Jack The Skeezer

• 3,000 Plus Word Post
• A Tale of Two Skeezers
• 6 Dollar Monday
• 10 Dollar Tuesday
• Wednesday Night Off
• 9 Dollar Thursday
• 45 Days Sober, But
• Late Starts Giving Fits

Monday night, after arriving at 10:30PM which I had been determined to arrive sooner than; I sat and played for very few people over the next couple of hours, pretty much continually, because I was enjoying it and would have been doing the same, sitting in my home with only the cat as an audience.


Jay The Really Loud Singer at Bienville and Royal had informed me that "these people" hadn't been tipping anything.


I am pretty sure that a few of them made it as far as Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern, as I noted a few groups of like-dressed individuals who seemed to be of the same mind in walking past entertainers without entertaining even a passing thought of tipping.


This Monday had proceeded as a classic example of "a bad day," partly through my own agency.


The reason that I failed to make it to the spot before 10:30 began to take form when I woke up at 7 PM, with less than 7 hours of sleep under my belt.


Each night, I have been coming home to read a newspaper over coffee, mess with a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle over more coffee; and Monday night, I wound up revisiting a recording of my "Papaya Song," after visiting the folder of the same name on my computer.


My latest idea has been to make a separate folder for each song, that way I can keep the drum beat and progressive versions of it; and if I am just randomly jamming in front of the microphone and happen to break into a certain song, I can put it in its folder.

I have a heck of a lot of deleting/housecleaning to do in my music library.
Being sober has made me hear things better, as Dorise Blackmon said it would. and everything that I recorded while drunk sounds sloppy to me now. Everything. While stuff that I have done in the past 45 days can be used again and built upon. Once I have the drums all measured out, I can keep doing the next part until it is right, and then work on the third part for a few hours or a few days. When I was drinking, I would try to complete a song "before the buzz wore off" and would wind up layering new mistakes upon previous ones. At least being sober, a good idea still seems so the next morning.


This can include the most basic drum beat for the song; the beat plus a guitar and voice, all the way up to "finished" versions of the song, the listening to being able to give me ideas about redoing all or parts of.


Last night, I fixed the bass part of the "Papaya Song."



"I'm gonna buy a papaya," is the first verse, and then "Why a papaya?" is explained in the bridge.


The latest discoveries that I have made in using more of the capacity of the Audacity sound editor has increased my production immensely.


I have learned how to record over just a small section by going to it directly, rather than having to replay the whole song, waiting for that part to come up and then sing or play (hopefully correctly, or the process must be repeated) over just that small section.


It is amazing how much time can be consumed by layering 7 individual parts over a 7 minute song; almost an hour, and that doesn't include stopping to listen back to the results, at 7 more minutes each time.


Easy to see how I could be coming home at 3 AM and not getting to sleep intil well after sunup.


When I played Monday night and, after about 45 minutes, hadn't made anything, I started to wonder if this was going to be my third night in 4 and a half years in NOLA to come up empty.


Then, I reminded myself that other such occasions had been averted after I had made the decision to just keep playing until I made something, even if it took 2 hours.


On one such night, I wound up making about 35 bucks after declining to take the 3 dollars that I had after the first hour and call it a night.


A group of about 5 had come along that time and tipped me about 25 bucks after having requested a few songs, sang along, listened to my stories, etc...


I was remembering this when, along came a guy who sat on the stoop next to me.


I had been playing "People Are Strange," by The Doors and had hit every note on it and did a nifty little guitar solo.


"Wow, that sounded great," said the guy, who went on to say: "I mean, I've heard you play a bunch of times, but that...that was good!"


His friendliness in general, from the time he sat down was kind of a smoke screen, as I wasn't scrutinizing him for signs that he might be a skeezer, but, after he mentioned hearing me play many times, it gave me pause to look at him more closely.


He had short blondish orange hair and kind of resembled Jack Nicklaus, the legendary golfer, in his facial features.


I soon discerned that he was none other than a fattened up version of The Guy Who Tips You One Time And Then Shows Up Sometime In The Near Future Trying To Bum A Couple Bucks, Arguing That He Tips You "All The Time." That guy.


The last time I had seen this guy was probably about 6 months ago.


He was drunk that time and had wanted a couple dollars out of my jar. I had only made about 8 bucks at that point and was drinking then, myself, so we both wanted the couple dollars for the same thing.


I refused him the money and said something to the effect of: If you did tip me before, then they were tips; not loans. I think I blogged about it. He had kicked the milk crate that I had been sitting on out into the street, after I'd gotten off it, and was cussing at me as I walked off.


It's no wonder that he showed up acting very meek and friendly; probably thought I recognized him.


Before that realization came, and I had been relating to him as if he were a tourist, we had actually talked about skeezers.


This was after a young, skinny black kid who was adorned in an effeminate looking outfit, to include knee socks, had sat on the other side of him on Lilly's stoop and had tried to skeeze him.


Skeezidity

I heard the guy tell the skeezer that he had no money and no, no cigarettes, prompting him to walk off.

Sometimes tourists will say this to the skeezers, and kill two birds with one stone by also seeing if I, myself, lose interest in them after hearing them say that they have no money; kind of a litmus test of the "skeezidity" of both of us.


Skeezers often arrive to bother the people who are listening to me, having perhaps pegged them as being generous (i.e. easy skeezes) by dint of them having tipped me. I love it when some of the tourists turn them down, saying: "This guy's playing music and entertaining us, that's why we tipped him. We don't give money to someone who's just walking around begging."


"The worst thing about New Orleans," I remarked to the Jack Nicklaus looking guy -getting back to him- "is that 'Hi, how are you?' means: "What do you have, what can I get from you?"


Jack agreed wholeheartedly.


"They try to 'play' people -I'm sure you've heard that term..." I added.


"Yeah," said Jack.


"...like the people are a slot machine or a video game, and if they pull the knob or work the joystick the right way, and press the right buttons in the right order, and maybe even shake it or kick it; they'll get the thing to pay out..."


More wholehearted agreement from the guy.


I continued to play; and Jack started to sing along with me, making his own lyrics up. One particular line of his was something like: "He's out here playing his guitar trying to make some money, but nobody's giving him anything..." It was sung pretty much out of tune.


A few groups of tourists walked past with "That sounds awful" written on their faces. None of them tipped the combination of myself playing blues on the guitar and harp and him spitting out musically out of tune panhandling lines.


"These people are cheap. I wish I had some money, I would give you some; you sound good," said the guy whose character I was now reassessing.


He had no money and, thus, wouldn't be leaving me any in return for for my playing while he sang/panhandled; and I was certain that, true to skeezer form, if someone did throw "us" a tip, he was going to try to lay claim to half of it.


His assertion that he heard me play "all the time" started to reverberate the "I tip you all the time," of his previous visit.


Then, he complained about the cold. This has different meaning coming from a skeezer, than if it were coming from a tourist, who might be from a warmer climate, and was feeling the cold.


"Yeah, I was cold too, before I put on this second hoodie," I returned, pointing out the hoodie on top of a hoodie that I was wearing. Der, you've been here "a long time" -enough to have garnered some common sense about dressing appropriately for the weather; it's like this, this time each year, have you noticed?


This is another problem with  skeezers, aside from their "Hello's" being fraught with hidden machinations -the fact that it is hard not to read a skeeze into every utterance they make.


I was sensing the possibility that he was leading up to asking me if he could crash at my apartment.


How would he know that I had an apartment?


