Ben, There; Done That

The past week or so, I have been messing around with drawings of Ben Franklin.

Originally, I was going to use him in a cartoon; have him walk up to me at the Lilly Pad and tip me ("I heard ye from the corner and enjoyed thine melodies.") advising me, as he did, to: "Save a couple of them, because a penny saved is a penny earned!"

The setup for the joke, of course, being the reader thinking: "Yeah, a few pennies would have been a decent tip in Ben's mind...ha ha ha"

Then, of course, the last frame would show me with a coin price magazine saying something like, "A 1796 half penny in fine condition; $2,500! yahoo!!"

5 Dollar Christmas Night

When it (Christmas Day) was all said and done, I had pedaled into the Quarter, and set up and played for a while.

There was light to medium traffic, which was still skulking by at about 12:30 AM, when I decided to pack up and go to the Quartermaster for coffee and a piece of chocolate and a can of food for Harold the cat.

Getting home, I discovered that I had made just enough to cover the 3 dollar energy drink plus the items above, with the 5 dollars that I had made.

I was just about out of cigarettes, out of weed, and had no food waiting for me at the apartment.
I probably should have played for another hour. Some of my best nights saw me making only 5 bucks the first couple hours and then having a 70 dollar hour after begrudgingly deciding to play longer...

But, I had put the entire 60 dollars that my mom had sent in a Christmas card, on my prepaid American Express Serve® card, where neither rust nor moth nor weed dealer could destroy it. And had put the 20 dollar bill that I had left over from the 39 dollar Christmas Eve in a jar in the kitchen before I had left, keeping just 7 single dollar bills on me; trying to maintain my more customary frame of mind: "I've only got 7 bucks, I need to be frugal," rather than "I can splurge a bit because I came into a hundred bucks over the holiday."

I got home and worked on the latest Ben Franklin drawing. Until about 9 AM this (Monday) morning.

This has been an experiment in drawing techniques.
The Has Bens

OK, This one, I did just by sitting with the pad and pencil in my hand and gazing at one of the fake 100 dollar bills that Alex In California had sent me as part of an art supply laden package.
I didn't move the bill; I drew it the way I might sketch someone at the airport or some other place where people are held captive; waiting.
I suppose this is an indication of whatever "raw ability" I have, and probably the reason that I have always felt that I could draw "pretty well" if I took my time; but not well enough to consider a career as an artist..

Then Again; Ben, Again

For this one, I used the simple tool of a ruler to measure things as much as possible -the distance between the eyes, the distance from bottom lip to chin, etc. Being able to walk up to someone who is waiting for a flight at the airport and make measurements on their face with a small plastic ruler "Excuse, me a second, ma'am.." would help me in this regard...

And, then on the 3rd attempt (Is this your final Franklin?) I used a "graph" technique, after seeing an example of such among the "pencil drawing technique" videos on Youtube.
My squares were 3 times the size of the ones that I had drawn onto one of the fake bills as a reference. I could experiment with different ratios. Of course, the smaller the squares on the original, the more they would have to be blown up and accuracy could be lost that way. I found that using the corners and midpoints of the boxes as references, was the most helpful. And it's important to at least be conscious of the neighboring squares, as confirmation that you are still on track.
I made the mistake of drawing one box in the wrong place, but luckily noticed, before I went too far, that I was putting an eyeball near the bottom of the nose.
The only way I could get more accuracy, I guess, would be to use the technique that I have already developed on my own, which would entail making a copy of a fake bill, then blowing it up times 3. Then I would have a 1:1 aspect.
But then to use the graph technique in combination with that, might produce some of my most lifelike drawings ever.

It's almost 10 PM, on the Monday after Christmas.
I'm going out, and will strap my guitar and gear on, just to have them handy.
Gosh, I wish I drank. Tonight would be a great night to walk up to David the Water Jug player with a fifth of Absolut Vodka, and say: "Happy holidays, buddy" while passing it to him.
I'll do the next best thing; buy the weed if any is around. I'll bring just 12 bucks with me...

A Lilly Little Christmas

11 Dollar Christmas Eve

I had gotten to the Lilly Pad before 10 PM.

Lilly had called and told me that some other musician was playing on the spot. She wanted to make sure that I was planning upon playing there before making an attempt at running him off.

I considered it an irony to have to fight on Christmas Eve over a busking spot, where to play "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas."

I still had a feeling in the pit of my stomach as I neared the corner of St. Phillips and Bourbon, with my ears peeled for anything that sounded like a busker.

The piano guy in Lafitt's has a guitar which he uses on a song or two and was doing one of those songs as I neared there.

The reverberation and other effects on the guitar, though, told me that it wasn't a busker.

I was worried about the "character" of any busker who might defy Lilly and would still be there, ready to defy anyone who tried to move him.

I had nothing to worry about, as it turned out ...the power of Lilly... the spot was unoccupied, except for a group of 4 tourists who were using the stoop as the backdrop for a selfie. I figured that they could be my first customers if I set up quickly enough and then started playing.

There weren't a lot of people out, it was still early. I had set out for the spot immediately after Lilly had called me to tell me that she was about to go out and run the guy off.

I'm not sure why, since, if she ran him off he wouldn't be likely to return, but I suppose I wanted to show up soon in case she were to have told him that she didn't mind him playing until her friend, whom she had promised the spot to, were to arrive.

In that case, I wouldn't want to allow him so much time that he might land a 20 dollar tip or two, the likelihood of which increases from the lull through which he was sitting until reaching its crescendo at around 2 AM.

Money changes everything, as Cindy Lauper sang. I could see him trying to beg for "just one more hour" in that case -an hour that wouldn't be measured by standard chronometer...

I played well enough, I thought. The 11 bucks that I made were from just about 11 single people.

Lilly came by at around eleven and told me that she had opened her shutter and told the guy that he was too loud, whereupon the guy had said "Oh, I'm sorry," and then had left..

Should I go out, tonight?

I think I will go out, ostensibly to pick up a few groceries and just leisurely pedal through the Quarter to see how it looks; and I'll have my guitar and gear with me, ready to play if I feel like it.

