Mailing The Portrait

• Harmonica Book Huge
• 45 Dollar Saturday Follows 1 Dollar Friday
• First Attempts Made With New Art Supplies

...just trying to see what the pens and pencils are capable of -not claiming this to be art...

Last night, I had that same feeling as if I might not make a cent and that same emptiness and lack of inspiration inside, that I have had before, as I rode the bike trail into the quarter; telling myself that I could just turn around and go back home if I didn't like the look of things. No obligations, no stress, no dire need of money.

But, I had spent myself down to about 4 dollars; not enough to cover postage on the portrait that I want to mail to Jennifer in Aurora, Illinois. I had spent it on cigarettes and weed. Thus, I actually did have the pressure to make back enough money to send the thing.

After having shown up at to post office without the address on me Friday, and then having gotten there too late on this Saturday, I knew I couldn't mail it until Monday, which would give me Saturday night and Sunday (if necessary) to make enough to cover the postage on a 4 ounce? package. I used to think that I was setting myself up for failure by doing this. Now I feel like I was setting the stage for myself to shine; to play inspired music because I was playing for postage money for sending a gift. It would hover around me like an aura; my purpose that is. All I know is that is better than feeling like I'm setting myself up for failure.

Like other times when I had that insecure feeling on my way out, it crossed my mind to stay in and try to conserve the 11 dollars that I had, which should have been enough to cover the postage; but not much else...

Portrait Still Not Sent

I had overslept and had missed the closing of the post office at 1 PM. I woke up at 1:30 PM., having not thought that I needed an alarm to wake me up so I could go and mail the portrait.

The portrait is looming large in importance to me; representing almost a year of sobriety and my ability to conceive of a project, and follow through with it.

I had thought that I had reached a plateau after a few months sober, where things wouldn't get any easier just by dint of my having quit drinking. But, there are some things that seem to be only "coming back" to me at this point of almost a year sober.

My attitude, stress level and musical ability have all appreciated slightly in just the past couple of months.

Can I get a "that's passable for your first ever attempt at using these materials" from someone?

Everything worked together in symphony.

Even Travis having crashed at my place for 10 days had a positive effect on my music, as he is about 20 years younger than I and, in my musical probings into what seemed to entertain him as I sat and played in my living room over a bowl, I found myself more comfortable with the tourists in his age group that walked past me.

Travis is from New York, which is kind of like the other New Orleans, as far as art and culture and all that; San Francisco being the other one.

I feel confident that I could busk alright in San Fran, however, not if the gays of which a big chunk of that population are as oblivious to tipping as they are when they come here for the Decadence Festival...

I guess I felt more "cosmopolitan" after having hung out with a New Yorker.

45 Dollar Saturday

Saturday night, I was at the Lilly Pad at the incredibly, for me, early hour of 8:09 PM.
My biggest fear was that I was going to be spent at 9:30, around the time I usually arrive, and that the traffic would be only picking up by then.

Blown Away By Harmonica Book

I tuned up and played "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas," on the guitar and harmonica.
Having pored through just the first few chapters of the Mel Bay harmonica book that Alex in California had sent me, gave me the full C major scale, and in a way that I could picture it, in regards to the written note. I was already "sounding out" the same notes but, somehow seeing the music written on a staff satisfies "that" portion of the brain, or something.

I guess the book reminds me that those are "musical" notes that are coming out of the harmonica and that it isn't (all) mumbo jumbo, and that a simple melody like the "Have Yourself..." song, over the "right" chords can sound nice to people.

The book is going to become very useful; I can tell. When I first opened it, I went to the very last page. As long as I have been using method books, the very last page seems to usually have on it a piece of music that is intended to weave together all the lessons and present them into kind of a "graduation recital" piece, or a final exam. This is especially true if the there are subsequent volumes of method books. It is usually a beautiful piece of music that is a reward to the student for having persevered, as well as a "make sure you can play this before going on to grade x," type of thing.

It was also a quick way for me to ascertain if the book was going to be too easy for me. If "Jingle Bells" had been on the last page this might have been the case. But there was some advanced chord melody studies of the type that I had just been getting into as a 4th year self taught harp player; the stuff that I had been intending to sit down and make sense out of. Some day.

Plus, there is a wealth of music that is known worldwide. The book puts into context the little insert that comes with every harmonica which basically tells you which notes come out of which holes. By setting setting them against chordal accompaniment, it does this.

Playing along on the guitar, I can get instant feedback as to whether or not I'm blowing into the right hole, for example. I can't say enough about the Mel Bay book. Plus,it's fun!

Tips seemed to be coming in steadily, with several people telling me that I sounded good, and just as many telling me to "keep playing,"or "keep doing what you're doing."

Friday night had been 43 degrees, and I had only made a dollar. There were a good amount of people out, despite the cold, but they just weren't the tipping kind. And I had no malice towards them, at all. 

I wonder if it is evident from watching me that I am trying my ass off just to hold it all (guitar chords, harmonica notes, lyrics, improvisations) together. Maybe it seems like I might be on to something, but the only way to know would be for me to keep at it...

I Play For A Near Record 4 And A Half Hours

Lynda DePanicis, a resident who, along with her husband, owns the house that Barnaby had been renting one side of, came over and gave me a 10 dollar bill and a hug. This was after maybe 45 minutes of playing.

Just hours before hugging me...

I was glad that I was playing the Christmas song, and it might have been that which impelled her to bless me that way.

I guess I could say it would have only been a 35 dollar night if not for her tip, but it was a product of my having played in her neighborhood almost every night for 3 years, and so I will count it among my nightly earnings.

Being seen getting a hug from Lynda, in all her finery, may have had something to do with the very next group of tourists stopping to listen to me. Things like that just elevate one's status in the eyes of the world. "I guess this guy isn't a nuisance, if the residents are hugging him...."

The Quartermaster people have been nice to me, giving me free coffee and a little piece of chocolate, during my nightly visit after I return the milk crate that I sit on, to them.

Things have really been coming my way, I must say.

Alex In California sent the art supplies. Ben my friend in Boston has sent some tee shirts. Bongo the resident here gave me some tee shirts. The Lidgleys have said that a Christmas parcel is to come.

I'm trying to allow myself to feel happy, rather than like something bad has got to happen eventually, to even things out.

May Your Noise Be White

I slept with music looping continuously in the background.

I have always suspected that the highest "quality" of sleep is to be obtained surrounded by the closest thing to absolute silence possible, and not by the sound of a radio, or especially a TV.

That is, of course, limited by the sounds of your own heart, breathing, and blood flowing in the area of the ear drum, etc.

Closely behind this would be having any noise be "white" noise, such as was the case when I used to sleep on the grounds of a machine shop, and the steady howl of the machinery became something that I could block out, because any noise other than it would stand out, such as the sound of a machine shop employee approaching, who might tell me that I can't sleep there.