Louise the tarot card reader, whom I had found set up Sunday night, not far from the Lilly Pad.


She "just happened to be" set up 50 feet from where I play; perhaps as part of a strategy to to ingratiate herself, once again, in a bid to worm her way back into my apartment.


The time that she walked over and talked to me was odd, also.


It would be reasonable for her to correctly assume that I usually play until about 12:20 AM.


She laughed just a little too side-splittingly at every little witticism that I threw out; just as she had done after first moving into my place, to go with the flattery over my music that would progressively annoy her over the next few days.



She has seen me walk past her on Royal Street many times, carrying a bag from Rouses Market which would have taken me about 10 minutes to procure, and would be able to deduce that I play until just before 1 AM most nights.


And she is usually still there, reading tarot cards.


So why, on this particular night did she pack up a little after midnight, and then encounter me, having to walk in a direction opposite her usual one to do so, unless she had a hidden adgenda.


If she had waited until I packed up, and I had gone off in the other direction, she would have had to call out to me, which would have negated the effect of the "chance encounter."


Do I really think that Louise thinks of such things? Absoulutely.


The way she managed to leave my place and take all of her stuff with her without leaving me a cent beyond the 10 dollars that she had given me as a down payment upon Harold the cat; telling me that we would settle up the money when she took possession of him; was classic Louise. Harold is sitting on my lap now, 6 weeks later.


Word of my having a "Unity" apartment could very easily have gotten to the Jack Nicklaus skeezer through her, whom has been very outspoken with her opinion that I actually have no claim to my apartment, because the government messed up when they gave it to me, and not her. (I blogged about that pretty extensible the last couple weeks of December, 2015).


It was soon clear Monday night that Jack was oblivious to my interests and was going to sit and sing out of tune along with me, and that I was most likely not going to make a cent throughout.


During my past couple encounters with him, I had tried the polite: "Listen, I need to make some money and it never works out when someone is sitting with me; I guess I just do better when it looks like I'm a lonely troubadour in a big uncaring world, or something...but thanks for listening for a while..." This had led to him cussing, kicking things and going off angry -the "You want me to leave, then f*** you!" mentality, I will call it.


"I need to piss like a racehorse," I said; putting Plan B for this particular situation into action. Disappear for a while and hope that they just move on, or even move on yourself, to a place closer to The Quartermaster -if you really need to make money.


After I came out of Lafitt's, Jack was still on the stoop, but was talking to a figure who was dressed in a full body costume of feathers and other trappings of the Cajun Indian, and whom I could tell was black only by a small area of skin, visible above his elbows.


"Oh, I've got a little efficiency with a kitchenette and a shower and everything...TV, cable...sure, you're welcome to come and crash," the feathered guy was saying.


I was happy for Jack (even though that made it academic that skeezing a place to sleep had been his aim all along) and happy for myself because; off they both went.


As they turned to walk off, Jack threw his empty half pint liquor bottle rather violently against Lilly's gate, right where I was about to return to sitting. It ricocheted off into the street. I'm not sure what that might have been intended to communicate.


Maybe Jack always leaves in a huff -just his style.


My thought was that the gesture meant: "Thanks for nothing!"


The implication was; I found a place to crash and so, I don't need you! You were probably going to say no, anyways.


Damn right, I was.


I pride myself upon being honest, in the sense that I harken to a higher authority on the matter, and not so much other individuals, and that to be made into a liar through the guile of someone else is to have a moral standard compromised.


Sure, there are many whom have learned that, in many cases, it is just "easier" to lie.


"No, sorry, I only have plastic on me, no cash at all," is something that they would say.


While I might say: "I have about 18 bucks on me, but, after I buy cigarettes and take the trolley home and maybe get a sack of weed, I'll be lucky if I have enough left to ride back tomorrow!"


Apart from my conviction that, ultimately, "the truth can't hurt you," I also think I say things like that to test the character of people.


Someone who still persists in asking for the 2 dollars even after I have just told them that it would necessitate me walking 2 miles the next day with all my gear on my back, is someone whom I would walk away from feeling none of the guilt that they might be trying to heap upon me. "If it was you that needed it, and I had it, I would give it to you" is kind of hard to swallow in that instance, also...


All the skeezer would hear, in my above statement would be: "Blah blah blah 18 bucks blah blah, blah, blah blah blah blah blah"


And would become like the shark that smells blood in the water: "Check it out, this is a 20 dollar watch. You can go look at them in the store, it's a 20 dollar watch, and all I want is...etc."


"Great, I'll be able to time myself tomorrow to see just how long it takes me to walk all the way from my apartment to my playing spot carrying all my stuff on my back!"


"You got a apartment?!? Check it out. I'm on the street now, I'll be honest with you. But, I'm getting 200 bucks Friday. Guaranteed. Guaranteed! And, check this out...you can even come to the bank with me..."


"Oh I forgot to tell you; the 18 bucks is on a plastic card..."


But, I think in this case, I was ready to tell Jack the fib that, "Oh, I would let you crash, but I already have someone staying with me for the rest of the week." I would even add that the guy was giving me 100 bucks to do so; just to kind of remind him that he had no money (but he wished that he did).


It is now Friday morning, and I haven't slept yet.

I want to break the string of 3 consequetive nights of showing up at the Lilly Pad at, or after 10:30 PM. It is 5:30 AM, and after making just 9 bucks last night, playing for 2 hours, there is not much else for me to do except go look for some tobacco in the ashtray at the bar up the street, drink some more coffee and then read a bit, and drift off into a peaceful sleep without the burden of a full stomach to contend with.
Sleeping on a full stomach has been giving me disturbing dreams.
In this one, I was on a beach and was able to program the size of the incoming waves using a laptop that just happened to be mounted in a hill of rocks off shore. I programmed a huge tidal wave, and then prepared for the adventure of watching it come in. But I woke up before it did. Feeling depressed, too.
The dream was sort of like the memory of when I had gone to the beach in Jacksonville, Florida, to watch one of the hurricanes come in, back in 2004 -that time, I didn't stay very long because, as cool as it was to watch a genuine hurricane roll in off the ocean, as the wind picked up, the rain began hitting me at 120 mph and felt like being attacked by an army armed with pellet guns; a huge army. I hadn't counted upon that, as I drove out there, practically the only car on the roads, as I recall...
I suppose that was better than if I were in some place that afforded me the opportunity to check out a genuine live volcano up close...
The dream was also connected to my having mixed sound on my laptop before going to sleep and, at one point, having mistakingly set an echo for 6 seconds, rather than the .6 of a second that I intended. Having vocals echo 6 seconds after the fact hadn't produced a very musical result.

It is now  5:54 AM.

I have reached 46 days without a drop of alcohol. I haven't smoked weed in a few days, either. None of that helps me play my best music, ultmately.

The One Year Plan
 
I have recordings from a year ago, and have gotten the idea of improving them, using whatever skills I have acquired since then. 

Today, I remade "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan, after listening to a version that I did February 21st, 2015, which my first impulse was to erase; being shocked at how awful I sounded to myself in my current state.

However, I decided to keep only the rhythm guitars and redo the lead vocal, the harmonica, add a bass and add the snare drum that I found on the sidewalk about 3 weeks ago. The finished product should be posted in the sidebar to the right, soon, if not already.

