I Can Foot Bill For Football

$48 Thursday
$21 Friday
Saturday to Howard's to return the tablet, watch football, see the huge turkey in the back yard.

The first game has started, I have it on my cheap AM/FM Walkman type radio.

I'll be to Howard's by the time the Patriots game comes on. I'm wearing the Patriots shirt that Ben Lambie from Boston sent to me. It's a triple extra large, which makes me wonder about how Ben say's that when he gets drunk he does "stupid (stuff)" like stealing shirts out of stores.

I guess my next videos are indefinitely postponed.

I learned a bit about videos and Youtube and about the "technology" in general.

I need to check the specifications, through scientific journals or consumer reports type publications, to see if there is a camcorder or something on the market that has an even better microphone than the one which is the default in Howard's tablet.

Money

Thursday, I went out with kind of old strings, and a harmonica that already had a note blown out.
The 12 dollar ones sound decent for about the first 3 weeks, I'm finding. Somewhere around the month old mark, a reed will break. Probably a "draw" reed, perhaps from bending the note hard on a draw...

The Susuki "Folkmaster" harmonica that I have been using (the 12 dollar one) is called such because the notes that it facilitates are more of the "folkey" ones and not the "bluesey" ones...

But, I managed to get two separate 20 dollar tips, at times when I was playing my best, and wound up with almost 50 bucks, after having woken up with less than four bucks on me.

Friday night, I was there pretty early and had only made about 13 bucks when I knocked off after a couple hours. After coffee, I decided to play some more and made about another 8 bucks in another hour and a half. The difference from the previous night being the absence of the two twenties...

Crazy 'Bout A Crazy Girl

Rated R

This song needs to be preserved as part of my original catalogue, so that if I make it big someday, it might become appreciated, in hindsight.
  I have explained in the liner that, this song is Lilly Pad bait, which is used to try to hook the big tuna.

The tourists who stop and sit down on the stoop to listen to the end of a song, and who then ask me if I would play something that I wrote, and whom, after a conversation show themselves to be the types that might enjoy this song about a girl I met in Saint Augustine, Florida (which is like a distant cousin to New Orleans, as far as busking is concerned) might just hear me play this one. Rated R I have settled upon a strategy for posting videos to places like Youtube. The question that I ask myself is: Is this music representative of the way you might do it on the street this very night or maybe last week sometime. If the answer is something like: "Yes, I sometimes come in on a strange note on the harmonica instead of the one I was aiming for on the street, and then I adjust as best I can..." with the operative word being "Yes" then I will go ahead and post up the songs to preserve them in their current condition. If I ever improve upon any one of them, then I will just do an upgrade on that particular song, swapping out the previous version...

 Dental Hospital Visit

I rolled into the parking lot of the Daughters of Charity hospital at about 2:06 PM, for my 2 PM appointment. To have three (3) teeth pulled.

"I'm here!" I immediately informed the purple overall clad young black lady.

After I gave her my name, I received a smile that said that they had their doubts about me showing up and in general.

I was given my choice of which three teeth I wanted extracted.

Well, you're the professional dentist, where would you start?

"Well, probably some of the teeth that are broken off at the gum line and make no contact with any other tooth. ...I think you pros have a word for that...

They aren't doing me any good as far as chewing. Maybe take adjacent teeth unless the remaining ones are going to migrate into the gap created."

I am back from having had the procedure done.

I find it hard to believe that, had I asked her to pull some of the ones that are actually helping me to chew now, she would have gone ahead and done so. I will eventually have a "partial" which will fill in for just about every tooth except the front ones. Those are waiting and praying for the Louisiana Pick 3 number to be 427, or for my work to become more steady.

It feels hardly any different, now, as I run my tongue around my than, than it did before the three teeth which were broken off at around the gum line, were removed.

I got a prescription for antibiotics and pain pills of not much street value. My "co-pay" was 50 cents on each bottle. Somehow being a disabled veteran is helping me there, indirectly, perhaps...

Another Day Goes By Without My Having Given Howard Back His Tablet

I am trying to unload all the worthwhile videos off of Howard's tablet so that I can delete them before I give the thing back to him. The trouble has been my becoming inspired to give some of the these songs multiple tries and coming up with better versions. That is why I developed the rating of "R" (for representative of how I do the song, typically, on the street).

Carcass for Becca1

So, it is Thursday around 1 PM, or one hour before my dental appointment, during which 3 teeth are to be extracted. I'm assuming they are the ones that are broken off to the point that they are barely past the gum line, and in such a condition are not helping me chew very much at all, and hence, they won't be missed. I think the poor man's route to dental independence is to eventually get a one size fits all set of fake teeth to replace all of the ones which have been pulled. Thus, I don't expect them to be fitting me for a set of just three fake teeth to replace the ones that they are going to pull 56 minutes from now.

The Carcass Song

Carcass Song Sweeps Alabama, One Fan At A Time

"The Carcass Song" is one of my originals, one which started out intended to be a Metallica type of song. I envisioned those two guys, Hetfield and Ulrich? singing the harmony.

And the topic of dogs getting in to a carcass and bringing the smell back home is something that wouldn't cause the batting of any eyelashes at one of their shows.

This one is being sent to Becca Griffin, whom I met in 2010 in Mobile, Alabama and who performed at the same open mic night and who liked The Carcass Song.