I'm not really even sure what is open for food selling, except for the Banks Meat Store store, run by Muslims.

A Christmas Cartoon

This is the cartoon of last night that I drew after I had gotten home.
It was a 39 dollar Friday night, that had started out pretty slow the first hour. I played for about three and a half hours.
Ten of the dollars was from Lynda, a resident who lives almost across from where I play.
I had gotten a card from my mom that had sixty dollars in it and a suggestion that I find someone to share the "true meaning" of Christmas with, on that day; tomorrow.
I am planning upon going over to Howard Westra's to hang out and watch football (I'll have to get him some kind of gift...a bag of Cheetoz and a 2-liter of Pepsi would be the easiest) and share the true meaning of Christmas.
I now go out to see what is open and then probably to busk on this Christmas Eve.
Perhaps tonight it will come...

No Sign Of Amp Man

Guy With Amp Not At Lilly Pad

I left for the Lilly Pad early enough so that, if I were to encounter amplifier guy, I would be able to phone Lilly early enough so that she would have an easier time (wouldn't have to get any thugs out of bed?) doing whatever it is that she does to make people seemingly magically disappear.

It is quite possible that money is worshiped so devoutly here that a property owner of the magnitude of Lilly and her ex-husband wields a lot of power.
Exercising this power falls in line with Lilly's aptitudes, and gives her an opportunity to come out in her regalia and put her empire in order, so to speak.

Amp man was nowhere in sight, as I pulled up at the almost late hour of a little before eleven.

I was so late because, by the time I got off this computer after yesterday's post, it was almost 10 PM. The room having not had the 8 PM closing time enforced upon it by the particular security guard at large, I blissfully typed away, after having told Lilly that I planned to start playing before nine-thirty, until at least that time had arrived.

Then, I really wanted to get a Monster Energy drink, off of my food stamp card, virtually spending it down to nothing, on December 22nd, with 13 days to "starve" until the next apportionment of the taxes that I paid into the system when I worked full time all the way up until about the age of 45, would be added to its balance.

There was kind of a feeling of closure in just spending the last of the food money on an energy drink. The whole feeling that I had when thinking that an energy drink was a frivolous waste of money that could otherwise go towards two whole boxes of macaroni and cheese, and that they were going to be the extravagance that would be my undoing; that feeling just went away for lack of a better thing to do, after I looked at my balance and mumbled, 23 cents...until January 5th...oh, well...and then cracked open the energy drink. It would make me play uptempo and snappy and help me think of witty lines on the fly and would pay for itself several times over, perhaps, I thought.

I sipped the drink on the sidewalk on Canal, within view of where David the Water Jug Player often lurks. He is easy to pick out from among his ilk for his habit of rocking from side to side a bit when he stands. That might be because he has one "bad" leg and (actually) uses a cane (for something other than a skeezing prop). He might be trying to distribute his weight equally between his two legs rather than favor the stronger one, as a means of bringing the bad one up to speed.

I had one little nugget of the bud that I had gotten the night before, when the time that I took to get it allowed the amplified guy to come along and plop himself down at the Lilly Pad.

That definitely means that if I didn't smoke weed, I would have had one less problem. That could be God talking.  How well I played later, after smoking, might have been more what He was trying to say....

I had offered amplifier guy a toke and he had accepted. He seems like a fallout from the 60's. He might think that it is the equipment that makes the busker; that being the first thing out of his mouth to me: "I'm testing out some new gear!"

Time to go out on this Friday night, two days before Christmas...

Dividing Up Territory

• Lilly Pad Encroached Upon
• Card Sent To Mom

The zip code of my mom; I memorized off of a label that has been sitting on my bureau since I tore it off the envelope that the Christmas card she had sent me last year came in.

Every time I have ever mailed her anything, I've double checked that label, once having had to change her house number from 817 to 871. My memory being more trustworthy after almost a year sober, I committed her address to memory and then made a beeline for the post office.

I had about 40 minutes to make it there when I woke up.

I had about 35 minutes as I laced my boots while the coffee heated up in the microwave. I wasn't going to bring the cup with me, so draining it before I left would be the biggest time consuming activity, one that I would have to multitask other things with.

I pulled off the three shirts that I had slept in, and put on clean dry shirts, not wasting time to make sure they were the colors that I wanted to wear in order to express myself; grabbed a pen to put in the pocket of the jacket that was going to go over everything else, regardless of its color; put the card in another pocket of it, etc, and was "soon" on my way.

I had about 8 minutes to make it there at the time I finally began pedaling.

Before I left, I had thought "Oh, yeah, take a few photos of the card before you send it off. You don't have to post any on this blog until after mom has gotten the original..." which I did.

Then, I remembered that I had locked my bike in spot A, rather than B or C, and had to walk across the parking lot to get it. All these activities run time off the clock, of course.

Then, I encountered Bongo who was walking along the sidewalk about half way to the post office, whom I had to tell that I had four minutes to get to.

Biblical Proportions

I made it through the door and got in the back of the line, to write my sentiment on the card, while the line inched forward.

"How much more would it be to send this Express?" I asked the mail lady who had locked the door behind me.

"About twenty one dollars," she said.

"OK, thanks."

I had figured that it would be at least ten times as much as a stamp to get a card there by Saturday.  I guess I'm not surprised that it is forty times more; I always did wonder how the post office could get a letter to Elilakok, Alaska (zip code 00001)* and charge just 43 cents. Those sled dogs must eat at least a couple cans each of Alpo, plus you have to pay the carrier.

And how many post cards "...Still well below zero and dark all the time; miss you; wish you were here..." would she have to be carrying to defray the cost?


My attempt the previous (Wednesday before Christmas) night to make enough money to send my mom's card by express, priority, super mail fell short.

I arrived at the Lilly Pad at around 10 PM.

As soon as I did so, I heard the raucous sound of an acoustic guitar being played through an amp coming from about 10 feet from where I have been playing "for four years."

