beer; which I wisely refused; as that would imply some kind of contract between us to spend time together. It looked like he had very little money left of the 400 dollars which he had gotten; 4 days prior.
Then, the security guard, who is a large, heavyset black man who has been working there the entire 3 years that I have been in New Orleans, came outside and, standing nearby, kicked a bottle cap off of the curb. He then kicked another little piece of debris off the curb.
I believe that he was trying to tell me something.
He then began to lecture Leslie, as I stood next to him, about how sometimes a man just needs to kick someone to the curb, if that person is trouble, and to live life his own way and avoid the person who is trouble.
Leslie was so wasted that he just nodded his head in agreement.
Then, the security guard made reference to the mandolin method book which Leslie was carrying, drawing his attention to it.

Up walked Guitar Jimmy, a skeezer, around this time; who was most assuredly interested in begging Leslie for something; anything; further dividing the guy's attention and providing the "friend" which Leslie seems to sorely need 24/7.
Leslie doesn't have enough attention to be able to divide it, I have found.
This gave me a chance to walk off unnoticed and soon forgotten.
I walked around the block, returning to find no Leslie in sight.
I shook the hand of the security guard. "You gave me a chance to get away from the lunatic," I said.

Now, I need to try to get my phone charger and the little bit of clothing which I left at his house in my hasty retreat.

It Will Be One Year To The Day

I Leave Leslie's

One Year Ago, Tomorrow

Last night, after Leslie had become a jerk for the second night in a row, I left his house with as much of my stuff on my back as I felt worth carrying.
He followed me outside, cussing me out and calling me every name that he could think of, as I walked off.
It was an exact re-enactment of the scene which took place 364 days ago, on December 14th, 2013. That night we had fought in the street.
There ensued a period of 8 months, during which I didn't speak to him, and avoided him.
It took him until September to worm his way back into my confidence; invite me to crash at his place (while my possessions at both the sign spot and the dock were pillaged by other homeless sorts, who had noted my absence, and helped themselves to them; effectively slamming a door behind me; or burning a bridge, if you will; by making it harder for me to return to outdoor living).
Thursday, after Leslie had gotten his paycheck of about 400 dollars; he went to The Guitar Center and purchased a mandolin.

"Purple Heart" 49% Complete (click here)

He doesn't really (tune, nor) play the mandolin; I discovered.
He just has had an obsession of sorts with the diminutive instrument.
I think he may have traded his bongos in towards the mandolin; because their absence was conspicuous at the house.

Purple Heart
...will eventually contain the verses about the fact that "Fred" in the song has a purple heart which he keeps in his backpack.
It is an ambitious project; but I am keeping it fresh in my mind...