The seven years that have elapsed since them have seen improvements made in the way I perform The Carcass Song.

"...with something which is DECAYING!!..."

It turned out, initially, to be one of the more difficult songs in my repertoire, which is ironic, since I wrote it, and thus had all of the riffs at my disposal that I can do blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.

I have finally broken the harmony down into a logic and found a very reliable down beat, by realizing that the riff that I play repeatedly through the verses really outlines a quick D minor to G major progression, so, by keeping those chords in mind, I have found a riff that I can make the "standard."

Purple Heart

"Purple Heart," I wrote most of in about 2008.
Below is one of the videos that I shot using a reflection off of a TV screen in an otherwise darkened room. You can barely see me in it, and one of the lines in the song is "Fred" complaining "they can barely see me," and so that is what I'm going with.
There is a description of the song on the Youtube page that you have to "view on Youtube" to view.
It is basically a song I wrote for a songwriters competition in Fernandina Beach, Florida, which was in November of 2008, I believe. The "theme" of the competition was given as "purple heart." I had it about half done when the date of the open mic night rolled around. It is about 88% done now, nine years later.

It is Wednesday morning.

I was going to post up the video that I shot immediately upon waking up this morning.

This happened around the reasonable hour of 6 AM.

I had not gone out and busked the (Tuesday) night prior, having had a 10 dollar Monday night in about an hour of playing, and haven been given a bud of weed by Agent C* before having gone out.

I had returned and stayed up until past dawn, happy to have fed Harold the cat one of his favorite meals for the first time since before the rain and cold invaded us.

I had just laid my head down at about 9:30 AM, planning to sleep until just before sundown and then repeat what is becoming a "routine" of mine: ride down to the store for Harold's food and my Monster Energy drink, return and get on the computer, most likely to blog about how I really shouldn't be on the computer but rather, pedaling my way towards the Lilly Pad.

Busking the "usual" hours. 

Now that the weather has warmed up, it is at least comfortable to sit there and play for one's own amusement if nothing else. 

Monday night had been, as I had suspected it would be; a bit on the skeezy side, as it was the first pleasant night after a week or so of rain, cold and cold rain. The skeezers would be "behind on their bills," just like myself.

I had just arrived at the Lilly Pad when up walked a 50 something year old guy who didn't have skeezer written all over him, but it was in the fine print. He had some kind of backpack, and was carrying some bags, but was better dressed than typical "homeless" and could have been some other country's version of middle class. This crossed my mind after the first thing he did was ask me if we were on Bourbon Street.

I gave him directions to the more "crazy" end of the street and he seemed to be ready to walk off.

Then, he said that he "had to" hear me play a song. I hadn't even taken out the guitar, tuned it, nor set up any of my "stage."

Later, I would wonder if there was something in the manner that I had given him directions that made him say to himself: "Not so fast... maybe there's something to be skeezed right here..."

He promised to give me a dollar if I played a Neil Young song, and even started singing "Hey, Hey, My, My," to himself; one of the ones that I know pretty well.

I actually picked up the pace of setting up my stuff because of the dollar that he had promised. I was going to eventually set it up, anyways. It was a dead looking Monday night, despite the nice weather and his dollar represented at least a can of cat food.

As I tuned up the guitar, I kind of tested the guy by pulling out a cigarette. He didn't skeeze me.

Then I fired up a "tuning up joint" before tuning. Still no skeeze. He was hard to read.

I was trying to shake him out, put him under a microscope, try to get him to show his hand as a skeezer.

I had "Dude, I do this every night. I sit here, I burn a joint while I tune my guitar. I don't bring enough to pass around, and I bring just enough cigarettes to get me through to the end of the night. Now, I gave you directions to Canal Street, have a good night!" on the tip of my tongue, but he hadn't bitten.


Then, as tourists walked past as I tuned, he skeezed them.

He asked nobody in particular out of a group of three men walking past for 10 cents.

"No, sorry, no extra change..." came the memorized sounding reply.

"Not even ten cents?" pressed the guy who had been hard to read.

I could see what he was trying to do. He was trying to make them stop and converse. Any way, any how. He had put on the sheep's clothing of the guy only asking for ten cents. Once they stopped, then ol' silver tongue could take over. I was beginning to see his having asked me for directions as being part of a skeezing ruse, just another way to insinuate himself into a conversation.

He almost got them to stop. One of them, probably not seeing the "harm" in giving him just ten cents, started to before another mumbled something, and they continued on.

A young couple arrived and sat down on the side opposite the guy. This was just as I was telling the guy that I wasn't cool with panhandling at my playing spot.

I launched into the Neil Young song, now mostly for the benefit of the young couple, after hearing the guy say something about "harmonica."

The possible skeezer on the other side started singing along; badly. He actually threw me off at one point. A glance to the young couple revealed a "it must be hard to try to play over that" look on the face of the guy.

During the song, the 50 something guy had removed my tip jar from where it sat, illuminated and out of the way of errant feet, to the middle of the sidewalk where anyone "just walking along minding their own business" would now be presented with an obstacle.

It was also now where someone who might be in the middle of reading my "tiposaurus" sign (which now referred to nothing) might inadvertently kick it over. Stopping in the middle of a song to snatch up money before it might blow away, sucks.