But, I had gone to sleep relatively early (2 AM) with "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" by J.S. Bach on repeat. It repeated, and I slept, monitoring my state of rest each time I did wake up during the early morning, for signs that I might not be getting a good rest because of the Bach playing in the background.

Harold the cat slept like a baby, with nary a twitch of his ears, as his recommendation of Johann's music.

Thumbs down (on the music to sleep to thing...)

 
After a pretty restful 6 hours or so, I pushed the track button on my CD player, and  David Bowie began to sing "Life On Mars" over and over.

During the next couple hours of sleep, after it had become light outside, I had a dream that I was working in like a supermarket and had found some money (a hundred and a fifty) while I was cleaning way under the registers, which looked like they hadn't been cleaned in ages, with thick dust stuck to God knows what on the floor, electrical wiring, and a crisp fresh hundred and fi'tty bucks!

In the dream, I pocketed it and then felt guilty. I felt like I had tainted myself and made a choice that was going to render inconsequential every act of honesty and truth throughout my entire life up until then. I thought that I was no better than all the skeezers that, in the dream, also worked at that supermarket.

Then, I was transported by dream rail to a spot where I was busking.

I was doing "Life On Mars," by David Bowie, and had nailed the first verse and discovered that the notes were comfortably in my range, and then, suddenly I was standing in front of a huge black pickup truck as I busked, and just then, as I was gathering up my energy to try to nail the next verse in the song, a young lady, wearing leather boots, having a scarf around her neck and a long tweed coat threw 2 large bills, which were caught by the wind before they landed in what might have been my tiposaurus jar and instead, they blew into these square stainless steel accessories on the back of the truck. They could have been the female ends of a trailer hitch.

They were side by side, about 3 feet apart, a foot off the ground and just basically attached to the back of the truck, chrome and polished. One bill fluttered into each of them, coming to rest in my view at the back of the "tubes." I reached in and took them. It was a lot of dream money. Then, it gets hazy, as I might have tried to thank the young lady...

I woke up, and shut the CD player with David Bowie singing "Life on Mars" over and over, off, and then decided to get up and drink some coffee and start my day, should the coffee be worth its salt.

It was a big day. I was going to mail the portrait off to Jennifer in Aurora, Illinois.

Sure, I was.

...To Wrap Around Your Dreams...

But, first the dream interpretation.

The large bills were the ones that the couple from Ohio had tipped me on Wednesday night. The guy had spread them out in his hand to show me that they were a 10 and a 5. These became the 100 and the 50 in my dream. I guess when I dream big I magnify them times 10.

The guilt over having pocketed it and becoming just like the skeezers that I worked with, was the guilt that I felt after a skeezer tried to skeeze me at the Lilly Pad after the couple had tipped me 25 bucks, which I had pocketed.

As I pedaled home that night, I told myself something like: "You know, when you get a 25 dollar tip, it probably wouldn't kill you to give a skeezer a dollar and say "Merry Christmas," or something. And that was the guilt.

The fact that I had had to lift the heavy cash register console and slide it over (which represented the trash can that I often have to lift and slide over at the Lilly Pad when its right in front of where I sit) represented my feeling that I was working hard and had nothing to feel guilty over
.
The lady throwing the tip was a combination of the wife of the guy who tipped me 25 bucks and my friend Becca from Mobile, Alabama who is coming here to run in the "Rock and Roll Marathon," and who, like the wife of the guy, likes "The Carcass Song," one of my originals.

The truck was Dave Matthews' (The Dave Matthews Band) truck.

He came into the gas station where I worked overnight in Charlottesville, Virginia, one night.

I didn't recognize him, and, only later found out that it was he, after I had seen a poster at the record store.

He had gotten out of his truck and walked around it, buffing and shining it.

We had had a pretty good conversation. He was probably glad that I was talking about normal things, and not gushing: "Oh, my god, I have all your CD's!"

And that is why the truck in the dream was so shiny, and represented the element whereby I had gotten a good tip from some people whom I had conversed with at length in addition to playing music for them; it kind of ties in to Dave, who had told me during our conversation: "One thing's for sure, you won't starve to death here (Charlottesville)." The truck represented me putting effort into polishing up my craft, as well as the (cash) value of conversation.

I counted it as a plus that I had risen after just the required amount of sleep, rather than lazing about, getting superfluous rest. I set about working on the problem of mailing the portrait.

Murphy's Jacket Law

I rode my bike down to the dollar store, thinking that I would buy some packing tape for a dollar and then would search their dumpster for a couple pieces of stiff cardboard. I already had the bubble wrap.

Then, I remembered that I had some packing tape at the apartment that just needed un-mangling.

I have really taken an interest in getting this portrait sent in time for Christmas, and there is no need to wait another day.

I soon had the thing secured and ready to mail. The project was so close to completion, with only that step remaining to be done.

I had about 15 bucks. This, after having had a 25 dollar night, but then stayed in the following night, purchasing only cigarettes and cat food in the process.

Carrying the package, I stepped outside.

It was then that I determined that I could use even one more jacket or sweatshirt to go with the layers that I was already wearing. It was about 45 degrees, but felt like zero.

I went back into the apartment, where I made the critical error of switching the top jacket I had on with a heavier, goose down type one. It wasn't made any heavier, though, by the tiny slip of paper upon which I had written Jennifer's address. That was still in a pocket of the original jacket.

Unencumbered by its weight I practically flew to the post office with the portrait, making it there just before they were to close.

Realizing my blunder, I decided not to try to guess the zip code of Aurora, Illinois (..it's 605 something; does that help you, Mr. postman?) and returned to the apartment, planning upon returning to try again tomorrow, between 10:30 AM, and 1:30 PM.

Package In, Package Out

I was informed by security that I had gotten a package, upon arriving back.

I was handed a box that felt like it was full of bricks. It was the package from Alex in California, a blog reader, to be sure. He had mentioned that it was to be about 10 pounds of "art supplies."

I opened it right there, which prompted a discussion about art in general and I would up showing the portrait of Jennifer and Jasmine to the front desk security lady, Charisse, or Chavelle, or Charelle.

She asked me if I drew stuff for money.

I wound up telling her that I would draw a picture for 20 bucks.

It wasn't until later that I realized I should have qualified that by specifying: "not a big one like this, but maybe a computer paper sized one." I will, the next time I see her. Then I will further have to tell her that I would draw a picture for her for 20 bucks, but for everyone else it would be 50.

I got back to my room and thought about a couple things.

First, I value hard and honest work and think that 10 bucks an hour is decent money for a couple hours of work on a drawing like that (small). But then, I thought that someone who just paid me 50 bucks for a drawing can feel better about hanging it on his wall and thinking that it was done by an artist whose stuff is worth 50 bucks.