I walked over to discover a rather pleasant, kind of oddball white guy of about my age, perhaps, who, upon seeing me standing in front of him holding a milk crate with a guitar strapped to me, seemed to pick up the intensity of his playing. He might have thought that I was a local musician who had stopped to check him out because I had never seen him before.

I had never seen him before, but given the difficulty that I have in memorizing faces (the ones that I see for the first time seem to be becoming more and mores like composites of people I already know) plus the fact that I really can avow to having seen another guy "just like him" in the Quarter, I thought I might have seen him before.

He put his nose to the grindstone, not stopping to chat with me, but rather continued to flail away on the guitar, playing a rhythm that was half interesting, one of those "easy guitar" progressions that uses open strings.

"I'm giving some new equipment a test run," was all he said to me, with a smile.

He continued to conduct the test, and I continued to stand there holding a milk crate. At one point, after I realized that the simple chord progression was not going to vary, I went and placed the crate where it has sat almost every night the past four years.

I needed to get a word in to him, somewhere.

He started singing along to the now boring progression. This helped it slightly, until it was evident that his scratch, slightly out of tune guitar was making his lyrics unintelligible. Not a good match for the Lilly Pad.

I considered calling Lilly, but first decided to talk to him.

"Oh, so you're saying that this is your spot? No problem. I can understand how it takes a while to work into a spot. I'll move. I just wish I hadn't set up all this already, I wish you had gotten here 15 minutes ago..."

Yeah, I had taken an excursion to get a bud off of a weed guy. If I hadn't done that, I would have been set up and playing when he had walked by.

Any further utterances that I tried to make were met with: "You don't have to explain, I'm moving."

He seemed like perhaps a retired guy who was busking for some other reason than making a living or getting his art "out there."

I was glad that I didn't have to take the "next" step of calling Lilly.

He said he had just arrived in New Orleans (he didn't even know where Harrah's Casino was, after I had suggested that he and his amp might do well there) and was only staying until the day after Christmas.

I tried to tell him that Christmas has not been, in recent history, a really booming time of year here.
Bourbon Street faces a lot of competition from open sleigh rides, chestnut roasting, lighting of trees and the malls. Probably most notably, the malls.


I was thinking, looking at his amp, which really was too loud for Lilly's block that his time there was going to be short, whether I did anything, or not.

It was an unusually quiet night on Bourbon Street.

I started playing. He slowly packed up his stuff and listened to me for a while, complemented me on one of my songs and then left.

He may have been hanging around to see if I would be suitable to jam with; if my music was "up his alley." I had tried (musically) to disappear into my own alley and out of his sight.  

I though to myself that I had probably just run a guy off, so that I could get the 7 or 8 dollars that might be all there was to be made, for myself. He walked past me a couple times, in each direction, toting his gear.

I had just about the above amount in my jar a couple hours later when, just after midnight, he returned, set up diagonal to the bar, and began to play with his amp way up in volume.

All I could think was that he was one of those "Jekyll" types of drinkers, who had gone off, made a few dollars somewhere, gotten drunk and was now returning with a vengeance. ...now that my head is clear with the whiskey and I think about it, I think I need to just blow the guy off the block with my equipment!

He was loud and stayed on basically one chord the whole time, E minor.

I was able to play the same thing as him, with his guitar sounding like he was sitting three feet to my left, and sing stuff like "Really, an amp? In this neighborhood, an amp?!? Really?!?" and made a few bucks that way.

Within 15 minutes of this display of apparent disregard for me, one of the cops in the little golf carts with the flashing red and blue lights on top stopped across from Lafitt's. He stood next to his cart, as the guy continued to blast away.

It occurred to me that he might just be positioning himself to pounce upon the first call of complaint that came in from a resident.

I was in the middle of texting Lilly about the situation when a police SUV showed up and parked behind the golf cart. The two officers then stood around while the guy played. The guy wasn't a great musician. I didn't see anyone cross the street from the bar to be any closer to him.

I sent off my text to Lilly: "The guy (she had seen him when she arrived home, when he had been packing up, and her and Angelique had paused and waved to me, as if to ask if there was a problem. I had just waved back, as if I was fine. He was leaving, after all) is back and he's blasting his amp across from the bar. The police are here but they are just standing there; maybe they need to have a complaint lodged by a resident before they can do anything?"

I hit "send."

Within about 10 minutes a second golf cart type cop thing arrived, out of which stepped a cop whose girth and the way he carried it said "Sergent or higher."

He walked over to the guy.

The "music" stopped.

I don't know what was exchanged, but he never resumed playing, but rather sat there and listened to myself, whom I thought was in pretty good form, albeit enhanced by some of Jerry's weed. After a while he walked past, not saying anything. I was in the middle of a song which I didn't interrupt to speak to him.

Him setting up like that and drowning me out was a pretty uncool thing to do. It doesn't surprise me that (probably before he drank) he was overboard in his deference to me and willingness to get out of the way "say no more, I'm gone, I'm gone" only to do a complete "180" like he had. I seem to recall more than one alcoholic to exhibit that type of behavior. It's almost as if they (such as Leslie Thompson) are conserving every ounce of their hostility. Their seeming to be so sweet and nice and deferential is actually just the lack of the evil that they are saving for when they will need it the most -in the middle of their drunken rage.

I left there thinking that it was probably a good thing that it had been so dead. Maybe the guy will decide not to even stick around until the day after Christmas.

Hopefully whatever the cops told him will deter him from trying the same thing tonight. It's almost time (right now) to go out there.

I called Lilly this afternoon. She hadn't texted me back.

"Tell me about it..." was how she answered the phone.

I told her about it. Someone else had told me that I could call the French Quarter "flash" patrols -the ones in the golf carts- anonymously, on a mobile phone; and could even snap a photo and include some text with it ("this guy right here is way too loud and disturbing me...").

"Someone told me that I could just call the...." I began to say to Lilly.

"No, call me..." she interjected.

Lilly sees police as a last resort.