I finished the song and the guy, who was no longer some other country's version of middle class in my estimation, and who had told me that he would give me a dollar if I played a Neil Young song blurted out: "Oh, man, I wish I had something to give you, that was great!"

He then insisted that I take a shirt from him, before handing me, out of one of his bags, what turned out to be a Catholic School boys uniform shirt (with the coat of arms and name of the school on the breast) which was in size "16." 

At that point, I cut the guy a bit of slack. ...You just can't fake some mental illness...


I do believe 16 to be the size that I wore in 9th grade, ...could I still get in to it? 

I took the shirt, thanked him for it and for having stopped by, then refreshed his memory upon the directions to Canal Street. "That way." 

I then asked his name, introduced myself, shook his hand, wished him luck -and did everything else that I could think of that people typically do before one of them walks far away.

"You must know some Dylan; I can sing that real good!"

 "Yeah, my thing is sitting here by myself; under the moon, you know; it's kind of like my hustle. Even when they (the couple) are done listening, I'll ask them to let me get back to the lonely troubadour shtick..."

I felt kind of snobbish; like I had thrown a party and invited cool, young, up-and-coming friends who would arrive bearing gifts, be interesting and liven up the festivities, but had just slammed the door in the face of a random old crazy guy because I worried that he was going to abuse the open bar, eat off the buffet with his hands, walk around bumming smokes and offend people's sensibilities in "Rasputin" kinds of ways and invariably destroy something by knocking it over or in the middle of clowning around with it (that's actually an antique globe not a beach ball, dude).

I struggled to find a way to tell the guy to "get the hell on," but in the same breath tell the couple: "you two are alright." I thought the skeezer might make an issue of that. He left, though. Miraculously. Thank whatever saint whose namesake school the shirt came from, I guess.

The couple wound up putting what turned out to be over three dollars in change in my bucket, after we had talked about Massachusetts and I had let the guy play my guitar. I got the sense that they left sooner than they might had they not heard me telling the skeezer that I preferred to sit there by myself.

They were probably out of cash, as evidenced by the change, and fearing that they were similarly blocking my tip jar; even though they weren't skeezing or singing along out of tune.

I had to admit this was technically true. It can feel cool to have a good looking young stylish couple hanging out, as if I become more of each through association. But, when they aren't tipping, the pile of money on the bed at the end of the evening doesn't look any larger, cooler, younger, or more in fashion.

*name changed to protect his identity

Last Resorts

Howard's Tablet Comes Back From The Dead
I am at Starbucks pecking away one character at a time on it.

I was able to bring it back to life by holding the on/off button down, while simultaneously inserting and removing then reinserting again, the charger.

I also pinched the power button between my fingernails and pulled it outward -the opposite of pressing it. One of these tricks seemed to have fixed it. For now.

I called Howard's number, after procrastinating. It was Sunday night, and there was then no doubt that I wouldn't be showing up to watch football that morning or afternoon. The phone was answered by his housemate, Ken, as I had expected.

He was defensive about the whole subject of the tablet, as it turned out that he was the one who had given it to Howard. His tone of voice betrayed a bafflement over why Howard would have given it to me to try to figure out how to use it. "I know a lot about computers."

He suggested that Howard could use it to go on the Internet, and pointed to the fact that he (Howard) went almost daily to the library, where he got on the Internet.

I suspect that Howard goes there because he is a voracious reader, and because it is part of his routine. He might just enjoy what little human interaction is available there, too.

Ken thinks that Howard will easily be able to learn how to navigate the touch screen, about which there is no instruction in the little manual that came with the thing.

Myself, I was cussing at the thing in Starbucks (I'm back home now, supplementing what had been written one peck at a time) every time I accidentally brushed the screen with the side of my hand and the device interpreted that as a "swipe" and took the prescribed action, like opening some Google application, which I had to be careful about closing, lest I close my entire browsing session and lose all my painstakingly pecked-in characters, or whenever the caffeine made me double-press a letter, or twitch and accept the "auto complete"ed word. ...I was typing "device," not "deviate." Now I have to backspace it out...I hope I don't miss the backspace button and change my text to Chinese...
 
I, totally by accident, discovered that by planting two fingers on the screen, the text in between can be highlighted and then formatting applied to it. "Now, why the heck is it doing that?" is what I think, Howard's response would have been.

But, It's working again. And I can retrieve more of the videos that I shot. And shoot better ones.

Warm Enough To Busk Again
 
The temperatures are supposed to rise from below freezing, to back into the 70's and have already made a move in that direction.

I have been feeding Harold tuna and salmon off my food card, these past freezing days.

I had a few cans of the flavor that he doesn't like, that I had gotten as part of a 4 for the price of 2 deal. He likes the other 3 flavors. I wanted to see if I could trade them to Rose and Ed; maybe their cat would love salmon and chicken liver flavored food, which is normally expensive.
I knocked on their door, holding a half dozen cans of it.

Ed opened it and immediately made a motion for the cans, saying: "Oh, cool..." He must have just assumed that I was there to give them to him.

I tightened my grip "Um, Harold doesn't like this flavor, and..."

"OK" said Ed, and reached for them again. ...that's fine, you don't have to explain...
 
"I'm trying to trade them, Harold doesn't have anything else to eat.