Then, I will find the next piece that I produced, maybe a week or so after that one; and refurbish it in the same way. By the end of 2016, I should have all of the 2015 material made over. I think that's a cool idea. 
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Dog Gone Cat Gone

• 26 Dollar Saturday
• 
  
• 23 Dollar Sunday
• 
  
• Dog Gone Cat Gone

Saturday night, I didn't make it to the Lilly Pad until almost 11 Pm.


I had stayed up the entire previous night, after having stayed in Friday to work on things other than busking.


Howard had visited Friday morning for a while and left his backpack leaning against the back of my couch.


Neither one of us noticed it on our way out. I guess I have become so accostomed to the clutter of my place as to only notice things that are absent from their normal place.


In the morning, the sun came up and, the longer Howards backpack sat there; the more I wondered if he would take it upon himself to show up to reclaim it; choosing early morning as the time that I would most likely be there.

I eventually decided to just call the guy; I had his number from when he left it with security the time he called to arrange our viewing of the Patriots and Broncos game about a month ago.


"Ken" answered.


"Well, I take Howard's calls because he can't hear very well..."


I told Ken that I would try to make it over there with Howard's backpack. Inside, it contained two books and pad covered with his mostly illegible scrawlings. Howard is writing a novel.


There were also pill type bottles in the front pockets, but I ascertained that they didn't contain any essential daily medications, or otherwise I would have called sooner, I told him.


Ken is the guy who lives at the house with "Berta," whose 2nd husband has pretty recently passed away.


They are apparently the couple that had taken an interest in Howard and started inviting him over there for Sunday dinners after they all had gone to a church somewhere.


I would find out, upon meeting Ken later on, that he was the guy who had stayed in the woods with Howard, by the river and had "taught him how to camp."


I remember encountering him in that same woods once, when I had been looking for Howard for some reason, and he had been very protective and had even kind of warned me not to mess with Howard.


It was about 10 AM when I first called.


Ken called back around noon to check upon my progress; see if I were lost, and to inform me that he was about to embark upon walking the dogs; in case I were on track to arrive very shortly. He would probably have told me where to find Howard, and not to worry about the turkey. More on that subject ahead.


Owls And Turkeys, Oh, My!


I got across the river by around 1 PM, after having sat and began reading one of the books from Howard's pack while waiting for the "Algiers Owl," to arrive at the stop. It is called the Owl, ostensibly because it runs late, if until midnight does justice to owls. I found the house where Howard is staying.


I was greeted at the front gate by the two little dogs that had been walked.It is a one story, fairly large house (not appearing to be so from the front which has a small face, but with sides that stretch on back almost 100 feet) with a fairly large yard around, and mostly behind it.


There was a domesticated turkey, which turned out to be the one that I had once taken a picture of when I encountered it not far from where Howard and Ken had lived in the woods. It had been in a pen there, as it was here; and had been in public view having its cage right in the front yard, as it was here, having its cage abutting the fence from the neighboring lot where stood a bar of some sorts.


I joked to Howard about why he hadn't just told me that his house was next door to said bar and that I would have then been able, to locate them right away. Seeing the turkey accounted for one of those "It's a small world" moments.


When I had taken the picture of it, I had been at the Algiers Point Bar, where Christina Friis had been performing with a guitarist friend, and had walked a couple blocks down the sidewalk and spotted the thing that Howard would wind up living with.


I visited until about nightfall, having had it insisted that I join them for a dinner of a casserole, tater tots, and bread rolls with real butter, which I ate, fully expecting that it might revisit me in the form of an itchy scalp or maybe a slight headache around the temples, but, as long as I didn't decide to drink alcohol to diminish those symptoms, I would be alright, as I worked upon my 41st day "dry."


Howards housemates were drinkers ("from sunup to sundown, but they're never mean, he had told me during the visit when he had left his pack) and Berta had offered me "something to drink," upon my arrival. Howard had stepped in and told her that he hadn't done the same because I was trying to quit drinking.

The topic then moved to the turkey and I was given an almost tour guide style lecture upon the keeping of turkeys as domestic pets in general, "I don't know why more people don't..." and some interesting specifics such as that the turkey's head feathers changed colors between red white and blue "It's a very patriotic turkey, said Berta," and that, periodically the turkey lost all its feathers before growing them back into the beautiful array that the goldish brown bird before us sported.


After we ate, I was instructed where to wait for the bus back to Canal Street, so that I could capitalize upon a Saturday night, and Valentines Day to boot, to busk.


I went there and waited an hour and a half past the time that Howard had specified before boarding one. It was Saturday, and Howard may have been overlooking a "weekend" appendix to the schedule.


I got back to the Quarter at about 8 PM, took a streetcar to get my stuff at the apartment and didn't make it to the Lilly Pad until the 11PM mentioned above.


I made 26 bucks in about 2 hours, returning to the apartment to stay up from about 3 AM until 6 AM, beore laying down my body which hadn't slept for 48 hours.


I slept for 12 hours.


I felt a little tired still, but blamed it upon the casserole which undoubtedly had a lot of hydrogenated soybean oil in it, which seems to tax my digestive system.


I had a dream about Karrie in the late afternoon.


In it, she had somehow "made it" in the world and was wearing the finest type of clothing and had her hair all shiny and styled and had expensive sunglasses on her forehead. We were on a bus, and I tried to talk to her and she was giving me that distant type of interactions that a guy gets from strippers, part of whose job it is to be friendly, and who will call every guy who walks in the place, "honey," or "sweetie."


She was being nice, in a standoffish kind of way, sort of like Tanya Huang is capable of, and the emotion of the dream was mingled with my real life experience of having left Karrie behind when I lit out for Mobile, Alabama, and a better life, back in 2009.


At the time, I thought that she was just too big a drunk for me to want to deal with, and I was foreseeing myself watching her


deteriorate physically and mentally, and decided to part company with her before I might become so deeply in love with her that it would torture me to see that happen.


Ironically, upon arriving in Mobile, I set about becoming the biggest drunk in my 48 year old history; stooping to drinking such cheap but strong delights such as Steel Reserve Lager, and Earthquake Lager.


Here I was dreaming the dream on the night of my 41st day without a drop, and I think the meaning has to do with the fact that I had left Karrie for a better and more sober life; and the fact that Tanya kind of represents that better life, as far as what a musician can acheive through sober practicing.


But the fact that I was tossing and turning with the dream was probably attributable to haven eaten a lot of soy oil.


$21.58 Sunday


2 Hours of playing Sunday night, yeilded the above amount.


I had one young lady tell me that I sounded nice who tipped 10 dollars, and the rest were singles.


I had been determned to be there sooner than the 11 PM of the previous night, but only managed to arrive a half hour sooner.


Having woken up at 6 PM, after 12 hours of rest and a dream about Karrie, I was considering blogging for a couple hours here at the computer room.


But, I also wanted to do my quarter mile run, getting a "morning" energy drink at the store at the other end of the run, and perhaps checking for weed at the Banks Meat store. That would be better done first, I thought.


I ran the course in 2:13 which is very average, blaming the amount of food that I had eaten, along with a sore feeling in my ankles for the mediocrity.


I got an energy drink and went to the Banks Meat parking lot, where only crack was available. I told the crack guy that I wanted to wait until I had more money to spend than 5 bucks before "checking out" his product. I don't know why I said that, unless it was to test his nobility. If he had tried to get my 5 dollars by offering some ridiculously huge piece of something that surely wouldn't be crack, then I would know that he was a scam; and file it away on the back burner.


I was able, 10 years ago now, to convince myself to just never do crack again, after having had about a 3 month "affair" with the drug, back in 2006; an experience which I determined to be getting progressively worse as time went along.