If he were to tell someone "yeah, I only paid the guy 20 bucks to draw it," then the person looking at it would begin to do so with an eye for anything that might account for such a low price and suddenly the nose would start looking a little too pudgy, or something.

So, I need to tell Charelle that tomorrow, as I am on my way to the post office after having gone out and busked on this cold Friday night, or having stayed in and not spent the money that is earmarked for postage.

Art Aid From Alex In California

"Alex"

So, I got back to my room after having made a verbal contract to draw a picture for money, with a box full of art related materials.

There was an amount of paper which sat there and said; "You should draw more; a lot more. You should like do a ton of drawings!"

But there were very neat things like a black "sketching crayon" which could definitely fill the void created by the fact that pencil really only gets "so" dark when you apply it thickly. It doesn't really come near "absolute" black.

Neither does anything in nature (except unconsciousness) but, I try to use the technique of laying down a dark background and then basically using an eraser to draw; adding to the picture by taking away. This worked a bit on the last portrait; but I couldn't get things as dark as I wanted. They are definitely sitting out in the sun in the picture...

There were a couple of highly reflective neon green Velcro straps to tie my pant legs and keep them from jamming the chain on my bike as I ride. Cool.

And there was a bag containing fake money.

"OK, punk running off with

musician's money scene, take one!"

No note of explanation was needed on it. When I am busking, I can stuff my jar with the fake stuff, which looks real enough from a distance to encourage people to come over and add to it (this guy must be good) and fake enough up close so tourists wont think that I have already made a few hundred bucks and their 10 bucks won't be appreciated.

And funny enough that the little punk that grabs my jar and runs off can have a good chuckle when he discovers it. "Man, I thought I had my dope money but, I guess not, hee hee hee...that's funny"
I can pull the real money out and pocket it at intervals.

There was a Mel Bay harmonica method book which was up to Mel Bay standards, and I have learned something from it already...

I'm speechless with gratitude; and thinking that I can't be making nearly as much as Alex in California if he can drop almost 14 bucks on sending a package and I am pulling cardboard out of the dumpster to send mine. LOL
It's been a good day, and it is now 8 PM on a very cold Friday night. I need to at least go to the Lilly Pad and blow on my fingers a few times and see what happens....

Night Moves

335 Days Without A Drink

11 months and a couple days sober, and I am looking forward to getting up tomorrow and mailing off the picture that I drew to Jennifer.

I just got back from the dollar store, where I bought, for one dollar, an amount of bubble wrap. It is a slick enough plastic that I can't see it smearing the drawing, especially if I pack it so that there is no wiggle room for the drawing to rub against it every time the Fed Ex truck hits a pothole.

This marks some kind of milestone in my sobriety.

The ability to become inspired to do something: "I should make a drawing off of one of Jennifers's Facebook pictures and send it to her as a Christmas gift," then to actually follow through on it by being awake and sober enough to complete it.

Then, to be able to go out on a night like last (Wednesday) night, needing to make money to cover postage, plus bubble wrap, and to do so.

"These are baby steps, but they are very important in your recovery," a counselor that I was paying 80 bucks per session would tell me before giving me a congratulatory hug; if I had one.

25 Dollar Wednesday

Travis, the guy who had crashed at my place for 10 days, called, just as I was preparing to go out and busk. He said that he had "cabin fever" because he had been in his apartment, working, for a few contiguous days, and that he had to get out.
More accurately, he had to get out and have some sort of human interaction, I read between the lines. The fact that he had been "working" also implied that he would have money, and most likely would want to get some weed.

I was on guard against having my time usurped in any way. I didn't want to meet him anywhere except at my busking spot. So I gave him the exact address (933 Bourbon Street) where I told him I would be sitting and busking and "hopefully I'll be plucking my first note there in 45 minutes."
I got to the spot at 9:40 PM, and began to play. 

It was very dead, as there was the slight threat of rain, and it was chilly in the esteem of a lot of people, at 53 degrees or so. It would be Canadian or Scandinavian tourists whom I would hope to see the arrival of; wearing light sweaters and talking about how beautiful a night it was

 I had made only a couple bucks when Travis arrived and sat on Lilly's stoop. I hadn't turned my head to see who it was when he first sat down, but rather kept playing, trying to push away thoughts that it was a skeezer who was waiting for me to stop playing so he could try to beg for one or both of the dollars that I had made.

Travis hung out for a while as I played mostly for his benefit. At about 11:30, when some tourist traffic began, he was open to the suggestion that he leave for about 45 minutes and take a stroll, while I tried to attract someone to sit where he was sitting and listen to me.

It worked out well. After Travis walked off, a couple who were from Ohio sat and listened and then tipped me 10 bucks.

Then, after requesting a couple of songs that I told them I didn't play, but were on my short list of stuff to learn, the guy conjured up the chords and lyrics to them on his phone. Then, with him scrolling through with his thumb, I sightread and performed "Turn The Page," by Bob Seger, followed by "Down On Main Street," also by him, and then "Wild Horses," by the Rolling Stones.
"You did really good for reading it off a phone," said the guy, before handing me another 15 bucks.
Travis returned while they were still there, and stood nearby.

Having reeled in the big tuna, I decided not to troll any more for minnows. With that 25 bucks, plus 2 other singles, I called it a night; thankful to have made 27 bucks off of just 3 tips. And happy to have pretty much cemented those 3 songs into my repertoire (I was intrigued by seeing what the actually words were to the Stone's song that I have heard a million times; it has quite a few verses to it...).

Then, Travis did indeed want to find some weed.

We walked to the spot where he had bought some through David the water jug player, to find that person standing in the very same spot.

Your Move, David

I was amused by how David had gotten the weed. 

After Travis handed him the money -"He's not going anywhere" being my answer to the tacit question posed by his flicking his eyes to mine after David said "Let me have the money"- David went and sat down at one of the "street chess' player's tables to "play chess" with him.

They were hunched over the board, studying it, while a large black cop with Sergent stripes on his sleeves stood 10 feet away; their hands out of sight under the table.

In short order, the chess guy moved a piece and said "checkmate!" loudly. David exclaimed "Oh, you got me. You got me fair and square! Here you go!" and then handed him the money, before returning to us with the weed. I thought that was very clever, and Davids stock went up in my esteem. The officer was never the wiser.

Up At Exactly Noon

• Harp In Tune
• Waking Up; The Lilly Call
• The Dental Thing
• The Jennifer Drawing
• Cigarettes, The Weed Guy And The Perpetual Financial Friction Within

Last night, I rode the bike trail into the Quarter.