"Oh, we don't have any food, ourselves, to trade, we don't even have anything to feed our cat right now..." with another look at the cans. I had the feeling that he was hoping that I would just give him a can. Or two.

Poor Rose and Ed's cat...

"I have to get something for it; I've been feeding Harold salmon at two bucks a can, off my food card..."

I got out of there just as the words "You have money on your food card?!?" were forming on his lips.

A Last Resort

Precious coffee traded for tobacco.

I bought a couple their coffee using my gift card, in exchange for the first 12 dollars to touch my hand in over a week.

Their coffee was $11.19.

The weather has had an impact on the economy here, in general. This morning I was skeezed for cigarettes by two separate guys whom I sometimes just hand them to, just because they never skeeze me for them.

If I see them sitting on the computer with a half smoked "cigar" cigarette on the desk near the mouse, then I can see the situation that they are in -not only have they been reduced to smoking those half priced, half the nicotine, half cigarettes; they are putting them out half way, to conserve them.

I have been there before, and have compassion for them. One is black (Arnold) and one white (Gary) by the way, so race is a non factor, here.

I had no cigarette for either of them. They seemed to understand my being so destitute after these few nights that have been too cold to play. This tells me, at least, that they share some of the same compassion for me.

On And On, Until I Quit

Another black guy who was hanging around the smoking area as I was walking past with a cigarette in my mouth kind of held up his hand to his smoking buddies, who were visiting here, as if to say "watch this" and then approached me and asked for a cigarette. I got the feeling that he was demonstrating me to them for some reason.

"I can't afford to give my cigarettes away," I answered, and then threw in "I get asked 20 times a day," just to hint at the fact that he was just another chance encounter, not even an acquaintance .

"Well, can I have the rest of that one?" he persisted, in a tone that implied: certainly you wouldn't begrudge "a brother" that!

"To tell you the truth, I'm gonna put this out and smoke the rest later."

Then, he pulled out a half pack of Kools and said: "I got cigarettes; I was just..." and trailed off.

...You were just...what?!?, I was thinking.

He was just trying to see "where my heart was," I believe.

I've seen that before. And to demonstrate to his friends how much hatred for his race the white guys "around here" exhibit.

"Yeah, I figured you probably had one already, and were just trying to get something for free at my expense," was my answer.

I was right underneath the camera which monitors the smoking area, or I might have balked at including the last bit. He might have swung his fist at me. How dare I imply that he has no right to expect some support from me?!?

Not only are beggars choosers here, they are self righteous, to boot.

If I would have given him the last few puffs of the one in my mouth, he probably would have handed me a whole one "I was just seeing where your heart was..." A whole Kool for a few puffs of an American Spirit, what a rip off that would have been for me...

So now I go to get a 7 dollar pack of American Spirit cigarettes and I will probably give one each to Gary and Arnold, fostering feelings of racial impartiality. When the skeezer (who will almost certainly materialize out of nowhere) asks "Can I have one, too?" ...I see you over here, passing them out... I'll have to test him by saying: "I just gave away two of them, that 's all the generosity I can afford today."

A decent person would understand. ...that was nice of you to give a couple away...

A skeezer would be overwhelmed by a sense of "everyone else got one; where's mine?'" and might press me with "I just want one cigarette! What's the big deal?" as if I was being "trifling."

"If it is 'just one cigarette' that I'm making such a big deal over; then why are YOU making such a big deal over that same cigarette, because I'm not giving it to you?"

And on and on it will go; until I quit (smoking).

I really don't feel like going to work tonight. I have had the same feeling in the past when I had "jobs" that I "had to" go to. I would get ready when the time came, and then go off, with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I guess I have to force myself to do the same tonight.

I wish I could separate into another of myself who would give me a pep talk.

"Look, you're living your dream life. Your "job" is study and practice music and then go out for an average of three hours (not eight) a night.
 In the worst case, you won't make anything, and will come back home, where you have food and coffee and cigarettes and a couple of cans of Harold's favorite food, with a bag of dry food to go with it.
The weather is improving, and there is very little to be depressed over.
Maybe Bob will sell you a little bud for the couple bucks that you have left out of the twelve, and then you can make a party out of the occasion...

Are Things Crashing Down?

I just got here to the computer room and plugged Howard's tablet in and....nothing.
A dark screen, no matter what button I press, nor how long I hold it....

"...those things (tablets) are pieces of (junk)." - Alex In California, blog reader

I suppose, now I will go back to my room and plug it in to the charger, as, the only logical possibility of it not having crapped the bed, would be that I had just let its battery run down.
If the device is constantly searching for wi-fi hotpoints, even when "off," then this could have drained the battery down.

I know that staying up all night recording videos chews up a lot of juice...

It's Official!
2 Hours Later...

OK, Howard's tablet is as dead as a door nail.

And, being digital, with no moving inner parts, whacking the the thing against my thigh like I do my flashlight, was to no avail.

I had carried it through the parking lot (it's below freezing here right now, by the way) on the way to the computer room, so it was in about 30 degree air for a couple of minutes -the time it takes to walk across the lot, plus the time it takes to rattle my keys to see if Harold the cat might have his ears peeled, wanting to come inside on his coldest night on the planet so far...

Harold did not come, which tells me that he has probably found some place outside, perhaps underneath some central heat and air unit that has hot water running through its pipes, where he would go on such a cold night.