Thursday night, when Leslie arrived with the mandolin; he showed it to me, then handed it to me.
I plucked a few notes on it; then handed it back, telling him that I really didn't know how to tune it.
I then went to the back room where I put my headphones on and cranked up some of my music which I was mixing.
I gradually became aware of a certain vibration in the room; and lifting the cups off my ears revealed Leslie to be in the middle of an angry, drunken rant; just like the one that he delivered himself of just one day short of a year ago.
Apparently the mandolin came from the store out of tune; and he was blaming me for having thrown it out when I plucked it a few times then tuned a pair of strings to be in unison with each other -that is about the extent of my knowledge of mandolins.
I hadn't helped matters by telling him that I didn't know how to tune mandolins. "You don't know how to tune it; don't touch it!! Do you see me messing with your tuning pegs on your guitar?!?"
He had ranted for probably 15 minutes on the matter, which I thankfully hadn't heard, because of the headphones.
I am sure that everything he was saying was calculated to anger me; and probably would have resulted in me attacking him physically, had I sat there and listened to the whole thing.
He has a talent for getting under the skin of someone; which involves attacking them verbally, focusing upon areas which are a "soft spot" for the person that he is berating.
He kept coming back to the words "ignorant" and "retard," and implying that I shouldn't touch his mandolin because I have absolutely no knowledge on the matter, know nothing about tuning instruments, etc.
How a person can do irreparable damage to a mandolin by tweaking the tuning on one string is something that he didn't elaborate upon. It just seemed like he had been offended somehow; perhaps because I had only given it a cursory look and then handed it back to him; and then went to work on my own music. He had been talking about getting "the mandolin" for weeks, now; commencing when he started working.
When I woke up in the morning, he was gone.
Around noon, he arrived back, with Steven and Rob in tow, and a gallon of wine and a 6-pack of malt liquor.
He seemed mildly surprised to find me still there; although my bags were packed and by the door.
He apologized, saying that he had been "out of line" and "a jerk," and told me that I could touch the mandolin whenever I wanted to.
But, after a day when he and Steven and Rob all rendered themselves incapacitated with alcohol (Rob had to go outside once, due to sickness) with his crappy radio cranked up on a weakly tuned (of course the antenna had snapped off) Classic Rock station; so that my recording music was not an option; he woke up in the evening and took up the exact same rant "Don't you ever touch my mandolin!," "Who do you think you are?!?" and then started to threaten my guitar.
Of course he started to threaten my guitar, using all of his talent for getting into peoples psyches; using the things that they value most as inroads.
He said that he was going to mess up my guitar "whether you like it or not" and made a motion towards it.
I was glad that Steven and Rob were in the house; and now wide awake, due to Leslie's hysterics.
Steven was under the misguided impression that Leslie had "a heart of gold," and "the purest of intentions," and had told me just that, recently.
I was able to grab my stuff and walk past the deranged lunatic, and out of the house, passing through the living room, and uttering the interrogative: "See?" to a befuddled looking Steven on the way out.
They were there when he had apologized, then told me that I could touch the mandolin whenever I wanted to; and now he was back on the rant...
I Didn't Play
I took the bus into the Quarter, with 13 dollars in my pocket; and a determination to sleep at the sign spot.
A knock at the door to the Veaux Carre Baptist Church on Dauphine Street produced a blanket, which I stuffed into my pack and which became proof against the temperatures in the low 50's which I eventually encountered.
My share of the gallon of wine had put me out of sorts and I was not in the mood to busk.
Tonight will be the second night of my absence from his place.
He will have enough of the 400 dollars (minus whatever a fine mandolin costs, along with enough alcohol to appreciate it) left in order to keep "friends" around, whom he might meet and invite to his house. That is just his heart of gold, and his purest of intentions in action, I guess.
Then, like in the Glen Campbell song: "By The Time I Get To Phoenix," -by the time I get to the sign spot, he'll be rising; and he'll cry just to think I would really leave him.
The Johnny B. Alternative
I ran into Johnny B., who has repeatedly invited me to crash at his place; but Johnny was "booked up for the weekend," probably hosting someone who was paying him a little bit of rent to stay there; so they expect some space and some privacy; and not to have someone else there, on such short notice.
"Talk to me Monday," said Johnny.
No Suzy Q.
Listening through the recordings that I made at the house; as I just did, here at Starbucks; I wasn't satisfied. 7 and a half minutes of me (click here) at Leslie's House
Recording has to be done in a methodical way.
The first half hour can be spent just tuning the guitar; settling upon a tempo, and laying down a "click track," as a guide for all the ensuing parts; and writing out charts with the bars and measures and repeat signs and chord changes spelled out.
Very rarely does a spontaneous, drunk and high, jam session produce a "coherent" result -"Suzy Q." by Creedence Clearwater Revival notwithstanding. ...We were all at a bar getting drunk and snorting lines and we wound up hopping in the car; driving to the studio and cutting that song in one take....
The Tipitina Alternative
There is a place where a musicians co-op of sorts resides with the name of Tipitinas.
Supposedly (for a monthly fee of $15) one can avail himself to sound-proof rooms, microphones and laptops running "Garage Band," or "Cakewalk" recording software, and even the engineering/producing expertise of "Al;" whomever he is.
And, I would bet there aren't people poking their heads into the studios shouting "What makes you think you have the right to mess with my mandolin, you ignorant retard!?!"

The Present
Now, I go out into the chilly night with 5 dollars in my pocket and will play at the Lilly spot without the aid of my spotlight, but with the fortuitously placed Christmas decorations on the house across the street as a gift of light from Alan and his housemate.
All the time spent dealing with Leslie has caused me to neglect the pursuit of my own Unity housing unit. That is something which never seemed to cross his mind, along with stocking his house with electricity, food, toilet paper, towels, a vacuum cleaner, or anything else that doesn't go in a glass or in a glass pipe...
Somehow Leslie's agenda of "get drunk and pass out as quickly as possible each day" turned out to be incompatible with my goal of getting as much work as possible done on recording a CD and staying sober as far into the day as is prudent, to aid that purpose.