The hit of Bongo's medicinal marijuana, having run its course with myself having grabbed the guitar and flipped on my phone's voice recorder to capture the music that I was suddenly dying to play; and then having struggled through that music, unable to focus upon in and block out distractions, such as an almost paranoia based feeling that some of the skeezer residents were outside my door, listening.
Someone who is as quiet as myself around them most of the time draws attention to himself when he disturbs the air with any kind of sound. It is the lack of interaction with them that accounts for what they think makes me "quiet."I don't speak to them because they are mainly vacuous souls and if you get too close to them, it is like when a low pressure air system is parked in the nearby atmosphere which causes the wind to pick up, as it rushes to fill the void, and you wind up hanging on to your hat so it won't be blown off your head, and everything else.

One can't relax and just converse free form without giving away information that might be used against one.

Hell, if any of the residents here were technically facile enough to read this blog, I would be getting knocks on my door by supplicants for "just a couple bucks out of that 85 that you made last night."

So, I was playing in a guarded way, which I hate doing.

Part of me was realizing that the whole idea of playing music is to create something that sounds good enough so that skeezers getting off the elevator on their way out to the recreation area to see if anyone down there has a cigarette, are going to stop and listen.

Dorise Blackmon looked at me once, after I had laid a similar concern out to her. She shrugged and asked: "So what?"

So what if I open my door to go out and see if Harold the cat wants to come in; and there is a group of a half dozen skeezers sitting in lawn chairs, who put their beers down and applaud me as soon as I step out, and say "That was one hell of a concert!"

Well, part of the problem is when I want to play stuff that I am experimenting upon in a way that I wouldn't experiment at the Lilly Pad, because the terrain would be fraught with musical peril. For example: What kind of exotic scales and harmonies can I get by playing the C major harmonica over an E flat minor tonality? I'm not really sure, even as I sit here now (but I can guess "educated-ly" that it would sound bluesey) and I sure don't want to sit at the Lilly Pad and say, well, here goes...let's see if this sounds like a cat on a lath or not, when I might be making a steady 20 bucks per hour playing over "Golden Slumbers," by The Beatles...save that stuff for home.
Which goes back to Dorise's point.

Why should I care if other residents walk by and think, that guy sounds like shit, you mean to say he makes money out in the Quarter? That would actually make them think that I probably just barely scraped enough cigarette money for myself up and they would be wasting their breath skeezing me for one.

But, the opposite is true. If I'm kicking ass on the harmonica in C, over an E flat Major tonality, realizing that it sounded just like a ZZ Top song, and that's probably what they did to write it, then it might suggest to the skeezers that I was a selfish, greedy uncaring individual to not even give away cigarettes when I must make a killing in the Quarter, because "the ones that are good make bank!"*
I can pretty much say that it is the "legends" of a handful of buskers, Tanya and Dorise, and Doreen's Jazz band being in that subgroup, that have become disseminated far and wide and distorted in such a way that playing on Royal Street and making baskets full of money are the only two elements of the tale that survive the retellings.

But, if I was just kicking ass and throwing it down and breaking a sweat as I jammed out in my apartment, it would do for me almost as would using large amounts of cash to buy money orders from the corner store every day, in that regard.

I can understand the other few residents who are also buskers, or who have aspirations of parlaying any talent that they might posses in that direction "as soon as I get a guitar," asking me how much money I make out there, after having stood outside my door with an ear pressed to it in order to assess my talent level and then hash it with the amount of money I make after comparing their own abilities to mine. These few, I will be more frank with. I always translate it into "about 18 bucks an hour," and then head their awe off at the pass by interjecting "but after a couple of hours, I've played all my songs and my fingers are starting to get sore," whatever.

So, I must conclude that weed makes me unreasonably paranoid. Skeezers outside my door? C'mon!

But the good news is that I am growing to see the Lilly Pad as the place where I can really enjoy myself playing, like my green pasture. It has an almost insatiable appetite for ebullience, and there is no danger of seeming like I am overdoing it, showing off, trying to disturb my neighbor, etc. You can "give your all" there and might just barely stand out from the fray of everything else.

So, I look forward, more and more each evening, to getting to the Lilly Pad, like a guy with a nice motorcycle that can't wait to get to the Interstate so he can open her up a little. I especially feel more comfortable doing my song "The Guy In Apartment A109 Is Really Starting To Get On My Nerves" there. (LOL)

So, that is cool. Even at the Lilly Pad, if I smoke weed and feel the same paranoia, I can just tell myself that I am being paranoid, and get past it.

The Call Of Lilly

Lilly called and woke me at noon, give or take a few seconds. I think that timing was coincidental.
It was fortuitous in that, while shaking off the sleep and coming too, deducing that she had found the note that I had left on her Navigator the night before, I recalled my dental appointment at 3 PM.

I left the note, which I had written a week before, telling her that I missed seeing her as, between taking time off while Travis was crashing at my place, and arriving there after she was already in and taking the bad weather days off, I hadn't seen her much in about a month.

I mentioned the Airbnb renters and their speakers; and how I hadn't chosen to sic her upon them; and expressed my sadness over Barnaby Chancellor having moved out of his condo across from where I play.

Lilly hadn't heard about Barnaby's move and asked rhetorically "Why didn't he rent from me?"
She told me that I could leave her a note or call or text her anytime, and that if we have a hurricane and we all have to evacuate, to get in touch with her and she will take me with her and the girls.

$21 Tuesday

I had played the brand new out of the box harmonica.

Within minutes of starting, a guy came and tipped me 5 bucks, saying "You sound good."
That kicked me into a higher gear, and I shook off the last of Bongos medicinal weed that had already run its coarse, and was able to jam on the brand new harmonica to the tune of 21 bucks in a little over an hour.

There were so few people on Bourbon that I felt like they had each tipped me, as I packed up and made it to Rouses Market five minutes before they were to close and grabbed a little food. I splurged on cat food for Harold. He has been eating the same exact food for a week after I got a deal from another resident on 2 cases (48 cans) of it. He had only wanted 2 dollars and 50 cents.

I had tested a can on Harold, who ate it, though not enthusiastically, and then coughed up the money, even though I had only like 7 bucks to my name at the time.

I arrived at 3:09 for my 3 'o clock dental appointment. It's going to cost me 97 dollars for each of 2 root canals. This is the cheapest price in the land, and is for work done by LSU graduate students.

Healthcare the purple way

It would run me $375 to have it done by the surgeon who I consulted with, a bright looking lady in her late 20's who was wearing a shade of blue. The graduate students wear purple.

"It would cost you in time, because the graduate students have to go much more slowly and check every step with..." she said.

97 bucks sounds cheap, and would be quite manageable if I had any kind of 40 hour per week job.
I left there thinking that I would have to do just that; manage a way to get work through the temp place read: pass the drug test, and then get the 2 root canals done. They are only the tip of the iceberg, as far as all the work they have recommended done, but they must be at the top of the list of: "If you could have only one procedure done, what would it be?"

"I'm gonna work here in the day and busk at night..."