I had 11 dollars on me and had to pass on the experience of arriving at the Lilly Pad totally broke and, although working on 42 days without drinking; instead "tweeking" as I came down off of 10 hard earned dollars worth of crack; grinding my teeth and having had any sense of confidence and self worth depleted from my brain and staring tourists in the eye with a look to match the best of skeezers and playing music while harboring a paranoia that "they can all hear that I smoked crack." No, thanks...


So, I started a half hour earlier, at 10:30. I had run into David The Waterjug Player, after stepping off the trolley at about 10PM, who smoked a joint with me, rather than asking me if I had any weed (which he does about 90% of the time) and arrived at the spot with an Arizona Energy drink to place beside me and fresh batteries for the spotlight.


I got one guy to stop and sit beside me while I was playing "People Are Strange," by The Doors.


My harmonicas could use replacing, and it was reassuring to make money off of a song that doesn't include one, because of the key that the song is in, or the keys that the harmonicas are in, take your pick.


Replacing the harmonicas, along with other things -the headphones that only sound in one ear; the woofer speaker that the cat tore the foam rubber around; light bulbs, etc. is going to require me to just busk for longer each day than the 2 hours that I have been averageing lately -"lately" to include most of Mardi Gras.


I spent $3.50 on energy drinks, $2 on batteries, $2.50 on trolley rides and about $10 on food today, which is 18 out of the 21 that I made. Hardly a recipe for saving up for stuff...


But, at least I didn't spend it all on crack...


Dog Gone Cat Gone

For all intents and purposes, I no longer own a cat.


The cat disappears for days at a time now; it is going on 48 hours missing as I write this; and only wants to come inside to scarf down food, be petted and scratched behind the ears until I tire of it; and play "attack the hand," until I stop because I don't want scratches all over my hands; and then cry at the door to go out for another ? hours.


I'm not going to foot the bill to have the thing neutered soon, as it is nearly the age to begin "spraying" all over. And I don't want to be responsible for any veteranarian bills, should it become ill because of worms or anything else out there; all for a few minutes of attention each day and the disappearance of money into its bowl and its litter box.


It might feel cruel to just walk past it on my way into the apartment, leaving it crying at the door; but a couple instances of my doing that could effectively disown me of the critter, once and for all.


Just as it is for humans in New Orleans; there is so much food out there for a cat, between that which some people who live here at Sacred Heart Apartments and have been seeing it in the parking lot leave out for it; to that which is left in piles around nearby abandoned buildings that are not abandoned at all, if you consider cats.


I haven't put any identifying collar around Harold, and so there will be no paper trail if I just decide to let him follow his bliss and be a wild cat. He can't have it both ways.


He used to stay close enough to the door so that, if a rainstorm were to kick up, for example, he would be ready to make a dash to get inside as soon as I would open the door and call him. Now he has discovered the resource of abandoned buildings and the society of wild animals.


I missed him and worried about him the first few times that he wasn't around when I called him, but now I don't worry; and I have stopped calling for him. I guess a cat has got my tongue in that regard.


Now, I can begin the process of replacing things that have been torn up by the thing. I recorded it meowing at the door, eager to leave the other night. I can put that clip into a song that I wrote about the thing; so as to have something to show for its having been here.


My plan is to show up at the Lilly Pad earlier and earlier, until I am conditioned to busk for 5 hours a night. Only good things can come of that, financially.

Louise Set Up By Lilly Pad
When I had gotten to the Lilly Pad Sunday Night, at about 10:30 PM, the first thing that I noticed was Louise The Tarot Card Reader, set up under the lamp post where I first started playing, across from Barnaby's condo.
I didn't perceive a threat and played well, despite her vibe.
She came over and talked, saying that she had forgotten that I played there. Maybe....
Or, I might try to get a job through the "Labor Staffing" place a couple blocks down the street and use the money to make my next foray into busking behind amplifiers and microphones and effects to go after Royal Street money.


I wonder how many of the musicians who now greet me warmly, as I make my nightly trek to the Lilly Pad, will continue to do so after they begin to see me as yet another musician who might, on any given night, be at a spot on Royal Street that they kind of hoped would be available.


Maybe Dorise will throw my guitar in the street some night, if I set up on St. Louis and Royal in defiance of their chairs being locked to the light post there, marking their territory. They are nearly the talent level to begin spraying all over, I guess.


I got a rather cold reception from them earlier when I walked past them. It could just be because they had a group of about 50 tourists around them and were trying to send a message of "Not now, Daniel, we'll talk to you later," and figure that not smiling would get that across.


Or, they might be hearing from people that read this blog about stuff such as the above, or that I write about how much money they apparently make...who knows.


The beauty of the above plan would be that, after Royal Street kind of dies at around midnight, the Lilly Pad can be just picking up, and I might be able to match the nights take on Royal with a couple additional hours there, playing acoustically, of course...





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To Slow Down Time

Time seems to be moving faster than normal. It seems like 10 minutes goes by in 6 minutes.

Taken from my angle

When I had to wait about 10 days before my food card was to be charged with 194 bucks, I tried to take my mind off it and go out and busk; and I was literally playing for my dinner those nights, and it worked out well; maybe too well, as I was feasting upon 12 dollar meals and ruing the fact that the money wasn't piling up upon my coffee table.
I have become a coffee fiend.
I come home at around 2:30 AM, most nights and immediately begin to brew a strong cup of instant coffee, to go along with the daily newspaper that I am now coherent enough to read at that hour, as opposed to being blacked out drunk.
The Mardi Gras has come and gone in the blink of an eye, it seems. I managed the affair rather poorly.
There was money to be made; a lot more than I did.
Jay, the really loud singer said that he had made $1,600 "the past four days" when I saw him last night, after Fat Tuesday had concluded and the police had done their half ceremonial/ half serious "sweep" of Bourbon Street, riding horses and holding megaphones through which they made an announcement to the effect of: "Ladies and gentlemen, Mardi Gras is now over; please go home!" and then, closely behind them came vehicles equipped with hoses to spray down the street and sidewalks, symbolic of Mardi Gras having come to an end.
Woe be to the skeezer who is passed out on the sidewalk and isn't rousted by the sound of the bullhorns; and isn't wearing a raincoat. Oh, just let me man the hose for a few blocks; it would make my Mardi Gras!
Johnny B., whom I saw Sunday night, said that he had just reached the mark of $1,000 on that the 12th night of the festival.
I truthfully told him that I was averaging 30 bucks per hour, when he inquired; but left out the information that, on more than one occasion I had only played for about and hour and then just pocketed the average of 30 bucks, wanting only to pick up a good meal at Rouses Market, go home, eat, smoke a "j," drink coffee, read write, draw cartoons, record music, take a hot shower, etc.
The Lilly Pad became inhospitable throughout the last 4 days of the festival, as Lafitt's had amplified music pouring out into the street.