Walking To Work

Our Friend, Gail

• A Couple People Get Gail's Point
• A 2 Hour Sunday Stroll To Quarter
• Ear Infection Update

Sunday, I woke up at Leslie's house with 82 cents on me.
The bus into the Quarter (to save me a 6 mile walk) costs $1.25.
A dilemma could have been avoided, had I had the foresight to put away enough for the bus ride the night before, when I had it.
But, Saturday night, after having spent 8 hours in the LSU Interim Hospital waiting room, never having seen a doctor, and bailing out just in time to make the last bus; I stopped and spent a couple dollars upon what would be my only 24 ounce beer of the day; spending myself down to 53 cents short of a bus ride back the following day.
I did this upon the speculation that Leslie would have at least 53 cents, and possibly more on him.
All Leslie had Saturday night, was a bus token card with a balance of 29 cents on it.
This left me 14 cents short, and facing a 4 mile walk into the Quarter, where I would have to immediately set up at the Lilly spot and start out playing sober and with no "seed money" (a dollar on display signifyng that tipping is allowed).
The Saints were playing at the Super Dome against the Carolina Panthers, and that was my intended destination (before the home team ultimately began to get beaten so badly that the stadium began to empty prematurely, and I revised it to the Lilly Spot.)
Shame
I went to Canseco's Market, across the street from the bus stop, to try to sell one of my cigarettes to one of the cashiers, a black lady whom I have seen in front of the store before, smoking a (non menthol) cigarette.
The Thin Black Boy
There was a thin black boy of about 9 or 10 years old in the store, and he wound up in front of me at the register.
At one point, as I waited, I surveyed the floors around each of the 3 registers and was able to find 3 pennies on the floor. I could now lower the asking price for one of my cigarettes to 11 cents (a steal) and make bus fare with proceeds.
The thin black boy repeatedly looked at me and then looked away.
After about the 4th glance that he made at me, I (admittedly) was wondering if he had shoplifted something and was wondering if I could be a new undercover security guard at Canseco's Market, and was sizing me up in this regard.
He was purchasing a bag of macaroni, with a couple dollar bills.
A Drummer
The cashier asked the boy if he was a drummer, to which the boy answered in the affirmative.
Then the question of why the boy wasn't in "band" at school initiated a brief discussion during which the boy outlined the reasons that he wasn't in band at school; most of them involving the rules and regulations and the requirements outside of just drumming which where enforced upon members of the school band.
The cashier, whom I was about to try to sell one of my cigarettes to for 11 cents, handed the boy his change from the purchase of the bag of macaroni, whereupon the boy turned to me, and made me ashamed of having wondered if he were a shoplifter by saying "Here you are, sir," and handing me....are you ready?
11 cents.
I then had the exact fare for a bus which was probably passing by outside as he was handing it to me.
...that still doesn't mean he couldn't have had a bag of chips under his jacket....
...I know, but I still feel ashamed....
The Daily Dime
Before leaving the store, I glanced at the newspapers on their rack, and espied, on the floor behind them; one dime.
I have found one dime somewhere on the ground, 42 of the last 45 days in New Orleans (and the other 3 days, I hadn't gone out of the house).
The next scheduled bus on this Sunday would not come for another hour and 15 minutes.
I set out walking the 6 miles to the Super Dome, a trek which Leslie once said that he would never undergo again, as long as he lived.
There were skeezers holding signs on almost every corner along the way; and I was asked for a cigarette about once per half mile, and a dollar twice, along the way.
I found a total of 51 cents laying on the ground along the way and arrived at the Lilly spot with $1.43 on me, after having left the house with 82 cents.
Where To Find Motivation
I sat there; not feeling like playing and with my left ear still stuffed up and ringing...
I tried to motivate myself.
By walking for 2 hours, I had reserved the bus fare for a return trip to Leslie's house, where I would arrive broke and be in the same boat (walking to the Quarter) the next day.
Should I spend myself broke on a beer to get me started; and thus put the pressure upon myself to recoup it; plus enough to come back the next day, playing with a stuffed up ear on a Sunday night which didn't look too promising?

We will make sure they tip you, Daniel!