I know that I'm not going to spend almost 200 bucks on root canals, if and when I have it. Not before getting a new laptop. So, the 40 hour a week job seems to be the way to go. Or to figure out a way to busk for 40 hours a week, even if I'm just sitting there a lot....

Drawing Upon My Resources

I sent a message to Jennifer, asking if there was an address where I could send a Christmas gift.

"Christmas gifts, is this something new?" came back.

"I've come up a bit in the world. It's not a lobster."

The last Christmas gift I gave her, 20 years ago, when she was 11 years old, was a cooked one of those crustaceans, and an umbrella.

"Just don't show up in a box, LOL"

"The postage would be too much, I weigh 140 pounds. I think I can go by freight car on the New Orleans & Illinois Central Railroad"

"Scary, LOL"

"If you get a huge cake and it's giggling, don't open it..."


She eventually sent me her address. She was probably wondering why she has apparently been singled out by me to be a recipient of a Christmas gift, or if I have come up a bit in the world enough to be lavishing gifts on friends, far and wide. I suppose when she gets the drawing she will understand that it just wouldn't make as good a gift to any other random person.

Instant Harm(onic)a

So, I went out with my 20 dollars on me, bought Harold some food, and then bought a pack of American Spirit cigarettes, telling myself that I would sell some of them for 50 cents each to defray their cost.

Then I spent 5 bucks on a little sack of weed, telling myself that, at least it would make busking more fun and that it might pay for itself that way, through a tip thrown by someone who wouldn't have even heard me had I already left due to things being slow, rather than being baked and having a good ol' time with the new harmonica.  

Harmonica Here

The harmonica came in very undramatic fashion, 6 days after I was notified that it had shipped and would be here "in 2 to 3 days."

It was sitting on the desk in front of the security guard, whom I was approaching to ask if my jump drive had been turned in. It hadn't. But the package was here.
Tee Time
I had just gotten a text from my friend Ben Lambie in Massachusetts.

He has sent a few tee shirts to me, which, he was told would be here in about 7 days. A Patriots one, and a couple of "rock band" ones.

Given that Alex in California has just sent me some art supplies, it seems that my horoscope should read: "You will be showered with gifts from diverse places..."

Teeth Time

Having been rained out of busking the past couple days, and, not in consequence of because I could have been up all night doing other things, have been getting to sleep and waking up much earlier than "normal."

I decided to knock out one of the nagging things that I had been procrastinating over; namely the dental appointment that I missed.

I checked the address online and then started pedaling that way, hoping that they didn't close at 4 'o clock, because that was the time that I started.

They were open, it was the LSU dental school related place. The lady told me that the appointment that I had missed was for a "consultation" over a root canal. She said that it involved my front teeth. Then she mentioned money a couple times, told me that they didn't take any "private insurance," went on to say that the card that I showed her was private insurance, and then I left.
I left without probing her with further money questions.

She had said that x-rays were to be taken and then I would consult with the endodontist.
I couldn't help scoring a couple brownie points with the middle aged black woman who had regarded me suspiciously when I had first walked up.

"She'll be able to answer any other questions I have?" I asked.

She smiled and answered in the affirmative, and I could pretty much tell by the timing of the smile that it was a reaction to my having applied a feminine appellation to the oral surgeon, without my having met him or her.

I figure that, if they are going to do x-rays and she hadn't told me to arrive bearing any certain amount of cash to pay for them, then I am going to be billed for the consultation.

This made me wonder how much dental work they will go ahead and do while sending off bills to a somewhat underachieving street musician. Will I eventually have a nice smile that will disappear from my face as soon as I think about the 7 grand that I owe the LSU dental school place?

Or, will the LSU people eventually report the account as being in default and be reimbursed for the balance out of some kind of educational fund, should I fall way behind on the payments? Is that basically the only way poor people can get dental work done, other than waiting until teeth become abscessed and arriving at the emergency room in that state to have them pulled, and to repeat that process, leaving each time with a parting gift of Oxycontin, until the teeth are all gone, and the only further care that is needed is a cheap set of dentures?

I guess what a dentist is to wealthy people is like what O.J. Simpson's lawyers were to him; while I will have a public defender working on my mouth...

Then, I hit the Walgreen's to see if I could straighten out my "bonus points" situation. They have the wrong zip code in the computer for me, or my phone number, or something and I can never use my available bonus points, and they are up over 5 bucks by now.

The Sacred Heart Quartet

The cabaret is under way...

Then, I got back to Sacred Heart a little late for chorus practice, but I joined them anyways. All 3 of them.

Yes, there are now 3 people in the Sacred Heart Chorus, besides myself.

It was a fight or flee situation for me. Part of me thought that I was going to have to bring it hard and put as much into the music as I could, but I found it almost impossible to do that.

As soon as I got there, "Bongo," another resident who is a man in his 50's whose fingernails are painted purple and who goes out into the Quarter looking very much like a peacock, was playing a Liza Minnelli song through his phone and portable speaker.

It was a version of "All That Jazz," and, though it sounded like Liza was singing her heart out, it was depressing to me. All I could think was that either Bongo was being self indulgent and somehow suggesting that the chorus do such a song for our Christmas concert in a couple weeks; or what? I didn't ask why the whole chorus was sitting and listening to a live show tune sung by the daughter of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, and Bongo along with her. I just sunk into despair, confusion and ultimately, melancholy.

We sang "Silent Night," and "Joy To The World." I could feel a coldness from the other chorus members. My spotty attendance of previous practices, coupled with the total lack of enthusiasm that I felt for singing those two numbers, probably had them thinking: "If you don't want to sing, why show up?" But, for me to just get up and leave and take a quarter of the chorus with me seemed almost mean spirited.

I believe in trying to make something better. Next practice (the one right before our "recital" somewhere) if I go, I'll bring my guitar and at least be able to pick a key to put everybody in. Right now, we just pick a pitch and then go with it. It isn't until a voice cracks somewhere in the middle of a song that we realize we should have begun lower.

Why Liza Minelli? Why?

That's all I have to say about Sacred Heart Chorus practice this evening.

It's pretty cold, and I have no money and it is 9 PM and about time for me to go out to busk, if I am. Bongo gave me a hit of his medicinal weed after practice, after inviting me to his apartment to give me a few tee shirts which he had offered me a while ago, now.

They were all in bright, peacock colors, but that kind of goes with the theme of the day, getting free tee shirts, I guess. That was the first time I had smoked in a couple days, and I'm really not liking the feeling it is giving me. It's a feeling like getting to the Lilly Pad will involve a chilling ride across a desolate wind-swept wasteland, for a night that will have me concluding: "I could have stayed in the warm apartment and made nothing at all." I guess I'm going to have to quit that stuff, too?  

Drive Be Gone

A Chicago shirt for Jen, and it's ready to go...