Wishes it was Mardi Gras year-round

Monday night, I had moved down to a spot diagonal from The Quartermaster, where I maintained my 30 dollar average by making about 47 bucks in an hour and a half before one of the residents from across the street opened her door and asked me if I could "shut it down," as she had people trying to sleep. Then, she added the almost obligatory observation that she did realize that she lived on Bourbon Street..."but do you see anybody else out here doing it?" she inquired.
No, I didn't, and I don't want to. I would prefer that she keep coming out and running off any musicians who try to set up there, as Lilly will do at my spot.
I thanked her for letting me play for an hour and a half and for not having called the police, but rather, asked me to stop. She seemed like she wanted to have a confrontation, though, because, as polite as I was -one of the blessings of being sober- she kept the tone of "It's almost midnight; this is ridiculous; I have children sleeping."
The next night, Fat Tuesday, I was planning upon playing there again, only starting earlier and knocking off before it became "ridiculous," but wound up walking around looking for an impossible to find sack of weed until it became just as late.
I actually waited until midnight and, after the police had swept Bourbon, knowing that they only swept as far as St. Ann Street, I set up under the lamp post where I first played about 3 years ago, and was able to make a quick 27 bucks in about an hour.
I am trying not the think about the money that I could have made, had I been psyched up to play and not picky about where to do it.
I am glad that the Lilly Pad will once again be quiet and cozy and that I will be the only busker within sight or sound there.
If I want to go after the thousand dollars next year, I will show up with a little Roland Street Cube amp and a microphone and reserve a spot on Royal by utilizing a sleeping bag to camp out there.
I haven't slept in almost 24 hours. It is Ash Wednesday, and I think I will use the 24 hour trolley pass to go into the Quarter and mail some Mardi Gras beads and a few newspaper clippings that I have been saving, to my mom in Massachusetts, and inquire at the same time about the price of shipping about a one pound package to the Lidgeleys in London. The contents of which I will reveal in a future post; not wanting to spoil the surprise.

Signs of the gay district...

I asked them to include a return address with their last parcel, and so they expect something and I am pretty sure that they think it will be my CD, but that is only about 20% complete.
I do expect to have it done within the next few months, as I have learned a lot of shortcuts in using the digital studio and am not spending nearly enough time as I was on each song.
It is important to just set up and play and sing and play the harmonica, as if I were at the Lilly Pad, and just place the microphone in the best place to capture a balanced sound.
It's funny how I can sing my butt off at the Lilly Pad, but in my own apartment, I am bracing myself for the neighbor to start banging on the other side of the wall with a broomstick, which makes for a tentative performance.
When I was shitfaced all the time, that wasn't a problem, as I probably would have composed a song called "You Wanna Know What You Can Do With That Broomstick?" and sang it unreservedly; but the problem would become apparent the next day when I played the tape back and heard what sounded like a drunk guy mumbling something about a broomstick over sloppily played guitar....that would be the problem there....
Off to the Royal Mail store....  

It's Time

• Days Sober: 35
• Motivation To Play Mardi Gras: 5%

It is time that is bothering me;

Amateur Drummer

I have gotten to the Lilly Pad the past couple of nights to find that Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern has positioned PA speakers towards the street, through which blare a disturbing mix of hip hop type music which the predominately white group of people out front seem to know all the words to.
Since there is no smoking allowed inside, and drinks ARE allowed outside, Lafitts is merely expanding the size of their establishment by allowing it to pour into the street. I am surprised that they haven't set up quarts heaters or such to keep everybody warm out front.
So, I have moved down to nearby The Quartermaster, which is quiet, and I have found a good acoustical spot in an alcove in front of what used to be an art gallery, where hung the famous black and white photo of "The Goose Lady," a woman who used to walk the Quarter followed by a family of geese.
I just haven't been able to motivate myself to play very long. It is as if I play for a half hour, make a quick 10 or 15 bucks, and then, as if I have proven that I can make money, and that satisfies me, I have knocked off.
I chose the wrong harmonica last night, the one that was more blown out than the other in the key of C, and that was a problem.
Playing at that new location, has drawn the attention of the staff there, whom I have seen almost every night, most recently in my quest for a cup of coffee, and they always see the guitar on my back, yet have never heard me play. Last night, I knocked off, though I could have made money playing the out of tune harmonica (I could have made money just sitting there; such is the nature of drunken tourists) but I knocked off early, telling myself I would come out earlier the next (to)day, and here I am at the same time in the same place, getting ready to go into the Quarter.
My 24 hour pass has expired because I was fooling enough to wait around the Banks Meat store for a guy who was going to come back "in 12 minutes" with some weed. It cost me a trolley ride to wait for him before giving up.
I will have 36 days alcohol free at the end of tonight.
Last night, I bought chicken liver for the first time in my life and fried it up with onions and ate a lot of it; as if I had killed two dozen chickens and eaten only their livers, my body must be thinking.
I woke up a bit depressed this afternoon; it's probably not a good idea to sleep on a full stomach.
I had set a little piece that I had recorded before going to sleep to repeat ad infinitum while I slept.
I found a snare drum the other night, along with the rest of a cheap drum kit that someone had left on the sidewalk while packing everything else into a moving van and leaving a place on Royal Street. The drum fit into my backpack, and so now I have a snare drum which allows me to get a more "live" sound than with the programmed digital drums alone. I can set the bass drum to hold a steady beat and then kind of liven the track up with snare rolls and accents and off beats and the typical stuff that a "real" drummer might do. A real amateur drummer...

Swimming Through Sea Of People

The scene outside my window is one of Mardi Gras parades with the streets lined about 6 deep with people trying to catch beads and eating a lot of food off of carts and tables..
I took a couple pictures but forgot to put them on my data stick so I'll post them tomorrow, I guess.

I am going to try to fight my way to the Lilly Pad.
I might be best off, cutting over to Tulane Street and grabbing a bus headed towards the Quarter from there.
If I walk Canal Street, I will be bumping into people the whole mile and a half.
It is 7:35 PM.
I will be happy to be at the Lilly Pad by 9 PM.
Lilly had invited me to watch the Muses parade with her, but we lost text contact with each other. I couldn't hear my phone ring, and when I finally checked the message, it was one of those "who is this?" ones, because I have recently gotten a new phone. Perhaps when I never answered, Lilly deleted the message instead of adding it to her contacts....
I will ask her about it if I see her tonight.

Wednesday night; "The Guy Who Wants To Play Your Guitar"

This night promises to be one of those 200 dollar "Mardi Gras" nights that we wait all year for. It is a Friday and not too cold at all, maybe 55 degrees....
Thursday Night Off
I took Thursday night off, as it was cold, and I had dallied until 11 PM at the apartment and was waiting for a bus that I couldn't see coming yet, when I decided that I could get more productive things done inside the apartment in the next couple of hours.
One can never tell, but I got some recording and mixing done, and that was that.