And then, I plugged in Howard's tablet. The one he had commissioned me to "figure out what the hell it's good for."

Well, do you need something that's gonna die, Howard? Are those finches that you got pissing you off with their longevity? Do you value little reminders of the temporal nature of our present state of existence; things that give you pause to really contemplate what it all means? What it is good for?
I have this idea in my head, Howard. I'm going to affix the tablet to some heavy poster board, then, using noodles and food coloring, turn it into something which will evoke emotion. Let me try that before we throw it away...

I have to admit, I almost feel responsible in a way for the death of Howard's tablet.

Is the device not intended to be used to shoot videos for hours on end?

I have to conclude that the device was teetering on the verge of failing, and that, my brief little circumspection of the parking lot, looking for Harold the cat, out in the 30 degree air was just enough to lower the temperature of the tablet to the point where some electrical connection, perhaps no wider than two atoms of metal laid side by side, contracted in the cold just enough so that the atoms lost contact.

I have to try to explain all this to Howard, out of feeling guilty, I think.

It's like I borrowed his car and wrecked it. And was arrested at the scene with a blood alcohol level of .31 and cited for doing 90 in a 35 mph zone.

I was pounding coffee like a speed freak and shooting video after video, hitting stop and then start again after every mistake, up all night; putting the tablet through the ringer...

The TV Video Idea, but...

Among the videos that are probably now lost forever, were a few that I shot using the "TV idea."

The problem that the idea addressed was that, getting the optimal mix between guitar and vocal, could apparently be achieved by singing from about a 9 inches away from the microphone on the tablet, with the guitar about 2 feet from the same microphone.
This ratio could not be obeyed at a greater distance from the tablet (i.e. it would be very hard for me to sing from 3 feet away and play the guitar from 8 feet away at the same time).
This, of course, produced video of a face, 9 inches from the camera, singing, and not much else, though the audio sounded pretty good.

First, The Mirror Idea

So, after thinking critically about the problem, I concluded that I could use a mirror.

Just as a person who shoots a picture of himself in a mirror 5 feet away looks like he is 10 feet away (and flipped horizontally) in the resulting picture, I would point Howard's tablet at my dresser mirror from about 2 feet away, and then sing from 9 inches behind the thing, and the resulting video would show me appearing about 5 feet away, (so that you would be able to see the guitar, and my hat, at least) but sounding as if I were right up on the microphone, which I would be.

Then, I had a brainstorm. I would use my 27" TV as the mirror.

By shutting all the lights off except for a spotlight that I had made out of cardboard -basically a box that I used to cover a lamp with one hole cut out of it to form the beam- and aiming the camera at the TV from about 2 feet, it was able to capture a strange glowing image of me that looked like it was hanging in the air about 5 feet away, playing and singing.

Those videos were some of the more interesting of those now lost forever; the sound was good because I used the same 3/8 ratio.

I ultimately switched to the mirror in my room after concluding that a TV really doesn't reflect much of the light back, which hits it. It probably reflects more back off the grey screen which is visible through the glass of a turned off set. I wound up putting a 175 watt bulb about 2 feet from my face through the hole in the cardboard, just to illuminate it enough to display the ghostly image mentioned above. The rest of the frame was in blackness and so the effect that I wanted; that of being able to tell that "the guy" is "on TV" in the video, was lost. I was hoping that at least the frame with the "Zenith" logo would be in it.

Evolution As Musician

This kind of marks an evolution in my musicianship.

I am relying less and less upon the "magic" of spontaneity and feeling less and less like I am capturing once in a lifetime, non repeatable performances in these recent recordings and videos that I have been making.

By realizing that even the most "accidental" cool ass thing that you might do musically "I don't know, I just went way up high on the neck and hit notes as fast as I could, I don't even know what they were, I just played from the heart, that bend was killer!!" can be, through analysis,  broken down to musical values of pitch and duration -probably traced right back to J.S. Bach- and transcribed "literally" onto paper. With more than just an instruction to "just go way up high on the neck and play as fast as you can and bend the hell out of the string; with feeling."

So, I feel like I could set up and outdo those videos right now that have become "lost forever."
 

Postponing Phoning

I'm putting off making the call to Howard to tell him that

A: I am too broke to even go over there to watch playoff football, and that isn't just a ploy to hang on to his tablet, which I have become addicted to, longer. Because, well, anyways...

B: His tablet is dead.

I would have to go through the translating of Ken, as Howard cannot hear well enough to use a cell phone.

Ken may have been the one who had bought the tablet for Howard as a Christmas gift.

I would have to pussy foot around the issue of it being a piece of shit that Howard wouldn't have wanted anyways. ...somebody gave him a pretty worthless gift....

I can imagine snippets of a conversation: "Where's the tablet I gave you for Christmas?"

"Oh, he's had it for a while now; shouldn't have taken him this long to have figured it out for you..."

"No, I've known Daniel for a while. He's; he's not like that..."

Harmonica And Strings Arrive

On a day that is forecast to be below freezing, the strings and harmonica have arrived.

Appendix To The Bitters Story
My particular bottle of bitters is holding less than an ounce of that liquid; .35 ounce of it, as a matter of fact, now that I have taken it out of its little burlap bag and inspected it more closely.