*Yeah, the zip codes with the low numbers are in New England, with places in Maine having like 00500 as theirs. I can imagine that the U.S. Postal Service divvied out the numbers before Alaska and Hawaii were even sparkles in politician's myopic eyes. Thinking that California was the end of the line "nothin' but ocean after this..." they probably gave them the penultimate zip codes in the 99501 type of range.

Then, they were like, "now what are we gonna do?" in 1948 when Alaska became a state.
I think that they took the very low zip codes 00001-00120 from places in Maine and applied them to Alaska, sort of like spackling compound, after they realized that they had a problem. Condensing a whole bunch of Moose and caribou that are in different zip codes into one zone was probably the decision that they went with...

Priorities

Through Rain Or Snow, Sleet Or Hail

Card has "snowballs chance in hell" of arriving on time

It looks like I'm going to have to use some kind of "Priority" mail to perhaps get the Christmas card to my mom by Saturday.

I had my alarm set for 1:11 PM.

I never set the thing to go off at conventional times, like right on the hour, or fifteen minutes before. That reminds me too much of societal conventions, I guess. Like the court date when you have to be there at 8 AM sharp or they will issue a failure to appear warrant and, of course, regular "9 to 5" jobs.

I only had about 4 hours of sleep in, when it went off, which made me hit snooze repeatedly. This was something that I had thought about as I sat up reading the night before.

Eventually, after a snooze alarm had failed to stir me, I woke up with only a half hour to make it to the Post office before it closed at 4:30 PM, sharp. Again.

Fishing For The "Merry Christmas" Tip

"I enjoyed that song..."

I guess it is incumbent upon me to go out and busk on this Wednesday night when it is forecast to be in the 50's and to make enough to render the extra postage for "priority" mail insignificant.

I am happy that the shortest day and the longest night of the year has arrived, and am looking forward to two minutes of extra light each of the coming days. In the doldrums of winter, a man clings to anything positive and uplifting.



This is my third day without smoking any weed.

Last night I was feeling the focus of mental energy that comes with being free of certain substances.


Jail Story: 1992 

I was reminded of when I was in jail (one of the first times) and some of the other inmates, who had been out on the streets getting high on one thing or another 24/7 since they were old enough to reach an ashtray on a coffee table or unscrew a gas cap, were having epiphanies and revelations, after maybe the first couple weeks of their lives when they were getting three meals a day, eight hours of sleep and not being high on one thing or another 24/7.

There is kind of a false bravado and an over reaching of sorts that goes on.

There was a young black kid a couple cells down from me who I heard one night, telling the guard who was making his rounds at about two in the morning, "You know, I think when I get out of here I'm gonna become a record producer!"

And then, to underscore the seriousness of his intentions, added: "It's gonna be hard..."

He had gotten hold of a little FM radio and a set of headphones of the kind sold through the commissary, by trading his upcoming breakfast tray to another inmate, perhaps.

He was feeling the rush of mental clarity and focused energy that comes on day x of sobriety, and which has a counterpart on day x of a water fast.

People who actually do achieve things like becoming record producers are fueled by this, which is almost one and the same with a "passion" for what they are doing.

It's a kind of false sense in that, given the extremes of having what it takes to build skyscrapers or produce records and having what it takes to become high on one thing or another 24/7, most people's nature falls somewhere between. It is a worthwhile goal to be "predominately" the former.

The kid was just hearing how sweet music sounds after the absence of it for a couple weeks (outside of whatever was playing on the radio in the van that took him to the courthouse and back to the jail) and was over reacting.

The sound you're referring to? That's a pencil raked across jail cell bars!!

Sure, he could very well become a record producer if he were to continue sober and getting eight hours of sleep each night and good nutrition.

"Uh huh," grunted the guard who was making his rounds and who had probably seen his share of record producer hopefuls leave the jail only to return a few months later, a little more strung out and maybe just a bit less grandiose in their visions of "when I get out of here" once they reach that point of detox: "I'm gonna go stay with my sister on the other side of town so I won't be around the same people all the time and I'll work out of the labor pool until I get my G.E.D., then I'll try to get hired on with the Parks Department, that way I can be there for my kids..." That's more like it. 

"Do you even know the first thing about how records are produced?" I thought to myself from my own cell before replacing my own headphones.

So, last night, I sat reading on my bed.

I read for a lot longer than I would have had my attention been drifting on weed.

You know, I could quit smoking altogether and have my whole library read in a couple months, then start a regular working schedule until my novel is done.. I thought to myself as I closed the book. Then, realizing what was going on in my brain after three days off pot, I caught myself before going on to think: ..and then see about becoming a record producer...

Feels Like 52

The temperature is 51 degrees or, 3 degrees below the "low" which was forecast for the night.

I stayed in Monday (last) night, when temperatures hit a low somewhere around 35 degrees (2 Celsius) in the small hours of the morning.


Harold the cat had not been scratching at the door to go outside, as if he knew what was waiting for him out there. At the same time, he seemed to be a bit uncomfortable in the 74 degrees that I have set my thermostat to.

I used to play in front of a Kangaroo store on Baymeadows Road in Jacksonville, Florida where there was the time and temperature flashing from a bank sign across the street.

As the minutes went by and the temperature dropped, it was at some point around 38 degrees (3.3 Celsius) that I would first drop the pick, due to finger numbness.

One strange phenomenon was my ability to continue playing when I couldn't feel anything below the wrist. I was sending the signals from my brain to my fingers, telling them what to do, but getting no feedback.

Any temperature below 38 degrees became physically painful to play in. Any stoppage would allow the guitar's neck to cool down from whatever temperature the body's warmth had been able to boost it to, against the air temperature, and so the only way to play below 40 degrees is continuously.

Tonight, I could go out and manage to play, but it would probably be counter-productive in that, whatever I made on such a Tuesday night would be offset by wear on the strings and harmonica, and the coffee and chocolate and energy drink that I would buy during the course of the night.

It's a good night to stay in and draw more Christmas cards. I drew one that I am going to send to my mom last night, but won't post it here until it physically arrives there in Massachusetts, so as to not spoil any surprise, should she check this blog to ascertain that I'm still alive.