The Spirit Of Dorise Blackmon

The security guard is getting up off his ass to come tell me that it is past 8 o' clock and the computer room will be closing.
The date for my food stamp card to be charged came so fast; one minute I had to wait 12 days, the next thing I knew, I was waking up at 6 PM Thursday, farting around the apartment and then arriving in the Quarter at 10:30 PM, with just an hour and a half to wait before I could go into Rouses Market and stock up.
20 Dollar Thursday
I started playing at around 11 PM, trying to be vigilant of the clock and make it to Rouses before 1 AM, when they closed.
I had a group come by and request "Wonderwall," by Oasis.
"I totally need to sit down and learn this song; you are about the 12th group that has requested it; It seems like young people from Great Britain, or Ireland or somewhere over there (Wales, Scotland?) idolize that group, as if they truly fit the description of themselves in Rolling Stone magazine (or somewhere I read it) of being the new Beatles."
I played the thing as well as I knew it; at least giving them the chorus chords "...and after all; you're my Wonderwall!!...." and I got two 5 dollar bills to go along with a few singles already in there.
Another guy came along and said: "Wish You Were Here?" and I realized that it was fast becoming The Night When People Request Songs That You Have Been Meaning To Learn Better For A Long Time Now.
I did my best to sound out Wish You Were Here (by Pink Floyd) and got another clump of one dollar bills from him.
Then arrived a lady whom I hadn't seen in 2 years. She was renting the place over my left shoulder and next door to Lilly whom is feuding with the owner of in a Hatrocks and McCoys fashion.
She has a daughter named "Carly." I remembered the name of the girl.
The girl looked smaller than she had been 2 years ago and was being pushed in a stroller.
"Wait a minute, I thought Carly was like, 11 years old a couple years ago," I said in reference to her stature. It occurred to me that she might be suffering from some kind of disease, but didn't want to avoid the issue. People with terminal illnesses think about almost nothing else, I imagine, and to just make small talk about the Mardi Gras parades would probably make for a meaningless encounter.
The mother said that Carly looked forward to seeing/hearing me more than anything else during their pilgrimage to New Orleans; kind of like the way I looked forward to seeing my grandfathers chickens in his coop during our annual treks to Vermont when I was a kid, I guess. (I don't elevate myself above chickens).
I can only think that it might be from when I was improvising some lyrics that might have resonated with the girl.
I was up to about 20 dollars. The mother and another couple ladies and Carly finally got through the gate of the place after having trouble with the keypad and she (the mother) said that she needed to get Carly in out of the cold, but would come back out and smoke a cigarette with me.
I decided to play longer, even though my watch said: 12:36 PM, with Rouses closing in another 24 minutes.
Then along came a young black kid who said he was trying to get rid of some weed, and some liquor and only needed 4 dollars.
I told him that I hadn't drank in 33 days.
"But you smoke bud?"
"Yeah, I guess..."
It should have been a red flag that he had weed AND liquor -kind of covering all bases to make sure he could entice me into something... It was actually while he was ostensibly wrapping a bit of bud in plastic that the "Wish You Were Here" guy came along and sang along and then left me exactly 4 dollars as a tip.
He may have overheard the young black kid whom I will never forget the appearance of, because he could have been Dorise Blackmon's fraternal twin brother.
I tore open the sack to discover cigarette tobacco inside; this after he had thanked me profusely for the 4 dollars and even had shaken my hand and wished me a good night. "Make a lot of money," he said as he walked down Bourbon.
I don't know how "these" people think, but, in his mind he might have not felt like a thief at all, rather someone who is just another player in some cosmic type game. He probably saw the 4 dollars go into my tip jar and thought: "The guy threw him 4 bucks because of me standing there; he saw me hanging out and decided to come check out what was going on; and so that money was really mine to begin with..." But, again...I don't know how "these" people think....
I guess it served me right for desiring weed, after having declined the liquor. If I would have said, "Sorry, I don't drink nor smoke nor swear," then he would have tipped his hand should he have went on to enquire: "Well, what do you do? (what can I rip you off on, surely there must be something..)
I could almost wonder if it was a spirit coming to me, the same one that has inhabited Dorise since she kicked heroin like 25 years ago and has been a non smoker non drinker ever since; kind of like the ghosts of Christmas in the Dickens work..."You've 33 days without a drop of alcohol, Daniel. Now you need to quit weed to come to the next level with Tanya and I. I will make it easy for you; I'll rip you off for 4 bucks so that you will certainly not kick in another 5 for a sack when you get to Canal Street, because that would amount to spending 9 bucks on weed when you only made 20 bucks and you are too cheap to abide that, Daniel..."
The spirit of Dorise....
Well, the security guy hasn't come yet, but I am not going to press my luck and have him standing there impatiently as Blogger tells us "Uploading, please wait..."
Tonight, Friday, it is about as cold as last night when Carly needed to be whisked inside, but it is closer to Fat Tuesday, is a weekend night and there are a few parades going on. I should see traffic at the Lilly Pad.
 

Rearranged The Furniture, I Did...

• 18 Dollar Monday
• 8 Dollar Tuesday
• 30 Days Sober

I have posted a video to facebook, which was basically me grabbing the guitar and messing around with a song that I always do kind of sarcastically. It is a recent addition to the set list and a work in progress.
But, I couldn't post it here because it exceeded the limit of 100 Megabytes, by 55 Megabytes. It was 4 minutes and 3 seconds long and shot with the built in camera of my 149 dollar laptop, but using the Snowball microphone and can't be that high a resolution to eat up a lot of space in this high definition world that we live in.
Moving Time?
To cut to the chase...

The Red Carpet Is A New Addition...

 A guy in the computer room; another resident who plugs his own laptop into the connections in the computer room and who seems to have some cyber savvy; suggested that I move this blog to some other site which offers unlimited space for such things and that has a functionality somewhere between a blog and a website.
The fact that the site offers "templates" means that, unlike a plain website, it comes along with a tool which basically makes creating a blog a cinch.
So, I am mulling over moving this blog to that site.
The caveats would be:
I would have to redirect visitors to that blog from this one.
I get thousands of hits through my association with Google and Blogger in tandem -billions of people Googling all kinds of things and landing on my blog.
I could always make sure that my blog on the new site would be highly visible to Google, through using keywords and meta tag in the description so that anyone Googling "busking" or that and "New Orleans" at the same time would be steered in the direction of the blog...
My biggest concern is that whoever runs this other website that "basically offers free web sites and has no limit on the size of files that you can upload" will be around as long as Google.
Will my blog be available for my great grandchildren to read, or will they get a message telling them that the new company went out of business a hundred years ago and deleted all of their content.
Other than that; it is time to leave the computer room but not before posting a few pictures...

There goes the trolley; another one; my pass is good until 9:30 as that was the time that I had finally drug myself out of here at and bought the 24 hour pass.

I now go to run the quarter mile.


I have a feeling that it is actually 5 yards longer than a quarter mile, as I have paced it off, using steps that I had pretty much memorised in my muscles to be one yard long. If if just take "big steps," I have found that after treading the length of a football field, I will be within a yard of my 100th step.


I am pretty sure that my course is within ten yards definitely, of a quarter mile. The fact that I ran in at an 8:20 per mile pace yesterday, at 2:06.96 also tells me that I am not far off, and the cities infrastructure i.e. how many yards apart street blocks and lots of real estate, etc. are also offer me clues for measuring my course. If 2 blocks register as 196 yards after me pacing it off, then it is a good bet that I can round the figure to 200 yards, because why would planners cordon off 196 yard blocks of turf when 200 would be so much easier to work with; come tax time. But, then again this is New Orleans and they may have been using a "Louisiana Territory Block Unit, (BTBU)" back then, which happened to be 196 yards long.


I go to run now; the following text will be from after I return with something to eat from the Ideal Market, and with an energy drink coursing through my veins and preparing to go into the Quarter, utilizing the 24 hour pass.


You've just read: 296 words.

Room For Fish To Grow

28 Days Sober Reached
Today was the first day, it is Monday the 1st of February by the way, that I thought that I would go to the store and buy liquor and drink it.I think it was because of the most recent additions to my diet; the diet that started off with no alcohol, but, yet, with only apple juice and spring water. This kept me sober and I was full of energy and vigor.
Then, of course I added foods slowly in; always on the alert for some food that would make me crave a drink to go with it; and then, I finally got to the first point, through the whole ordeal when I didn't feel absolutely great and full of vigor.
I was even feeling anger over slights from a long time ago; wishing I had just punched that clown in the face 17 years ago, and things.
I misplaced my transparent tape; sort of.
I used it to reinforce the tape job done already on the subwoofer speaker that the cat tore up; and then I couldn't find it for a long time.
I was going for a drink; but talked myself out of it. I ;have entered the talking myself out of it phase.
The Parcel From The Land Not Too Far From The Land Of Sheep And Tourists

So weird, so cosmic; the parcel.