It is so either a sample size, or is an amount intended to be added to other drinks in order to add "a little bitterness" to them.

Thanking The Lidgleys Of London

I have gotten the parcel sent by the Lidgleys of London and have had it, as a matter of fact for closing in upon a week. I haven't gotten around to sending them a thank you e-mail, but, let this be the "public" version of it: Thanks for the Christmas parcel.
Obstacles such as being saddled with Howard's tablet as my only way to communicate and deciding not to attempt to write more than a few sentences on it, running in to computer room scheduling conflicts and just plumb forgetting to get to my e-mail other times have delayed me.

I'm just an e-mail procrastinator.

But, an avid blogger, so; the Lidgleys might just see this here before getting an e-mail. I don't want them wondering if I "ever" got it.

The Parcel

I was returning from the post office, after having sent off from there the portrait that I drew to my friend Jennifer in Aurora, Illinois, so there was a karmic element to the timing of being informed upon walking in that I had received a package.

There was an excellent pair of jeans, that I'm happy to say; fit me better than most of the other pairs of pants in my "exact" size that I own.

There seems to be a little bit of wiggle room in the interpretation of, say 31W 32L.

This owes, I'm sure, to the fact that there are more dimensions to pants than the circumference of the waist and the distance from the belt line to the bottom of the leg. There is a lot of other fabric to consider...
"Harmonica Break In Song" 1:59
There was a couple packs of Benson & Hedges cigarettes. These are probably the best tasting cigarettes in the world. They must seal them in a vacuum, that must be their secret, because they are so fresh.
The only other cigarettes in their class are American Spirit and Dunhill (made in Canada, I believe). Benson and Hedges, in this country are more than even American Spirits and, just a little less than Dunhill (which are probably hit with some kind of tariff; coming in from Canada, like they are).

Of course, I smoked the cigarettes already. I should have savored them more so I would still have one now...

There was a Starbucks gift card, which is branded with "London" on it, which makes me look like I'm a man of the world as I whip it out at the Canal Street location.

It's amusing to see a noticeable change come over the face of the barista, who might have thought that I was a low life street musician, but now considers that I might be a wealthy eccentric with the means to travel the globe who just chooses to look like a low life street musician.

Of course it could also cross her mind that I'm a low life street musician whom someone from London, here visiting, has given a Starbucks card which he had gotten in his home city -after I had tried to skeeze him for drinking money, of course...

The parcel had also, these vitamin B type of pills, designed for "energy" and they actually work...

And the 20 dollar bill that I found underneath everything worked just as well. The Lidgleys send crisp ones.
They are undoubtedly shipped to the London bank fresh off the presses at a mint here in the U.S.
Then the Lidgleys obtain one, being probably only the second persons, after the bank teller, to touch it. Then the send it right back to the U.S.A. where I become the third person that the bill has circulated to.

It would be funny if the thing was minted right down the street, here in New Orleans, as it did bear the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta logo, that they mint for.

Weather

It is raining and thundering outside. I have no cash and no cigarettes. 

Like Strawberry Wine

Correction:

Yesterday's post incorrectly stated that the Basement Bitters brand of bitters was 120 proof. It is actually 92 proof. I verified that off the label of the bottle that has been sitting on my dresser since it was given to me maybe 2 months into my present stretch of sobriety.

David had put the hoodoo on the bottle so that I had taken it to be some kind of snake oil; something that was as bitter as bitter can be, a way to get your "bitter" on, and most likely an elixir, especially to people whose constitutional balance had swung drastically to the sweet, and needed to be remedied.

All of this may be true of the bitters, it makes sense to me, despite my having just pulled the theory out of my ass.

But, I didn't suspect that it was a 92 proof liquid that was causing my nose hairs to bristle when I sniffed the bitters to see how bitter they smelled. I just figured that the concoction was so bitter that it smelled like some strong liquor.

When I think of a bitter food, the outer peel of a cucumber comes to mind, and so does the very outer peel of an orange. These are things that I discard. The cucumber peel would make my salad too bitter, unless used very sparingly..

But, apparently, when a flavor that humans can only tolerate in small proportions is concentrated enough and turned into a potent enough liquor, then you can somehow stomach the result, because it tastes so "medicinal" that it would almost have to have some value in that regard; if even as just through a placebo effect, which, in my case, the bitters  would have been imbued with by David the water jug player through his deportment and the manner in which he had given them to me, the way perhaps a Shaman would give something to a devotee who was at the threshold of the next spiritual level, and thus, ready to "drink the bitters" and then go into a trance and just "let it happen."

*(The closest I can describe the smell of the bitters is: using Bactine® like an inhaler; that medicinal thing).

So, David still had technically given me something that could have thrown me from the wagon, made me melt like the witch from the west, thrown a monkey wrench into my best laid plans and had me hit the skids; bottom out; go from rags to riches; find myself in a ditch one morning not knowing how I got there and why there is a dead mouse in my shirt pocket...92 proof*

Luckily, I read the fine print, like I said, and I believe I had to remove the bottle from the box and read its individual label to find the alcohol content listed.

Every once in a great while you need to drink. For health reasons!

*Another thing is that the bitters come in very small bottles. It wouldn't be much more than maybe 3 or 4 ounces of the 92 proof stuff. But, I've heard of people who couldn't take the wine at Communion, good solid Catholic people as a matter of fact, with the reason being that they wouldn't be able to stop at that thimble full of wine. Even though they ate with it, a wafer.