I'm waiting for the rain to stop on this Monday night.

I woke up at about 1:30 PM, having slept about 8 hours.

The harmonica and guitar strings still have not arrived in my mailbox. The website reports the status of the order as: "shipped." It was shipped 6 days ago now.

Last night, I was in the computer room until at least 9:37 PM, when I posted on this blog.
I left my jump drive in the computer.

This afternoon, I came back and mentioned it to someone, who told me that he had given it to Miss Jackson, the security guard who was working from 4 until midnight.

If the computer room is supposed to close at 8 PM, and I had delinquently left it at around 9:37 PM, and the jump drive was turned in to Miss Jackson, who leaves at midnight, then it stands to reason that the guy who turned it in had come here even after I had left.

It is suspected that he came in to watch porn, choosing a time when the room would be empty. He may very well have been waiting for me to leave. Seeing it in the computer, and not knowing what it was; he may have removed it, out of fear that it might have been a device which was some kind of lock which would prevent him from watching his porn, or would spy on his online activity somehow.

Miss Jackson put it in a pen and pencil holding canister on the desk in front of her, where it still should have been this afternoon when I asked about it.

She was surprised to see that it wasn't there, making the overnight guard who came in to replace her, a suspect.


There is something a little fishy about the overnight guard.

There wasn't much on the jump drive; I was using it to store the pictures of Jennifer and her daughter so I could print them out and then use them to draw off of.


A Jump To Conclusions

There are as many reasons that the overnight guard might have stolen the thing as there are overnight guards.

He is pretty openly gay and effeminate and has often told me how much he enjoys seeing me come out of my room, followed by Harold the cat, describing it as being "so cute" the way Harold follows me to the door, etc.

If he had seen it and popped it into his laptop, out of curiosity, and then wanted to capture the Photoshopped pictures of Harold the cat knocking over buildings, along with ones of myself with or without Harold, he could have just copied them, and left the drive where it was.

Surely he couldn't have thought that a 4 gigabyte drive is worth much money. But it's enclosed in a rubber outer casing which is shaped like a bear or some animal (I haven't looked that closely) and he might have thought that that was "cute" just had to have it. There is no telling what a gay guy might do.

He might be intending to use it in some kind of voodoo ritual. This is New Orleans...

As I have concluded before, almost every gay guy I have ever met has had something a little "off" about him.* A gay guy being a Kleptomaniac would not surprise me in the least; given their self-centered attitudes in general and "I just have to have it" mindsets.

The worst thing about having a jump drive stolen is having to rack your brain to remember what was on it (password to bank account, etc.) and lament the things that can't be replaced.

Having the harmonica that I ordered mysteriously missing in action made it cross my mind that one of the guards took it, but I wasn't seriously thinking that that was the case.

But the jump drive was placed in an area that only the overnight guard would have access to. And it was a cute little orange teddy bear shaped one; irresistibly cute. Makes me wonder...
I sounds like the rain has stopped outside.

I don't really feel like playing, using the old strings and old harmonicas.

I have 26 cents to my name, not counting a pile of pennies on my dresser. But, there is 160 bucks on my food card and i"m pretty well stocked up with things like oatmeal, honey, raisins, dates, coffee, apple juice and spring water.  Fascinating blog reading, that, eh? Does anyone want me to post a picture of the raisins?

I'm thinking of embarking on a juice fast, as that is basically all I have had so far today; even after having endured 10 days without food card money, and then "splurged" on one Monster Energy drink, a few dates, and a square of caramel; after the money came in at midnight, then it was off to bed.

Waking up in an angry frame of mind is a clue that a fast is in order...

I'm thinking of rewording the Craig's List ad to rent my couch again; making it clear that it is a roommate situation and that a 54 year old guy comes with the furniture.

I Wake Up Angry At Kay

I had the notion, after I woke up this morning, to fire off a text message to Kay, who had reserved the couch 6 weeks in advance and then reneged at the mention that she wouldn't get her own key.

I was going to text something like: "By the way, I never thanked you for tying up my couch for 6 weeks and then backing out at the last minute, without even a word of explanation or an apology; classless bitch!" I'm pretty sure she was a lesbian; they can be self centered, too, and not feel that they owed any man an apology; or anything else.

Drudgery Can Pay

I will have to see if a cup of coffee puts me in the mood to ride my bike for 15 minutes until I'm at the Lilly Pad.

If' I'm going to become lazy about busking like this, then I'll have to force myself to go to the labor pool and find 8 hour per day work that will put a lot more money in my pocket than this sporadic busking or compromising the sanctity of my dwelling has been doing.

I'm just not a workhorse type musician. I run on inspiration and a driving need to get a song "out there," when there is a song to get out there. Otherwise I feel like I can't possibly be entertaining anyone if not feeling it myself...

Although, I have seen a crowd of people cheering Tanya Huang and saying things like "That was amazing," and then observed Tanya to look over at Dorise with an expression that asks: "How much more of this drudgery?"

*One collected everything I Love Lucy, one was a Kleptomaniac, one had to watch Jeopardy every morning or would become very upset if he missed it; one would induce vomiting in himself after having had sex with a man, one would wash his hands 60 times a day, one had such an aversion to beans that he would vomit if he saw them, one with held my money from me when I was in jail despite my repeated calls to him pleading for it, etc. Quirks, tics, obsessions, fixations, compulsions. I'm not judging them; it's from having grown up in a society that shunned them, in large part; and the resultant defense mechanisms.

There's A Crack, A Crack In Everything

That's how the light gets in. -Leonard Cohen

I Ate The Eggs...

Yes, how would I ever seek a higher plane if my life was already perfect; if everything wasn't broken, in such a way that only God could be the glue...?

It is about 5 PM, and rain is steadily falling outside, precluding any busking endeavors.

Plus, my harmonica and guitar strings were not in my mailbox Saturday -day 4 of the "2 to 3 days" that I am waiting for them to arrive.

It crossed my mind that someone here at Sacred Heart Apartments might have stolen it.

But, I think when packages arrive here, the security girl or guy at the front desk signs them in, thus taking the torch of responsibility for them out of the hand of the mail carrier, and assuming it themselves. If they are too big to fit in our shoe box sized mailboxes, then they are kept up front, and I think a phone call is made on the in-house line to the recipient, notifying them that they have a package "up front." This call is probably made immediately, so that the package won't be sitting in the area of the security desk any longer than it has to be; especially while the guard is making her rounds, looking for security risks. Skeezers linger in the same lobby, begging of the comers and goers, who probably wouldn't hesitate to steal from the very same people, whose generosity they "appreciate" so much.

I can't imagine the security guards thinking that any one of us would be getting anything of a value worth losing their jobs over -their jobs sitting in front of a bank of monitors and playing with their phones or laptops, while chowing down on delivered foods.