Theme For The Day

I woke up at 3:30 PM, realizing that, if I were to send the Christmas card off to my mom, I would have to get to the post office as soon as possible and then probably stand in line for close to an hour to mail it.

I would have to buy a stamped envelope, once there.

Also, I hadn't personalized it by writing anything to go with the "sentiment" that came with the card.

Pondering these things, while I made coffee and tried to decide in what order I was going to don about 7 layers of clothing, I let enough time go by that I soon blew of the idea, as I then had less than a half hour to get to the post office.

I can wake up early enough and with ambition and drive, feeling that the whole day is ahead of me. Then, at a certain time of day (when I used to invariably have my first drink) I begin to become preoccupied with my chariot turning into a pumpkin, so to speak.

There was a feature on NPR radio that played while I sipped my coffee.

It was about the increase incidence of opioid addiction in senior citizens.

"These people grew up in an era when being addicted to drugs was something evil," said the reporter, alluding to the shame that came along with the predicament that those members of the Silent Generation had found themselves in.

The person interviewed, who was a retired lawyer and pillar of society said: "all I thought about were the pills and when the next one was coming. I knew I was in trouble."

He said that he had just been following his doctor's instructions, after having surgery done on an infected ear, but afterwards feeling no alleviation of the pain.


"I'm a rule follower," he said, alluding again to the era in which he grew up in where being addicted to drugs was something evil; but following rules was good.

It had taken him a week to ultimately get over his withdrawals, and now he is crusading to warn others of how addicting Oxycontin et. al. can be.

It is another feather in the cap of he and his generation that he had been able to come to the conclusion that he was "in trouble"after he found that he had to take more and more of the stuff to get the same "relief."

A "millenial" would probably only see the problem of how to be able to afford such megadoses by finding a way to purchase them online, through a Chinese website, or something. They would be "in trouble" if they couldn't make that happen.

How am I going to get more money, for more...?

I guess this ties in with the fact that I have gone a couple days now without smoking weed.

What the Silent Generation-er had said reminded me of how I had remonstrated over having hunted David the Water Jug player down Saturday night, so that I could smoke a few puffs of weed before going out to play.

I guess I have some of the same sensibility and wherewithal to tell myself: "Really? You can't go out and play music for people unless you're stoned. Really?"

So, I'll be staying in tonight with Harold the cat, drawing perhaps one or two more Christmas cards.  I'll be waiting for it to be "much warmer than today" tomorrow, as promised by the weather website.

This will give me a few days without smoking weed, and take care of any withdrawals (that some insist are non-existent with pot) that might be lingering and, as I approach the one year anniversary of when I quit drinking, maybe I can add "ambition be gone" to the list of things that I have quit.
It doesn't seem likely, but neither did quitting the booze.

"Oh, I'm gonna drink again. I can't read Hemingway and get that sense, that I always do from him, that "the good life" naturally includes consumption of some of the best wines and ports and scotches on the planet, to go along with the best food and company; without realizing that I will drink again, it's only a matter of time..." was my belief for months after going sober.

If doctors tell me that I have 3 days to live then, yeah, I'll probably break my piggy bank* for a bottle of Chivas Regal...might even give a swig to one of the resident skeezers....

*If you're thinking "you got 3 days to live? why not just snatch up a couple bottles and run out of the store with them?" then you are probably not a member of the Silent Generation.

How To Economize Time

The Idea

I woke up with the idea of going out to buy a few stamped envelopes, into which I will stuff what will suffice as Christmas cards, before mailing them off, pronto.

My Latest Drawing #1

How To Draw The Blackness Of Space?

Then, I got the idea that I will stay in tonight, and draw "Christmas cards" and then will find a way to print them out and mail them instead of whatever cards I might buy at the Family Dollar.*

*unless, upon a perusal of them when I'm getting Harold the cat some food there in about a half hour from right now, I see one that just has the potential to be so hilarious (with some modification) and that comes in a pack of at least a dozen for the $1.09, then I might buy some...since they do come with envelopes...

Compressing Time

I basically am going to compress time by posting my answer to a comment made yesterday as the beginning to this post.

The Whole Foods in Charlottesville, (which, for disclosure, I usually visited with a huge backpack on) was very much more intense in this regard, where customers there often exhibited body language that bespoke, "what is he doing in here, he needs some new boot laces before he needs a small container of organic carrot-raisin salad at $14.99/lb.
You see people in there who seem to feel that, for you to even speak to them, you should have been introduced, by one of their respected friends, first.
My opinion of Whole Foods is that there is, in me at least, a desire to see food of every variety imaginable in abundance. The maple syrup is not far from the orange lentils. Tired of plain ol' greenish brown lentils? There is always a lurking intuition in me that, if I could just get a good enough dose of some trace element, say through a few sticks of wild boar jerky, then I might discover a mental clarity and feeling of well being that is astounding.
But, I see a lot of people in there buying organic corn flour, exotic cheeses, oils of rare nuts, salt from the sea, exotic spices and a bottle or four of wine in an interesting looking bottle; and thus, they are doing better for themselves than the guy with the bag of Cheetoz and the pint of Wild Irish Rose, by trading up on all the ingredients;So, yeah, I see a lot of earthy-crunchy Howards there; in my eyes LOL

It would be possible to imagine that Whole Foods jacks up their prices so that only the wealthy can subsist on groceries out of the place, and then meticulously destroys any excess food, as a way of rewarding the wealthy for having attained their status, and punishing anybody whose consciously made life choice is to pick food out of the garbage rather than to "just set your mind on that money and go out there and get it; take night courses for God's sake; I know people who did; that woman over by the bakery, as a matter of fact." (We worked hard to be able to afford to pour maple syrup on our orange lentils; and we're not going to just give it away to people who aren't, in our opinions, even trying) type of thing...

I will say, though, that the prices in Whole Foods aren't so high as to preclude the average person who wants to make sacrifices in other areas of her life from subsisting out of there.

A healthy lifestyle that requires few calories to fuel can be sustained out of there, by a smoker who quits and then applies the surplus to their food bill, for example.