Nope. They would march straight from the church to, probably a bar. One where they would see at least a few fellow Catholics. And, from there, choose an analogy from above...

One Year Sober: January 4, 2017

Only A Little Bitter

Today marks the one year anniversary of my quitting drinking, cold turkey.

Give or take the leap second which was added to the atomic clock this year.

I haven't given up cold turkey, though, I ate almost an entire bird that way, this past Thanksgiving (nor have I given up corny jokes)

And, I have had alcohol in the house just about the whole time!!!, in the form of a little vial of "bitters" that was given to me by David the water jug player shortly after I had quit.

Like the Trojan horse, I brought it into my house and was about to drink it one evening, thinking that it was an herbal extraction. David hadn't mentioned the 92 proof that it was, as per the fine print that I studied more closely after smelling it.

I have had alcohol in the house just about the whole time!!!

That could have led me to impulsively run down the street an hour later for a half pint of something to scratch the itch that I had implanted.

Then, I would become a nightly drinker, again, who would always have some juice on me, before I even had any food on me, so David would have one more "please tell me you've got a swallow on you" option walking around the Quarter.

I could even kiss and make up with Leslie Thompson in that scenario; he does get government money each month, and is very generous with it towards those who might get money nightly, perhaps by busking, and who look out for him through those last 12 days or so after he has run dry each month -you get me wasted, and when I get my check, I'll return the favor; that way we can both maintain unhealthy levels of intoxication, without interruption, until it catches up to us, either through the occurrence of health problems or something either directly, or indirectly, related to having "started something" with the wrong person when in a drunken range...or, of course, being hit by a car...that Leslie Thompson.

I don't think David meant any harm through his gift of the vial. He seems to truly believe that the alcoholic is fighting a losing battle when he tries to go sober, and that it's a sin against his nature..."you know you want it, but you're denying it to yourself, you need to let go and let God, this is what we're meant to do!"

I am thankful, though, for the past year, if maybe just a little bitter...

I Guess I Did Once Start A Youtube Channel...

It is fitting that my switch over to Youtube as the "new" method of posting videos here has allowed me to backtrack and insert this one as the first.
It is an impromptu tour of my place; one which I might redo in the future after having composed a script for it.
Getting Harold the cat to act along might not be as easy again, though.

I had used Blogger's "insert video" button to load these previously. Apparently, they require a user to have Adobe Flash, or some other application on their machine in order to view them.

Maybe Google will buy Youtube (the way they bought Blogger) and then all will become integrated into one big, happy, virtual family.

The Songs

The following songs were done using a harmonica that is missing a reed and for which a replacement is on its way.

My latest hit single "An A-One Cat," 
I wrote about a week after I had gotten Harold the cat, which means over a year ago now, because I had him when Louise the tarot card reader crashed at my place the December before last. 
She had offered me 25 dollars for him. 
That never panned out, but sometimes God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers, as Harold would have wound up being propped alongside Louise, like some tawdry sideshow to the main act of her giving tarot card readings with a mouth full of ice cream.

It (the song) is missing a verse about clawing up furniture, but, most of it is here. I've actually busked with this song a couple times, and gotten tips off it.

Another Harold the cat song. I had started to do Chinacat Sunflower, by The Grateful Dead and noticed Harold in the background and decided, just then, to make it, rather, about him.
Once again, hitting pause and then breaking out a pen and pad to organize a few lyrics might have helped. But then, there would have went the spontaneity.



"Howard's Morning Routine," I have busked with, and the lyrical content increased each time I do it. I left out one of the best verses about Cheetoz and Pepsi in this version, but there will be opportunity to polish it up in the future...


This is my favorite one. It should have come out better, given that I play it almost every night, but I guess the pressure of the video camera in my face, the harmonica having a missing note that I had to play around, the plastic tube that I sang through to route the voice to the microphone in order to boost it over the guitar, and the nagging thought that might could have smoked a bowl before embarking upon it; were all factors (read: excuses).

Rain Melts Sugar Bowl Enthusiasm

A Downpour Of Uploads

Happy Tuesday morning, January 3rd, 2017.

With 2 days gone already out of the year, it seems that I am procrastinating, already, in making this the best one yet.

I can't hold on to Howard's tablet forever. I would like to hold on to it until my new harmonica and strings arrive in the mail, so I can try to nail a killer harmonica solo.

I probably should have been out dodging the scattered showers and pulling in as much New Years Eve money as possible, but I sacrificed the time to make about 15 videos, which I reviewed critically before deciding which ones to put on this blog. Some of them looked pretty cool, but the performances were only average, and I omitted them, figuring that I can always recreate the cool look using the same lighting and camera angle, later.

[videos have been moved to Youtube and will be on tomorrow's post, 1-4-17]

 It would be nice if the harmonica came today (4 days after it was shipped using "2 day ground" delivery) so that I could go out and busk with it and make some money.

Then I could stay up past daybreak making more videos after getting home, and have the ferry fare so that I can return the tablet to Howard tomorrow (Wednesday).

I'm pretty sure that, after hearing my report regarding: "What is it good for?," Howard might be inclined to sell it to me at a reasonable price.