I got an early morning call from the front desk, telling me that I had a package "from Amazon." "...Do I know anybody from the rainforest? Maybe it's from Sue, the Colombian lady..."


It was Saturday morning, I had busked Friday night, making 25 dollars that had seemed to trickle in, over the 2 and a half hours that I played, and having only 11 of it left, by the time I had spent 12 bucks on food, 3 on the trolley, another 4 on instant coffee and a newspaper that I could read instantly over a cup of it; as well as having run into Brian Hudson and taken that opportunity to give him 3 bucks for a set of strings of the kind that he gets online for that same ridiculously low price (the same would be close to 10 bucks at Louisiana Music Facory, where they are rude to me).


I already had an odd assortment of strings, given to me by a girl on Frenchmen Street, who must have been around 17 years old and was dressed in a way to paint herself as a train hopping "travelling kid."


She was refreshingly not a skeezer. She showed me to a guy who was selling weed, and who sold me a 5 dollar sack, and then she politely afforded me the opportunity to offer her a bowl of it, in the way of thanks, rather than immediately hounding me for it.


It was while we were partaking of this that she mentioned that she had some new guitar strings on her that she no longer needed, having "lost" her instruments. Travelling kids seem to lose their instruments a lot.


It was quite an assortment, to include some Elixir® brand, which are 16 dollars a set, on average.


I was able to cull a full set of out of what she had, including an Elixir® to hold down the bass, as the bottom E string.


Elixirs are touted as being able to sound good for 6 months, as opposed to garden variety strings which can dull by the end of one week; because they are coated with some kind of space age material, perhaps that which prevents spacecraft from burning up when re-entering the earths atmosphere, and that explains why they are twice as expensive as other strings .


The reason I don't pay the 16 bucks for them is because, the one time I did, they sounded fantastic for about 3 weeks, and then snapped, not one, but 2 of them; on the same night. They may have gone on to sound good for 6 months had I played them with a light touch and not in an attempt to reach people 50 feet away with my volume.


The thing about the cheap strings is that, even after they lose their "brilliance," they still play, for up to 3 weeks or more. They just sound more like the piano that your grandfather has in his basement that used to be the focal point of the parties that he threw when he was younger, but now just collects dust and hasn't been tuned in 40 years. And a little better than that, after you tune them.


And nobody probably complained about the sound of that piano when they were busy singing "Aulde Lang Syne," snookered on mint juleps.


But now I can put an Elixer on my guitar as the bottom string and the sky will be the limit as far as the bass tone that I might be able to get. Of course that string would be the only thing left of my instrument, should I have to re-enter the atmosphere with it; but I'll be incinerated and won't really care.


Factor the weed into the 33 bucks that I would spend the entire Friday.


But subtract any alcohol purchases; and note the one 20 dollar tip that I would wind up getting as a result of playing at a level commensurate with sobriety; and then add a full set of new strings, plus the 8 bucks that I saved in going through Brian Hudson for the other set; and I would conclude that it was a good day money-wise; even though money isn't exactly accumulating on my coffee table at home.


The fact that I had run out of food stamp money with 13 days to go in my "month" has effected me financially; along with the fact that I have been deciding to treat myself to a darned good meal each night; rather than pick through the dumpster outside Popeyes Chicken, looking for the bag of stuff that sat on the grill until closing time without being sold -and which is free, but dry and stringy and sometimes has to be contended over with skeezers.


I don't know what is happening to me. I am dressing in cleaner, nicer clothes, and have stopped picking through dumpsters for food. I hope I'm not getting away from the things that have made me the musician that I am today.


Harold, my cat has been eating gourmet stuff like Fancy Feast "Chicken Hearts and Liver [in gravy]" lately; and so I guess I am just keeping up with the Jones's...


"Harold, want some of this Popeyes Chicken?"


"Er, no thanks..."


I had been up all night, into Saturday morning; drinking coffee after coffee, and reading the newspaper just about from cover to cover.


I recorded about a 10 minute jam onto which I have layered about 4 extra voices, and have plans for selecting a section of it; erasing everything else except the drums, and then trying to put other songs leading into it and coming after it. Those would be main verses, and would make a bridge out of the section that I did last night. Which might be interesting; a section that started out as the first verse, but then became sandwiched between two other sections; as yet to be composed; so that it will then be a bridge between them...


All this had me up until just before 9 AM, when my intercom rang, and it was the guy (Mr. Stevens) who holds some kind of support group here at Sacred Heart Apartments, and it is apparently on Friday mornings at 10 AM.


I knew that I was going to busk, starting about 12 hours from then, and so I politely declined the offer from Mr. Stevens, who had probably had it suggested to him by some well meaning person that I might stand to benefit from the support group.


25 Days Sober


Sometime earlier that morning, when I was abusing coffee and trying to slow down on the cigarettes, I reached my 25th day without a drop of alcohol.


A support group can't hurt, unless I come away with the feeling that I have taken up the yolk of now having a bunch of guys that I can let down and disappoint and feel ashamed of myself in front of; should I just start drinking again.


I can imagine it: "Here's a toast to the dozen or so guys who have my back and are counting on me to do the right thing!" before shooting down some tequilla.


Some people (Brian Hudson, busker, for one) have told me that they have rarely ever met a person who had quit alcohol "on their own."


I might become another of them, though, because I am kind of a loner. The "social interaction" of a support group might just send me off on a beeline for the liquor store.


Maybe the reason few people have heard of anyone doing it on their own is that, it is accomplished by other loners and so, consequently, people like Brian rarely meet them.


Then, I got the call from the front desk informing me that the parcel had arrived.


I knew already that I was getting "a book" from the Lidgleys of London; and I thought that, if the package had indeed been shipped from Amazon, then, Amazon would have been a third party in the process, making me wonder how the Lidgleys would have been able to get the Starbucks card, which I was also aware of, into a package coming directly from Amazon, unless they had gone to the distribution Center and inserted it, somewhere between the conveyor belt and the delivery truck.


I went (nervously) this evening to pick it up.


I had woken up after dark, after having nodded off around 10 AM, after declining to go to the support group meeting; effectively throwing away a cash free trolley ride, as I had an all day pass that was going to expire at 5:40 PM, or sundown, as we also call it this time of year.


I awoke around 4 PM, but my body at that time was telling me that the whole steak that I had eaten, along with catfish nuggets, popcorn and a "midnight" snack of a bite off of a block of cheese; had taxed my system in the way of digesting it, perhaps, and I felt like the snake that has swallowed a large meal, and wants to curl up under a rock for a while.


I woke up still groggy and didn't think of the package right away, but rather, had left the apartment in the middle of a wake up cup of coffee that had me craving a cigarette, to go look in the ashtray in the smoking room to see if there were a couple puffs of nicotine in one of them (fat chance in a skeezer friendly apartment building, but...) and when I approached the mailboxes, it all came back to me; the phone call in the morning...and the fact that the Lidgeleys often include a couple packs of smokes in their parcels. I quickened my pace towards the front desk, noticing that there wasn't a single smokeable butt in the smoking room ashtrays as I passed.


As I walked, I was a little nervous.