It will probably be here tomorrow.

I wonder, though, what would happen if I got a package (a small one) with the logo of a jewelry store on it and sent it here just before Christmas. ...can't be much, probably their cheapest cubic zirconium stuff... the guard would probably think. 

My Little Game

Which reminds me of an idea that I recently came up with, which is:

The next time that I have like, a thousand bucks, I'll go to one of the stores down the street and buy a money order for say, $858.77 (the 77 cent cost of the money order, I would eat).

I would then make it out to "cash" (or to myself) and cash it at the Unique Store.

(A thousand bucks is no big deal to them, and plus, they've seen me almost every day for the past 6 years, and so, they would cash them).

Then, I would go back to the corner store the next day and purchase another one, say $917.77.

I would repeat this day after day, until before long a rumor mill would be in full production.

It would be bruited among the cashiers that the skinny guy with the guitar who wore a hat was in there "spending" substantial amounts on money orders. After comparing notes, they would determine this amount to be almost 7 grand a week. This would spawn a kind of curiosity that only large amounts of money can, in those who work for modest wages.

Speculation on the matter would become a minor pastime for them. What would a guy like him be doing with all that money?

I would be scrutinized up and down as they hoped to gather a clue or to as to what I was up to. Everything from the clothes I wore, the things I bought from in the store, and the fact that I traveled by bicycle, would all be taken into account, in their musings upon me.

Eventually they wouldn't be able to contain their curiosity, and one of them might attempt an innocuous probing on the subject, such as: "Man, you must have a lot of bills to pay; you're in here every day buying money orders!"

At this, I would leave them hanging and further fan the flames of wonder by being brief, saying something like: "This one, I'm sending to daughter in San Diego. She's struggling a bit..." and just leave it at that.

How much money must I make to be able to cover my own expenses and still send my daughter almost a thousand bucks because she is struggling?
 
Then, using a re-mailing service (like can be found in the back of Soldier of Fortune magazines) I would start sending "fan mail" to myself at the apartments. Using a variety of envelopes and postcards, bearing a plethora of phony return addresses, and written in different hands, I would start receiving it by the basket full, fashioned so that photos could be seen. here and there, through transparent envelope fronts, revealing glimpses of all kinds of cool looking people, to include beautiful young women, their envelopes being redolent with perfume.

Maintaining a stony reticence and deflecting inquiries with curt, enigmatic responses, I would go about my life, keeping the ruse up. I might have to spend a couple hours each week composing the fake fan mail, but I could reuse many of the same envelopes, because it would all begin to look the same to the front desk people.

Then, I would sit back and watch what happened.

Would people start "coming out of the wood works" wanting to make my acquaintance?

Would the female guards tell their single friends about me, who would then just happen to be hanging around the lobby at around the time that I usually come in at night?

Any local who happens to be in the store when I come in to buy my money order, and who happens to make some comment about me to the cashier as soon as I leave: "That's one strange dude. I see him all the time.." or something, and who receives the intelligence: "That guy's f***ing rich, man! He sends like a thousand bucks a week to his kids! I wish I knew what he does for a living, so I could get into it; but, he doesn't talk much..." would become a cog in machine, who might tell two friends, who might tell two friends, etc. until...I don't know; I haven't followed the threads of possible outcomes far enough yet.

It would be like that game called "telegraph," where people get in a circle and some phrase is whispered from ear to ear, until it makes it's way full circle and has morphed into something totally unrecognizable from the original. Someone might come up to me and say: "I heard that you're one of the guy's from that group Kiss..."

Either that, or I would be held up at gunpoint within 3 months of starting my little game...

A Shirt For Jen

I think I will try to draw this shirt onto Jennifer, my friend, but am considering putting "New Orleans" on it, somehow. But then, I would have to move her hair out of the way so you could read it....hmm..

Food In Less Than 3 Hours

I never want to see time race by. I like to savor every moment.

This is why I got out of the rat race of working jobs that would have me looking at the clock and hoping that it was later than it actually was. Or wishing I could snap my fingers on a Tuesday morning, and it would magically become Friday afternoon.

I've had jobs like that before. 

I should thank my lucky stars that now, whenever I look at a clock, I am hoping that it is earlier than I thought it was.

But, here it is less than 3 hours before midnight, when my food stamp card becomes charged with what has been lasting an average of 20 days each month.

I guess I really do need food stamps, as evidenced by how, after my food money runs out with usually 10 to 14 days left in the month, my cash supply soon follows suit.

Even if it is still raining at midnight, I am going to go out and get a Monster Energy drink at the Walgreen's up the street.

I broke down and ate the eggs which I had in my refrigerator, and felt less than wonderful in the ensuing hours. I want to separate the eggs into white and yolk to see if I can eat just one or the other and still feel great. But I haven't been able to bring myself to throw the yolks away and just eat the whites. For one thing, it would be a colossal waste of food and money to buy eggs and chuck the yolks; unless Harold the cat would eat them...

It wouldn't matter if I could eat egg whites without negative consequences because they don't taste good enough to me by themselves to want to bother with them. It's the yolks (mixed with the whites) that I find delicious, especially with buttered toast and bacon.

One of them is supposed to be bad for you. At a gym where I once worked out, they sold little plastic "egg separators" which made it easy for body builders to, you guessed it, separate eggs into white and yolk, where after they would eat just the part that was going to support their body building efforts. I'll have to Google that. 

Working In Light Rain, And With Light

• $9.50 Singing In Rain
• Latest Sketch Almost Done

Overworked; Ruined?

I went out this past (Friday) night to play.

There was a very light rain at 10:10 PM, when I left.

When I got into the Quarter, I made a turn towards Canal Street, where David the water jug player usually hangs out.

He was in his usual spot. He asked me if I had any weed after greeting me.

I didn't have any weed, and I only had 61 cents.

In the worst case, I would spend the 61 cents on a can of cat food for Harold and go back home, should I not make a cent, I thought, as I watched the rain continue to fall very lightly.

I tuned David's guitar for him and then headed for the Lilly pad, after turning down his offer of a half pint of vodka. I had had to remind him, yet again, that I have stopped drinking "for about 11 months, now," I updated him.

As soon as I went around the corner and into the alley where "everybody" goes to smoke weed, I started to study the ground and, sure enough, found a small roach from a blunt. Then, when I got to the Quartermaster to pick up a milk crate, there was another even larger roach of some potent stuff laying right by where I usually put my bike as I am grabbing the crate.

Then, I made about $9.50 playing for about an hour and a half until the rain, which was little more than a mist, finally started to accumulate into droplets on the guitar.

I bought a can of cat food for Harold and was given a cup of coffee by Michelle, at the Quartermaster, and I rode back home through the mist.