His online needs are minimal enough that he doesn't need any more robust of a device than the tablet (booking a cruise to Alaska that he is thinking of taking, ordering DVD archives of legal drama series') but I think he will become frustrated with having to learn touch screen tricks like spreading two fingers apart to enlarge the screen. There is no way to reliably land a finger on the intended spot on a web page that has been shrunk so. Even using the built in applications, I have missed the mark with my finger and copied a video instead of renaming it, for example. One little twitch and you have spelled "spelled" with three ells. That might drive Howard bonkers.

It is optimized for The Cellphone Generation -those who see a four leaf clover and want to let all their friends know, so they announce it on Facebook, and then Instagram a picture of it to a few who can save it on their own tablets, and then Skype someone else who wants to see a "live" shot of the clover, swaying in the breeze. "Can you think of anything more stupid, or ridiculous?!?" would be Howard's opinion of that.

If he has to go to the library just to get wi-fi on the thing, then he might as well hop on a library computer while there. They are much faster and easier to read off of.

If he wants to do things in his pajamas and, so, creates a "hot spot" in his house, then the tablet would become something of a white elephant to him, requiring that he learn to navigate the thing, while it sat on his coffee table, with all its portability going to waste.

That would be like having a house wired for electricity just to plug in one clock.

"It's 4 O' Clock!"

The above, only 14 seconds long is part of an idea I have for kind of a cuckoo clock mobile application, with the bird being replaced by something like the above; each hour...

Here Goes Nothing

It is a Monday night, or technically a Tuesday morning.
I came out to get coffee at Starbucks and post up some of these videos that I have shot over the last few rainy nights, in lieu of busking.
The Sugar Bowl was earlier this evening and there are people everywhere, but I didn't bring my guitar because I thought I was going to attempt to get in Harrah's Casino.
My left bootlace snapped when I laced them before coming out. "I need new boots," I thought, about a half hour before I came upon a pair laying on the sidewalk in front of the InsectariumInsectarium, about 20 feet away from each other. They are Gortek military style that look like my size and like they've never been worn.

Howard And His Tablets

What It's Good For

Well, last night, it was raining cats and dogs outside.


"Diana/Howards Morning Routine" 12-31-16

"Up at six o' clock; he dons his socks and off he walks, in a stupor.
Coffee and a newspaper first then off to the Jack In The Box, for breakfast and to use their pooper.
It's Howard's morning routine...yeah, Howard's morning routine...."


I was all packed up and ready to go out on a New Years Eve and busk, but decided that that would just put everything at risk of being soaked, or put myself in a situation where I had to decide how long I would wait for the rain to let up before just deciding to wrap myself in trash bags and make the 2 mile bike ride back to the apartment.

Plus, I had seen New Years Eve's in the past where throngs of people, interested only in the fireworks display, would converge on the Quarter. After the fireworks display was nothing but a large, slowly drifting cloud of smoke, they too would drift off, mostly concerned with finding their cars and fighting their way out of traffic.

It hadn't seemed like many had planned to watch the fireworks, and then walk around checking out buskers...

So, I set up my spotlight in my living room, tuned up the guitar, strapped on the harmonica and performed the first couple of songs that I might have, were I to have gone out.

There is a little bit of reserve in my performance, as I kind of had it in the back of my mind that the neighbors upstairs were ready to start banging on the floor with a blunt object, and I didn't get the kick into "overdrive" that seeing a tip go in my jar provides. But, I would say that this is pretty much what I do at the Lilly Pad for a couple or three hours almost every night...

There is also the fact that I am using the harmonica that I have already ordered a replacement for, because it has one reed broken off entirely (the 6 hole "draw" reed) and am playing around it, hoping that no notes are "missed." That was one of the factors involved in my deciding to stay in. Had I a brand new harp, I might have gone out there just to play it...

3 Forms Of Tablets

What next, from Howard?

Howard once let me hold on to his writing tablet, into which he was composing what should be a novel, when he is finished. I suppose I wasn't surprised to see that he had developed his own kind of shorthand (scrawl, chicken-scratch, encipher) using a single capital letter, for instance, to indicate the names of characters and places, amidst other text that looked like it was a prescription written by a doctor...

Then, about a year ago now, Howard had given me a bottle of tablets of a certain pain killer that he had gotten, prescribed by a doctor, after having had surgery.

Being one to "tough it out" and viewing pain as an important signal from the the body, which shouldn't need to be blocked out, he told me that I could sell the things, "see what you can get for them (i.e. what are they good for?)" and maybe eat a few myself, should I be so inclined, as part of the proceeds.

And now, a third form of "tablet," in the Samsung device he has given me, asking that I try to figure out "what it's good for."

I was to go over there to watch football on this New Year's Day, but there was heavy rain, and I have had my first cold in about 3 years, finding it easy to swallow down a few aspirins and go back to sleep, rather than fight my way from trolley to ferry, walk a mile through the heavy rain and then have to repeat the process in reverse.

I'll hang on to the tablet for one more night. I might try to shoot another little video, perhaps backing off a bit with the camera so that more than half of my face is visible, perhaps changing the angle of the spotlight so that my broken front teeth are in the shadows, as they are a the Lilly Pad, and bringing up the level of the natural ambiance of my living room, with its 16 foot high ceilings, in the process.