I thought of the fact that the young lady who had called me in the morning about the package was no longer on duty; it would be the night crew now.


I wondered if the night crew were as honest and dutiful as the girl on morning shift. Would they steal my package and then affect some charade of looking around for it before telling me that they didn't see any package; and "I don't know what to tell you..." as they fought back smirks.


I got to the front desk and could see a box sitting in the area where they seem to hold such things; and it had the tell-tale "Royal Mail," sticker on it.


It is funny that, since there is a "Mail Services" store on Royal Street which also is called "Royal Mail" (perhaps a play upon the British system) the security people might have thought that it just came from downtown -probably made it seem less important; less theft-worthy- If they knew that it came all the way from England, they would probably think that it was some kind of fancy imported item or even the Hopi Diamond, and might be more prone to steal it. right here in town.


I had to sign the package in and, as they fumbled to open the notebook to the right page and find the pen, I took the opportunity to slice the package open with my key, and in doing so, immediately saw the gold Benson & Hedges cigarette boxes.


I was then overcome with the urge to, I guess, flaunt the cigarettes, as I ejaculated "Yes, cigarettes!!" in front of the security people whom hadn't stolen my parcel.


But, there weren't any skeezer/residents in the lobby, and my furtive glance around before making the exclaimation, apparently to confirm that fact; was meant in the spirit of one working person being able to tell other working people that somehow fruits have come.


If I were a security person with my weekly pay tied to spending 40 hours at Sacred Heart apartments, I would probably come to resent the skeezers, just as I have as a busker.


So, I felt like a big shot. It was, let's call it a Johnny B. Moment; I felt like a pretty big fish in an actually pretty big pond; but one that has small fish; I think part of me wanted to flaunt the fact that I got packages from overseas with cigarettes and everything...and of course, that would indicate that I have a better character than these skeezers who have no friends at all, not even overseas friends.


With all the interesting people that you can meet, here in New Orleans, for them to have made no real friends only because they have been skeezing the whole the time; is sad.


But, there are those who have absolutely crossed over into a reality where some people have things and others don't; they put themselves in the don't category; and they rationalize to themselves that, if it were they who were the one that had; they would most certainly give to the beggar; and they go forward upon that principle.


It's just so frustrating to me that the opportunity never arrives to see if that is so.


I got the rest of the parcel to my room and, peaking inside, could see that there were indeed books and what appeared to be a calendar. I have at least 4 calendars on display in my apartment. I guess I am like people who like to have a clock in every room, so that they never have to leave a room to check the time. I am the same way with dates.


So, it was pretty cosmic getting a calendar, as I collect them.


And then, as if the strings that the travelling kid type girl traded to me plus the ones that I got from Brian weren't enough, there were 3 packs of Martin strings; and now I am set up to do some serious gigging.


I need to process this and post it within 10 minutes, bye for now.


What is below was written yesterday and should be redundant..but I need to post in a hurry...


I will leave them to speculate, as they sit there watching the monitors for suspicious doings in the hallways, about just what kind of "international" figure I am.


I should tell them that I am really famous in Great Britain


The tourists were being skeezed relentlessly; I myself was skeezed enough along my way to the Lilly Pad to surmise that they were most assuredly being skeezed left and right.


The Mardi Gras season has been slow compared to previous years and I think I will stay in a lot for a short period after the end of the carnival. If the whole carnival turns into a dud; many hustlers and losers and users and skeezers, who have been chanting the mantra of "Wait till Mardi Gras" throughout the unusually slow season leading up to it; will be devastated, to have seen their dreams of skeezing a great time with booze and drugs to spare end in disappointment, disallusionment and desperation,come Fat Tuesday.


So, I was dying for a cigarette when I got to the front desk where I signed for the package, and then immediately cut it open with my key, and opened one of the flaps, which revealed 2 packs of Benson & Hedges cigarettes.


I didn't contain my joy, and said out loud: "Yes, cigarettes!!" and for a second I felt like I was showing off. There were only the 2 security people in the lobby at the time, the female one was on the phone, and there was an "incident" report of some kind, open on their desk, in the process of being filled out. What I heard of the conversation involved the filling out of it, and I heard the police mentioned.


This is the last day of the month, and if I were a loan shark, I could probably do some business with the people here who get a "disability"check on the first of each month. The ones who are unable


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Cat Matters

• $8.50 Wednesday
  
• 
  
• 24th Day Sober Reached
  
• 
  
• The Cat
  

I just had to swat the cat off of the keyboard of this laptop, where it had decided to park itself.


I often wonder about how it chooses its lounging spots.


It used to lay upon the window sill, which made sense given the curiosity inbred into cats and the activity which can be seen through the window.


It stopped using the window sill at about the time the temperatures dropped when winter came, which also made sense. The coldest spots in the whole apartment being the window sills.


It then began to use the chair upon which I sit behind this computer, and even if I were sitting in it would wedge itself behind me.


This afternoon, though, it lay down upon a pair of jeans that were on the floor, close to the dirty laundry pile.


The jeans were black, as is the chair that I sit on behind the computer. They also would have my scent in them, like the chair.


I thought that it moved because I usually leave a bright lamp on and if it slept on the chair it would be doing so under the glare.


The jeans were in the shade.


The laptop is black, and is probably redolent with my odor, just as the black jeans and chair would be.


For a period of about a week, it was laying atop the backrest of the couch in the living room, which is a brownish green, and doesn't fit the pattern.


The entrance door, though, is visible from that vantage point, and, having been relatively new to the apartment and myself as its owner, it hadn't gleaned the regularity of my schedule and probably sat there waiting for my return whenever I had gone out, thinking, probably, that the door is where I came from and worrying that if the doorway was out of its sight then I may never materialize.


I made sure the cat knew that sleeping upon the keyboard of the laptop is unacceptable by throwing a fit and slamming my hand down upon the table that the laptop sits on, which is also off limits (the whole table) because it could and would swat my speakers onto the floor.


$8.50 Wednesday


After posting from Starbucks yesterday, I left there and walked through the chilly air to the Lilly Pad.


I felt like I might be the only busker out, as I saw zero of them the entire length of Royal Street, which is rare.


Louise was even absent from her cubby hole across from the Supreme Court building where she reads tarot cards and gives advice. She has yet to try to rebuild the bridge that she has burned and try to use my apartment again; she just can't unring that bell. I will try to be as polite as possible should the occasion arise, and refrain from saying something rude. I might just say: "It's just not in the cards, Louise..."


Maybe she does indeed see in her cards that it would be futile to attempt to be my roommate again.


She is a textbook "borderline personality," and as Brian Hudson, musician, put it: "She seems to be either overly loving and kind; or walking down the street spewing hatred towards everyone and everything; at the top of her lungs."


There were hardly any people out.


I lost out on a couple of tips because of experimenting with the harmonica in the key of E flat, unsuccessfully at times. I also did one of my originals when I was feeling that a group had paused to listen; and that a familiar song might have been called for. Call it "buskers instinct."


A five dollar tip after I had found a song "After Midnight," by Eric Clapton which fit the harmonicas mode, brought my total to the above, after 2 hours of playing. I was satisfied, and bought instant coffee, a newspaper and a can of cat food; and then made the mistake of paying $1.25 for the trolley when I had an all day pass in my pocket. D'oh!!


Now Starbucks is closing, it is Thursday and not much warmer, but I will get to the Lilly Pad an hour earlier than last night, because this one closes at 9PM (in 3 minutes).


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