The Healthy Baby

"Mommy's going to get a special pumpkin carving knife in the store

that's safe for you kids to use."

I have a chance now, I guess, to reassess my attitude, 14 years down the road.

The store (right) in Charlottesville, Virginia, I had nicknamed "The Healthy Baby."

It just seemed to me that wealthy mothers had overrun that particular location, as every other cart had some tyke or two aboard, and that those mothers were attempting to "buy a healthy baby," as I put it.

Organic baby food, yes.


This was soccer mom country, where kids were steered clear of "all that sugar," and the best kids that money can raise, were raised. Money to buy a healthy baby.

Raising kids was the rage there. Many times I would sit at a coffee shop listening to one mother, who is holding a baby and gushing over it, to her friends, who were waiting with bated breath to hear about every exciting step of the pregnancy, along with how far along she is in her current one; and that Bobby is 5, Chloe 3, and can you believe that Ryan is going to be 2 in a couple weeks?!? All in a tone of voice that say's "Oh, I would recommend having a bunch of babies to anyone!!"
Husbands rarely came up in the conversation.

In the parking lot would be an SUV that is not cheap at all, a sign of having the luxury to have all the babies in the world.

I had a girlfriend at the time (2002) named Crissa, who had not been a healthy baby and who was in fact somehow the beneficiary of some kind of litigation with the state of California over some pesticide that was found in the water.

She had mental health issues. She first started paying attention to me after hearing me refer to the above store when saying to someone else, something like: "I'm going to run to the Healthy Baby, and get some (whatever)."

It turned out that she was living in a certain half-reality, medicated by a psychiatrist, and that when I had said "Healthy Baby," she had taken it as a communique from the universe and had decided, right then and there, that I was to be her boyfriend. I had already been kicked off of my spot by the reservoir where I had built an underground dwelling, and was sleeping in the tool shed behind the gas station where I worked the overnight shift, at the time.

She was half my age, at 20, and I wound up moving out of the tool shed and in with her and her mother, who was 20 years my senior. That might be one for the "my short stories" section of this blog; to come.

Waste, As The Gravest Of Human Sin

• $12 Saturday
• Cold And Rain Invades
• Watching Patriots Game At Casino, Drinking Starbucks
• Preparing to Try To Send Christmas Cards Out

There we go, let a little light in...

I just returned from the casino where I had gone, hoping to see a broadcast of the Patriots/Broncos game, but discovering upon arriving there that the "Masquerade" (night club?) section of the casino had been set up for what appeared to be a Saints game-watching party, with every set at every angle tuned to a broadcast of that (ho) hum-dinger of a contest; that I really didn't care about.

I had a chance to glance around at some of the other people who were, in many cases, reacting to the action on the screen. "Why do any of us care about football?" I thought, before leaving.

Back out into the wind and the rain and the chill.

The rain was coming down moderately hard. Enough to soak a man in about 15 minutes, I would say.

I ran for the trolley, which I had taken to get to the casino, leaving my bike locked to the rack at the apartments in the wind and the rain and the chill.

It was raining too hard for me to consider hopping off at Broad Street, where I could avail myself to whatever is within a short walk from there, everything from Whole Foods at the extreme left, next to the Dollar General, and then the Family Dollar, across from the Walgreen's. An ambitious walker can extend in the other direction to get to the Ideal Market, which is clean and efficiently run, and then to the Banks Meat market diagonal from it, which is run.

The Ideal food is inexpensive, but comes with the caveat that it is basically ready to eat. Stocking up on produce from there is not wise as, even their mangoes can be eaten right out of the store. I've had to toss a jalapeño pepper or two out because of mold spots on them a few days after buying them.

Where Whole Foods customers come from...

The Whole Foods is at the other extreme in some sense that is hard to pinpoint.

They are over staffed, to say the least. They not only have cheese-guy, but cheese guy is back there (behind the cheese section) with assistant cheese guys. Almost every aisle has an employee or three, busily stocking shelves and directing people to the chia seeds.

All these people are being paid by the customers who don't mind paying the Whole Food prices. I have seen mangoes in there marked at 3 times the price of the ones in the Ideal Market, a couple blocks away.

I think the Whole Food customers are also happy to be able to shop without having to rub elbows with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich set.

Judging by how much food I have seen on display in that store at just about closing time, and being pretty sure that they are going to make fresh batches of it all the next morning (it won't take that long with 30 people working on it) I have to shake my head over just how much excellent food they must destroy at the end of each and every day.

They will make a pot of something exotic, like a lobster gumbo or something and it will be like 22 dollars per pound and I will walk by shortly before they are to close, and see 80% of what they had made fresh that day, sitting there, a few minutes away from its date with the dumpster.

I guess the thought of homeless guys spooning the delicacies into their lazy mouths and washing it down with Steel Reserve is repulsive enough to them so that they employ a sealed off dumpster/compactor at the back of the store. I'm sure that it keeps rodents away, as well as homeless people.

Together Forever And Never Two Part

Meanwhile (right) I am studying, once again, the Bach Invention that I have played thousands of times.
I'm giving them a much more intense study now, paying attention to every pick stroke and going for maximum "cleanness."

According to an employee I talked to, they aren't allowed to take home food that would otherwise go to waste, either.

That is a shame in the sense that such a supplement could stretch the paychecks that they issue to those same employees and so those same employees could have a higher quality of life. It is spawned of a tacit suspicion that employees won't really try hard to sell all of that delicious stuff if they are hoping to take some home with them at the end of the night.

And the further irony is that the typical "earthy crunchy" type of Whole Foods employee would probably list "waste" as the gravest of human sin. 

Sheep's Clothing Optional

I didn't draw these bikes..

• Some Weed Matters

(These are not my own drawings of bikes)

It was much warmer last (Friday) night. 67 degrees is what the TV "said" after I had knocked off at 2 AM.

Comment

But, first to answer a comment about drawing:

Ah, yes, the bike ...the two wheels can be in all kinds of relationships to one another, given that the front wheel pivots, plus the distance from the bike will determine how much larger the than the wheel further away will the wheel closer be; he has to draw each wheel in perspective and then place them in correct relation to each other; and then has to factor in the distance from the bike where he is.