I eventually saw enough people walk past, holding Hand Grenade's and their ilk; and overheard enough snippets of their conversations to lead me to believe that they were drunk and possibly in the mood to hear music, notwithstanding the fact that I was not drunk nor in the mood to play music.
On The Stoop Again
I took the Takamine out and tuned it, sluggishly.
Eventually a set which included, but was not limited to, "On The Road Again," by Willie Nelson produced 3 dollars and 50 cents in about an hour and a quarter, or about 40 passing tourists, as that was about the rate of flow (R.O.F.) of them.
A moral victory; 3 dollars and 50 cents. I felt like the team that, at last, gets on the scoreboard to break up a shutout; albeit with just a field goal.
I now had the means to get a 2 dollar beer, and still have the bus fare to and from Leslie's.
Right as I was packing up, a guy came by and passed me the end of a joint. ...Welcome back to the French Quarter, hope it was worth the walk....
Batteries Dead From Walk
Night was falling, and the batteries for my spotlight had died on me, in my radio, while I was walking along, listened to the Saints game.
My headphones had afforded me the opportunity to walk past skeezers and totally ignore their "skeezes," as I bobbed my head to the broadcast of the football game, as if it were my favorite music that I was totally into.
There were still those who had the abject gall to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention.
For those, I lifted the headphones off my ears without breaking stride, and said: "I don't give away cigarettes; and if I had a dollar I wouldn't be walking," replaced them and kept going.
In A Can Of Beer
I went to Sydneys Wine and Beer store on Decatur Street, where, probably Leslie and I's friend Gail, had gone on a "stabbing spree" a couple nights prior, Click Here For Full Story and video of her (It's Gail, alright!) and bought a 24 ounce Hurricane, and returned with it to the Lilly spot.
I moved down from my usual spot, closer to the light and the forbidden zone, where I set up the tiposaurus (which I now place in a transparent plastic bucket with just its head sticking out) and was able to make 12 more dollars, in about 2 hours.
The one beer had indeed seemed to loosen me up -perhaps the "purpose" of beer- and my one good ear was just adequate enough to allow me to monitor myself and keep it as "in tune" as I get.
It felt great to be productive, after having been house bound for a couple of nights.
Friday night had been spent in the hospital waiting room (where I got a lot of editing done on this blog during the 8 hours that I spent there in vain).
Saturday Night Movie
Saturday night, Paul, a friend of Leslie's, showed up with a DVD player and we all watched a documentary about the rise and fall of "southern" rock and roll; which was basically a biography of one Duane Allman, citing him as the "embryo" of southern rock, and drawing the correlation between his untimely death and the ultimate demise of southern rock.

Without Duane Allman, there probably never would have been a Lynyrd Skynyrd, a Charlie Daniel's Band, a Marshall Tucker Band, etc., the documentary concluded.
It was engrossing. I now want to try to find Allman Brothers discs at the local libraries.
By the time we had finished watching; it was 11:45 PM; still early enough for me to have gotten to the Lilly spot and played through the 12:30 to 3:00 AM window of great opportunity, but I decided not to.
Guilt
I felt like a shirker, but, I would have been stuck in the Quarter until the 6 AM bus came; and, if for any reason I made not a cent, would be stuck there until I at least made a cent; on a chilly (45 degree) night.
$14.50 Sunday
Sunday night's take of $14.50 for about 3 and a quarter hours ($4.47/hr., "doing what I love") thus gave me a sense of relief.
I drank a couple dollars of it, while watching the Patriots beating the San Diego Chargers, running to Canal Street, during a break to get a 5 dollar sack of weed; thinking mostly of Leslie, who was perhaps sitting alone in the house with no alcohol nor weed. I didn't open before I got to the house on the last bus.
A Man of Resource
I found Leslie not sitting there alone, but with a guest, a young black guy from the neighborhood, who was locked out of his house pending the return of a housemate who had a key.
He was not the only visitor that Leslie had entertained that night.
Paul had come over with beer for him; and Joey had come over and smoked "a fat joint," with him.
He had partied as well, if not better, than I, and he being totally broke, but with the promise of the next check, which will materialize in a matter of 3 days now, and counting down...
Not Much Of A Hero, I
I felt like I could have saved the 5 dollars that I had spent upon the weed and woken up this morning with almost 12 bucks on me, rather than almost 7 bucks. Leslie never would have missed it; he was pretty blitzed already, when I had arrived at the house; so I wasn't very much of a "hero."
I will have to check my random generosity next time. I could have taken or left the weed; I had it in my pocket all night without having given it much thought.
But, here I am in the Quarter on a Monday night -guitar strings barely holding on, and with enough money for a beer to start me out, bus fare home, and bus fare back here tomorrow.
One good night (over 50 bucks) is all I need to set things right, especially since Leslie will get about 400 dollars this coming Thursday.
If The Pieces Fall Into Place
Hopefully that will mean that it will be easy for me to get some private studio time in as, if history repeats, he will be anxious; once the money hits his debit card, to get right to the Quarter and find one of his perpetually broke friends to bestow his love and suds upon, and he will be out of the house until the return of the last bus at about midnight; giving me up to 10 hours to myself; if the pieces fall into place...