I got home at about 1:30 AM, thinking that I had just over 46 hours to wait before my food card is charged, and worked upon completing the pencil sketch which I am going to send to my friend Jennifer and her daughter, Jasmine, as a Christmas gift. As soon as I make the money to buy the shipping materials and postage. I'll message her on Facebook, to ask where I can send "a Christmas gift."

Just have to put some kind of shirt on Jennifer...

I have a habit of overworking a drawing.

I stare at them from across the room, getting up every 5 minutes to modify them.

If I could get some fine powdered graphite and some Q-tips, I think I could shade a lot better. Who knows; when I eventually Google "pencil sketching supplies," I'm sure there will be something like that available. It would save having to press super hard with a pencil in order to super darken an area.

OK, I just went to a pencil drawing website and learned that I could be using charcoal, in addition to, or instead of, graphite, or using something called "conté." That is good news.

Also, there are things called "blending stumps," which I should have thought about making my own of. These are for spreading the graphite in order to make smoother transitions between light and dark, and are much more precise than using a finger, due to their pointed tips. There are similar tools called "tortillions." This was good news.

They also, though, had several examples of fine pencil art, as well as a video demonstrating the use of the blending stump. This was almost bad as, just when you think you have done a pretty good drawing, you see the amazing stuff that the guys who draw every day are producing, and you understand that these guys probably took whole semester courses with names like: "Drawing the human eye 201," and this could almost discourage you from sending your amateurish picture as a gift.


In looking at the above, I think if I can blur the background so it becomes more ambiguous, then it won't distract from the subjects as much. Boy, would a tortillion come in handy for that!

Does The Background Ruin Drawing By Making It Too "Busy?"

I ruined my first attempt by using a decrepit eraser, which marred things instead of erasing them.

This latest drawing (above) I had not overworked and ruined until I decided to add a background. The background is kind of a composite of the backgrounds seen among the set of photos from the particular outing that I chose to draw off of.

For the first time, I looked at more than one picture to see the subject from different angles, and in different lighting.

I had more than one picture to study, where Jennifer and Jasmine are sitting next to each other in the pose, but I took Jasmine from one, and Jennifer from a different one. It will be interesting to see if they notice such a small detail as Jennifer posing in front of a fountain, but wearing the sweatshirt that she had only put on later for their pose at the skating rink..

Running On Empty

• Money Runs Out
• Travis Calls
• 6 Dollar Thursday
• Harmonica Hasn't Arrived
• Pencil Sketch In Works

I went out last (Thursday) night, after having psyched myself up to do so, with the fact that I was totally out of cat food being the clincher.

I have enough lentils and pasta and other beans, plus a dozen eggs, to make it through the next 54 hours until my food card becomes loaded.

It is a sign of progress that I am not forced to eat anything on my forbidden list over the next couple days, out of hunger. If I eat the eggs, it will be out of lust of the palate, as I really love sunny side up eggs, especially with some kind of toast to sop up the yolk. I will have to weigh the pleasure of eating them against the itchy scalp and dandruff that would follow, over the ensuing couple of days.

I'm amazed at how some people will use dandruff shampoo daily to control a problem that is rooted in their diets. I once worked with a guy who was on a steady regime of "sinus" medication. He would hock up phlegm at intervals and spit it into the trash can at work, in between making pizzas, despite the sinus "tabs" that he was constantly running to the pharmacy to replenish. He would regularly make the hocking sound, whether spitting afterwards or not.

Of course the medication produced side effects, and he probably became inordinately blitzed off the 6 pack of beer that he carried home with him after work, and was probably a pretty drowsy guy in general; perhaps woke up in the middle of the night parched...

And I would guess that one of his favorite foods (that he could never do without) was the cause of all his sinus problems -maybe the wheat gluten in the crust of the pizzas that he would take home every night to go with the 6 pack.

I woke up, for the final time Thursday at about 4 PM.

My body was dragging from having eaten a whole box of wheat bran flakes the night before, in water instead of milk. It had tasted like Raisin Bran without the raisins, and I had sweetened it further with some coffee sweetener type stuff. "Corn syrup" was listed in the ingredients, but way down the list, right before salt. Still, it was the first corn I have ingested since having come off my last water fast, and I woke up pretty stiff, and didn't exactly jump out of bed.

Travis, the guy who had crashed at my place for 10 days called.

He wanted to meet me somewhere to get something to eat before I was to go out and busk. "Then I can go with you to your spot and listen to you play for a while," he said.

All I could think about was us getting something to eat somewhere, which he did offer to pay for, and then myself watching the clock tick and my opportunity to busk slip away, as I sat there listening to him talk pretty much non-stop.

I have a feeling that he has difficulty making friends.

He comes across as a pretty "cool" guy. He dresses the part, as defined by his generation. He has a couple prerequisite to coolness tattoos; and is fluent in the millennial lingo, with "no worries," being a common refrain with him.

But I imagine that he is the type of guy that you could ask: "Dude, do you ever shut up?," which would only prompt him to deliver of himself a 20 minute non-stop dissertation on the subject of shutting up, which would essentially answer your question.

I envisioned sitting somwhere, after we ate, and listening and nodding, glancing at the clock occasionally, and inserting a "yeah" into the "conversation" every once in a while until, at some point, I would have to leave him to go out and play, so that the free meal that he had bought me wouldn't wind up costing me the whole night's earnings.

This would entail waiting for a second of silence into which I would have to inject something like: "Well, I'd better get out there, my spot's probably getting busy by now," which would be received by him like an insult and/or a slap in the face, no matter how I managed to say it. He would invariably be right at the most riveting point of whatever he was trying to say, no matter when I managed to get that in.

Then we would walk to the Lilly Pad while he talked all along the way.

Then I would set up my stuff and sit there with the guitar in my lap while he talked.

I would say something like: "Well, let me see if I can get warmed up and make some money off these tourists, to which he might respond with something like: "Go ahead and do your thing, man. Don't let me distract you." But, I imagine he would be a distraction if simply for the fact that his trying to sit there quietly would tax him to the point where his strain would be palpable, and his silence would feel "stony," or like a "wall" of it.

The biggest issue that I take with him is that, it comes across that he really doesn't care what I think or feel or about other aspects of me.

"That was a cool song, I've always liked the Beatles, and that lady threw a couple bucks in your thing, that was cool...but what I forgot to mention about the early comic book artists; and don't start playing yet, this is important, was...." type of thing.

I feel guilty, as if I am a bigger man than most and should show some compassion to a guy who is obviously alone in a strange new town, and who just needs someone who will listen; that's all, just listen. That can mean a lot to someone.

I made 6 bucks in about an hour last night. I bought cat food and a lighter, and played my Pick 3 number for 50 cents.

Now I go out broke again to play on a Friday night. The harmonica that I ordered did not come. I'll be playing the crappy one. How can someone with my life feel as depressed as I do sometimes.