I imagine, once the wheels were done, for better or worse, the artist would adjust his aspect slightly; like(virtually)step back from or closer to the bike, and would actually draw from the perspective of where a person, standing and looking at the bike would see it as perfect as possible.

Imagine doing a drawing of a bike that has mismatching wheels...a practical joke played on any artist who would then have to put "that's what the bike looked like" somewhere on it

One more bike drawing; for the road...

30 Dollar Friday

Friday night was the "teetering on the brink of depression" night where I had overcome whatever mood was threatening to overcome me by telling myself that I would ride my bike to the corner dollar store, a half mile into my journey and would purchase a mood elevating Monster Energy (zero calorie/zero carb) drink, and then would look for David the Water Jug player, to see if he had any weed.

I was comfortable in the assumption that, since I had brought Travis, the guy who crashed at my place for 10 days, to him (David) who had turned around and conducted the business of liquidating what for that particular block is good cash, on more than one occasion that, if I were to show up it was probable that I would be able to get a toke or two off of David the Water Jug player.

And, it seemed to have worked that way. I had a dollar and change on me, and would have to drop half of that on a can of food for Harold the cat.

A skinny little joint was all mine.

David had told me that it was "nothing special, just some 'reggie'*"

I got to the Quartermaster to pick up my milk crate and further inspected what felt like a rolled up paper with nothing in it.

I thought that David had been "had" by the guy who had rolled it up for him as a favor to myself who had brought Travis into their confidence. Or that it was intended to be a practical joke.

I wound up getting 2 or 3 lung-fulls of what had a very strong, almost laundry soap-like flavor, which I have tasted in the past and had always attributed to some smuggler somewhere who hides his shit inside laundry soap boxes to fool the dogs.

I then played for 2 hours and 45 minutes.

I had started out, thinking that I had just better to enjoy myself without the benefit of weed because I had only gotten 2 or 3 pulls off the skinny joint, that David had deprecated by calling "reggie."* and I kind of did a bit of both, getting lost in the music, at one point seeing a 20 dollar bill that had materialized and having to say "thank you" to nobody in particular.

So, I concluded that, had a practical joke been played upon me, it was in actuality the fact that whatever weed was in that skinny joint was the "one pull wonder," or whatever it is that Travis has been trading in -the Travis, whom I had hooked them up with after having vetted him over the course of his stay at my place. He is the "white boy who stays at home behind a computer consuming almost a c-note of high grade weed per week who's definitely not a cop" customer of their dreams, I would imagine.

And, so, yes, I do believe that when I showed up and told David how embarrassing it was to me to have only a dollar and 66 cents on me, and that I was hoping that he had a couple pulls of weed, and then had tuned up his guitar (the storied blue one that I had given him more than 2 years ago, and that's stories were blogged about here) and then was given the skinny little joint, the shrug and apology for its slightness; was used as a means of lowering my expectations. So much better to prepare me to be ambushed by the "albeit small amount" of medicinal grade, east Afghanistan, loud, fire, Girlscout cookie, numbskull, chronic, gas, weed.

I'll have to thank David tonight if I see him, if just to let him know that I know my potions well and was appreciative of the "reggie" that he had scraped together.

And, of course, I remonstrated myself for being such a fiend as to have sought David out, looking for weed. This would be the same David whom I had grown impatient with in the past for asking me if I had any weed immediately upon encountering me on the street, every time.

Money

I made 30 dollars in 2 hours and 40 minutes of playing. This is right around 11 bucks per hour. This wage is down around 40% from what I had become "accustomed" to.

*reggie (or "Reggie") is a construction made from the word "regular," to denote your regular every day weed which is grown by the huge field lot, by people who don't have time to go through and talk to each plant. But, it also developed into the code name by which weed could be asked for, under the umbrella of "Hey, has anyone seen Reggie around?"
This was only until cops started going around asking if Reggie has made an appearance, and then arresting the individuals if he shows up.
 

Against My Mood

9 Dollar Thursday

It's Friday night.

The weather is good, warm and kind of humid, not quite foggy. 
 
The war I have been waging lately is against my mood.

It is more often than not lately that I don't feel like going out to busk.

It is kind of like "giving up" on one level. Isn't that what the "clinically" depressed people do, just give up and lay there, not even wanting to reach for a glass of water or take the next breath because, what's the use, to keep your shitty joyless life going?

 I don't feel like I'll make enough to save up for anything. Plus, my cost of living goes up when I go out to play. The coffee and chocolate when I take my break, the Monster Energy drink on the way to the spot, and then any food that I might grab on the way home, along with a newspaper, because I have worked up an appetite; all adds up, never mind the wear and tear on the strings and harmonicas..

I lot has to do with smoking weed, I am suspecting -getting a rush of "creativity;" grabbing my guitar and playing it out of my system, realizing in the aftermath that it wasn't as good as I had thought, and then dragging myself out to the Lilly Pad, still feeling like my stuff isn't as good as I think...

That's typical.

I suppose I used to play well and make good tips without weed or drink, the times that I had done so, like when I was water fasting. After about 20 minutes of playing it all feels the same.

I find myself pedaling lazily towards the Lilly Pad when, having made up my mind that, yes, I'm going to give it a shot and play, I should be racing to get there and set up and be playing my first note "25 minutes from now," as I leave the apartment.

There is a hidden danger in the fact that getting drunk used to be motivation enough for me to go out. And I haven't replaced it with a better purpose. It's the not knowing which bugs me the determination at the end of a given night that I would have been better off had I stayed home, and the recurrence of this over the course of two or three consecutive nights.

It makes me wonder about placing another ad for someone to crash at my place for 20 bucks a day.
Assuming I could go about my usual business and go out and busk for another 20 bucks on a typical day, that would supplement me up to the point where I could actually save for something that's a couple hundred bucks.