Infectious Grooves

The Ear or Sinus Problem
I am, once again, at the LSU Interim Hospital waiting room with a complaint of a stuffed up and ringing left ear; a condition which I have been afflicted by for about 4 days now.

The ear drops which Johnny B. gave me (he had "the same thing") did not do the trick; he said that they were given to him in tandem with antibiotics.
Hitting the ear with water in the shower, as hot as I could stand it, for "20 minutes" as suggested by the cashier at Sydney's Beer and Wine store did not help.
I didn't try Sudafed; as suggested by the other cashier ("they keep it behind the counter so you have to ask for it"); and I never did learn how to do the ear-popping trick which skin divers use to equalize pressure, as suggested by John Patton, the classical guitarist; I was always afraid that I would rupture an ear drum or force mucous into the canal, leading to congestion.
So, I came here to the ER and added "chest pain" to my complaint (as suggested by Johnny B.) and was whisked immediately into the EKG room; and then expedited to the interior waiting room; just a heartbeat away from being seen by a doctor, as Johnny said they would.
The "chest pain" is not a total fabrication, as I have been hurting "all over," lately, between the flu symptoms, which settled into the tendons which I use the most (my picking wrist and my fretting wrist, and my knees -after I walked about 5 miles one day).

John Patton

Vocals Affected
Last (Thursday) night, I only made a couple dollars. I could hardly hear myself singing.
Plus, Leslie was sitting on Lilly's stoop next to me with his bongos, but wasn't playing them (they were still in the case).
Instead, he had hold of some tassels which he had found, like cheerleaders pom-poms, which were attached to a stick, and was shaking them along with the music that I was playing (cheering for me?) until the point that I was ready to ask him to stop.
It crossed my mind that he may have been trying to thwart my effort to make money; so that I would become more dependent upon what little bit he had left of his 30 dollar energy stipend; and would follow him around.. 
Hospital Skeezers
 I was in the waiting room at the hospital, and wanted to step outside for a cigarette.
"I'm going to go out for a couple minutes and smoke a cigarette," I said to another patient, a 20 something year old in a plaid shirt, wearing eyeglasses. "Would you let them know; if they call me?"
He didn't answer my question, but asked one of his own: "Do you have another cigarette?"
Instead of being in the waiting room, ready to tell the nurse that I just stepped out, he was coming along with me.
I reluctantly handed him one of my American Spirit cigarettes.
We had just lit them up; when up walked a skinny young black guy; who had noticed that we were walking towards the designated smoking area and had followed us.
He asked the guy in the plaid shirt for a cigarette.
"I just bummed this one," said the guy.
Then, he turned to me and looked at me expectantly.
"I just gave one away," I said; as if I had fished the limit of my generosity.
His expression seemed to say "Well, then why can't I have one, too?"
He sat down and began to leer at me; probably mulling over the fact that I had given a white guy a cigarette, but then refused a black guy one.
The guy in the plaid shirt said that he would save him a "short" (the end of his cigarette).
I wish I knew why such a thing angers me so much. Is it because I am too uncomfortable asking a total stranger for charity that I pick them off the ground; or pay exorbitant amounts for them; leaving me almost broke sometimes?
Is it because the first guy, after I asked him to do something for me; immediately dismissed it and turned around and asked me to do something for him (give him a cigarette) instead?
Or, am I angry at myself for being a slave to an addiction which puts me in the way of skeezers all the time?
The Living Arrangement
I need to get on my horse and pursue my own place to live; getting as much mileage out of my veteran status as possible.
It is common for people to wait "years" to get a place; and so, having about 2 years of waiting under my belt; I may be that much closer to getting something. I know that my caseworker is aware of me; but it wouldn't hurt to remind him that he is aware of me. Maybe I have been waiting longer than just about anyone else on their list by now...
5 Weeks Off For Leslie
Leslie is very needy of attention.
He has 5 weeks off from his job at the University of New Orleans; and this will be a test to see if one of us drives the other one crazy.