Travis used to encourage me not to go out and busk, I think so that he could have someone to talk at all night. "It's really a pretty crappy night. "There probably aren't that many people out, you've got the 20 I just gave you, and if you need a cigarette just help yourself from this pack...probably a good night to stay in. Anyway, as I was saying..."

The Root Of My Anxiety

Which brings me to the root canal procedures that I can have done for "only 94 bucks" each.

That is an amount of money that almost seems designed to weed out those who are below a certain level of abject poverty to the point where 94 bucks is beyond their means.

I used to know someone who would judge people using their teeth as the tell all.

I see a lot of black people from all walks of life who have "perfect" teeth.

Either they aren't a cavity prone race, or they place such a high value upon having all of their teeth intact that they will go the extra mile (make regular payments into some kind of dental "plan" even if it means cutting the electricity off periodically) to make sure they don't look "ghetto" by having teeth missing.

From my understanding, if I come up with the 94 bucks and have the root canals done before my next appointment at the other place, the other place will fill whatever cavities exist with tooth colored fillings, since they are the front teeth, and the teeth will have been "saved."

Otherwise, I forgot exactly what they said would happen. They would probably let the front teeth sit there in their present condition.

I was told by the dental worker at LSU School of dentistry that dentures are uncomfortable, they never fit right, people hate them, and that they could bring a singing career to an end and make you sound like Elmer Fudd, compromising your ability to have a serious discussion with anyone.

So, my mood teeters right around the border between good and bad.

I'm out of weed and out of money to get any. This is a good thing?

I Have Cigarettes And Cat Food

The Jinx

I jinxed myself Tuesday night.

After having run into Bongo who sold me some medicinal bud, thereby reducing my cash on hand to the amount of 2 dollars and
5 cents, I went back to my place, preparing to go out and busk on a chilly night when rain was threatening.

There was a knock at my door, preceded by a cough which I recognized to be the cough of Rose.

Since the sound of the cough penetrated the thin walls of the apartment, and was as loud as the subsequent knock, I was sure that Rose had wanted to let me know, that way, who was knocking; lest I play dead and not answer the door.

She and Ed wanted to borrow 2 dollars, to put gas in their vehicle before making some kind of important run (probably to pick up medication) in the morning. "We probably have enough, but just want to put a little more in to be on the safe side.." said Ed.

Thinking about the fact that I had only 2 bucks on me, I told them that I didn't have it.

I could see an incredulous look pass over their faces as if they were thinking "I'm sure he's got at least 2 bucks..."

I really didn't want to say that I only had 2 dollars and 5 cents, fearing a rejoinder of "Well, can we have it?" from them.

At the same time, I didn't technically need the 2 bucks; I could start my tip jar off with fake money.
Then, I made what I now think was a mistake. I picked up my house phone and rang up Rose and Ed's room.

"Hey, I'm just on my way out to play, I'm sure that when I get back at 2 in the morning, I can slide something under your door..."

Then, I started to pedal towards the Quarter. I was thinking that, if I didn't make anything at all, I could slide the 2 dollars and 5 cents under their door.

I played and made only a dollar. It was cold and threatening rain and I had the misfortune of having 3 young Indian guys stop and listen and offer complements upon  my music; and tell me that they were starting a Youtube "channel" which was to feature local New Orleans musicians like myself. They had taken my e-mail address from me and my phone number and had shaken my hand and thanked me for having played for them and then left without putting anything at all in my tip jar.

They had to have known that I was out there hoping to make some money; or had they?

So, I then learned my lesson about jinxing myself by having counted my chickens before my eggs had hatched. I considered sliding a note of apology under the door of Rose and Ed, explaining that I had only made a dollar "and had to get cat food."

I decided to just let it go.

Learning To Use Charcoal...

I wondered if my phone would ring at 3 AM and it would be Ed, seeing if I were back yet and if I could lend them the money (the amount probably having grown based upon how I reported the night having gone) or if it would ring in the morning, before they were about to embark.

They never called and I figured that ours was not an unusual occurrence here at Sacred Heart Apartments -having "promised" someone something and then just not even gotten back to them about it; probably happens all the time around here... 

Last night, Wednesday; I went out and made about 9 bucks off of just a few tippers. The streets were pretty dead, making one think about the most recent highly publicized shooting. That happened a full 7 blocks away from me, as I was packing up my stuff.

Travis Blaine (the guy who crashed at my place for 10 days) showed up at a certain point.
He didn't tip me a cent, but hung out for a while; eventually leaving to take a walk after I basically asked him if I could sit there by myself and play for a while, as that seems to be my "hustle" at the Lilly Pad.

He wanted me to bring him to where David the Water Jug Player hangs out, so he could spend almost 50 bucks on weed off the Jamaicans there, after not tipping me a cent.
He did smoke me up before I left for home, but that just made it harder to focus my energy upon breaking off from him; as it put him in talk mode. He was actually talking away and saying things like "more on that in a minute," whetting my appetite for further discourse from him, I guess he thought...

It is now Thursday and pretty chilly out (50 degrees). I suppose I'll go out and play.
I have cigarettes and cat food.

Here's Hoping

• Portrait Mailed Off
• Two Nights Off For Football Watching

Tonight, if I go out and play -and it is Tuesday- I would do so with the expectation that I might make "just" 20 dollars.

But, I also think that the Christmas song that I have been doing on the guitar and harmonica with a bit of vocals splashed in (I can't bring myself so far as to wish random people a "merry" Christmas, and so usually sing the amended title shown) might be a cash cow. It had done well Saturday night.

Now that I have copied the "actual" melody onto the sheet shown, I can fine tune the harmonica part, since I now have pretty good command over the notes used in the song. It is the harmony that is the spice on this particular carol and, as I play the melody, I'll be trying to add some by jazzing up the chords as much as possible.

Here's hoping I'm in the mood to saddle up and go get 'em a couple hours from right now...

Boy, do I feel lazy. Like staying in to cook and eat something and then reading enough so I can use the excuse that I had stayed in to enrich myself by catching up on my reading.

It was sprinkling earlier. It's pretty warm, about 62.