When we are together in the house, his conversation is basically uninterrupted; and directed towards me. Even if he is listening to the radio; he will say things like "This is my favorite song!," or he will tell me an anecdote about what the song means to him; or tell me about the time he saw the particular band in concert -and oftentimes I am hearing these stories for the 3rd or 4th time- instead of just quietly listening.
He wants us to do everything together. If I want to run to the store "real quick," it will be: "Wait, let me get my shoes on..."
One has to decide if this is a small or large price to pay for a roof over ones head.
I know that my plan to have a CD out by Christmas has been set back.
Even when I stay behind at the house, over his mild protestations and evident disappointment, I don't reach the same level of concentration, as I worry that there might be repercussions; like him bursting in drunk and ordering me to leave the house in the middle of the night.
The Wait

It is now 7:44 PM, and I have been here in the waiting room for about 3 hours.
Tonight, I could go out and play with my ear still stuffed up and ringing.
I have an appointment with the Healthcare For The Homeless people, who will be at the VA Center on Monday. Any drugs which they prescribe will come free; whereas, I might walk out of here in an hour or two or three with a prescription which I won't be able to afford unless I go out and make some money with the stuffed up ear.
But, at least I might find out what ails me; some kind of ear infection carried by night herons, perhaps...

The Power Struggle

• Electric Company Set To Cut Us Off
• Mom Calls
• Ear Infection

Leslie Bongo Jam (click here to hear)

The above is the last recording which I made Sunday night, after I had broken off from Leslie in the quarter and gone to the house without him, where I set up the Snowball microphone and was messing around with the quintessential New Orleans song, When The Saints Go Marching In.

It was not long before Leslie entered the house carrying his bongos.
Finding me at work, he joined in, adding bongos over what I was playing, and dashing any hopes of my being able to use any of the tracks constructively; as, the bongos are fixed in the mix of guitar and harmonica.
At least they don't dominate, as he was sitting in the opposite corner of the room as he played. I don't think he could have stood up and played them for very long, given the state of intoxication that he was in.
He can be heard uttering one of his catch phrases: "What do you want me to do now?"
Mom Calls
My mother responded to a message which I had left on her phone on Thanksgiving Day, telling me that she had been in Vermont (where she hails from) and that she doesn't carry her phone around "like a lot of people," and had just gotten the message, 4 days later.
She said that she would be in touch with me before Christmas.
She added that I may be doing a good deed, by being Leslie's housemate; him possibly being in need of a "caretaker" of sorts.
She chuckled over the thought that I could possibly be the "reasonable" one, of the two of us; or out of any two people anywhere at any time throughout history.
A Dark House?
Had I known that Leslie wanted a caretaker, I might have stepped in, earlier this week after he was paid almost 500 dollars and before he squandered it foolishly without having paid the electric bill, which was already overdue.
I couldn't have stopped him from ordering 2 large Meatlovers pizzas to the tune of 31 dollars on Sunday afternoon, because he placed the order on his cellphone on the way to the house.
We could have eaten much better using the combination of the Canseco's Market up the street and his oven and/or stove and the 31 dollars.

A 10 Minute Walk From Leslie's

Pizza is laden with soy oil and, if his intention was to treat me to a meal; his generosity was misplaced. I still ate a few slices because I was starving and drunk; and I have had swollen glands and dry skin lately as payback.
Ear Infection
Plus, I have contracted some kind of ear infection which has my left ear ringing and every sound seeming to emanate from the right side of me.
I went out and played and sang Sunday night in such a condition and the difficulty that I encountered would be understood by anyone who sticks a finger in one ear and then tries to sing on pitch.
Ironically, at least a couple groups of people stopped to listen, and after I made the excuse about my plugged up ear said: "You sound good"
One group threw 3 dollars and the other, 20 dollars; and I was on the last bus out of town, headed for Leslie's bearing the gift of beer, after just one hour of playing but not hearing myself.
Johnny Bavono (which, I finally learned is "The Clean Guy"s name) has been giving me a certain kind of ear drops, after I had run into him and he had told me that he had had the same kind of ear problem: stuffed up and ringing and full of the most sinister wax that Que Tips have ever encountered; kind of an orange-rust color and with a strong acrid odor of deafness to it.