Monday In Search Of Income

I'm at a bus stop near the Wal-Mart which is across the river in Gretna, not too far from where my old friend Howard lives.

I would have dropped in to see him, had I the luxury of extra time, but since my bike got stolen Saturday night, my whole world has contracted to a circle within the radius of "walking distance."
Bike Stolen
I pulled up to the post where I normally lock my bike on Saturday night, after having just barely gotten guitar strings.

I had squeezed in one last errand of getting a second shot of kratom at the Uxi Duxi, which I gulped down right around 7:30 PM, a half hour before that kava bar closes, and a half hour before the Louisiana Music Factory does.
It took 19 minutes to get there from the Uxi Duxi; 11 minutes early, cool, right?

No, their wrought iron gate was closed and the "open" sign off.

I asked a customer who was coming out "Do you think they'll let me get just a set of guitar strings?," not wanting to barge my way in, thinking that that might bias them against me.

I called the store's number.

While it was ringing, the customer, who had gone back inside, emerged and said "They said it's OK."

This surprised me, and signified a change in the attitude that they had had towards me, ever since they moved the store from right across from the House of Blues, to across from the Checkpoint Charlie Bar, which is skeezer/traveling kid central. They turned from a friendly staff into one that ignored me, and would leave me standing in front of the harmonica case, as if they couldn't figure out that I might want to buy one, for as long as I wanted to stand there.

Then, instead of copping an attitude, I would walk over to the front counter and, in a friendly manner ask, "Say, could I get one of the harmonicas in the case?" as if I wasn't aware that I had been slighted, and perhaps needed that much time in order to decide which one I wanted.

This was intended to nullify whatever payoff they were getting from subjecting me to their passive aggression, and to actually dish some of it back, in my own way. Of course they were hoping I would become angry and would say anything that might qualify as cause for them to bar me from the store. That seems to be the ploy de-jure of a lot of people against skeezers.

I have to remind myself of the way it was in St. Augustine, Florida where I could only shop in select places, after having been barred from everywhere else, sometimes behind the reasoning of: "I own this business, and I decide who I want to do business with or not, and I don't want you in my store."

This was usually uttered by a foreigner, who should be thanking his lucky stars and kissing the ground because he is in this country, with all its special opportunities for someone like himself.

But, instead of being appreciative, he only demonstrates the mindset that went into making their country of origin one that they would eventually wanted to flee from.

Hard to tell that this is a "Tuba Skinny" concert, as, it appears he has culled the members of the band "Yes Ma'am" off Royal Street, I guess so it wouldn't just be the guy going "Ooom Pa Pa" for a couple hours.

Louisiana Music Factory without a doubt saw a backlash from their having changed locations to one across the street from the bar which touts itself as kind of a welcome center for migrant musicians; with a laundromat in the back and a stage that can be cleared to make room for any musician worth his salt who might approach from the direction of the railroad tracks.

There is also the strip of "neutral ground" in the median of Esplanade Street which has a history of being the place where the British and the French (I'm pretty sure) would meet to make treaties and such, with neither group being on the other's territory.

Rumor is that, even to this day, the cops won't mess with anyone who is there, as if they have no jurisdiction. But that is skeezer-lore.

Still, that particular median is often crammed with dogs, backpacks and traveling kids, enjoying this great country, living off the excess of the working class so it won't go to waste (on the people that worked hard for it) and going into the Lousiana Music Factory, overpowering the fragrance of vintage vinyl records with the smell of fermented funk, bringing in their equally funky dogs, which they have had certified as "seeing eye" or other "service" animals, giving them some kind of "right" to do so.

So, for the past few years, the staff there had been giving me the "backpack and guitar" treatment; lumping me in with the likes of anything from the neutral ground.

Which made it a pleasant surprise to be let in the store after they had snapped off the "open" light and had barred the entrance. It has perhaps taken them 2 years to notice that I don't smell or steal or panhandle the customers as they shop, etc. I like to think it is because one of the staff came by the Lilly Pad and heard me jamming and then said "Let this guy in, he's alright."

The neutral ground is where one drunken 17 or so year old a couple years ago had said: "Hey, pass me the guitar; I want to make some money," after I had stopped there to buy some weed off another older guy, who was cool enough and knowledgeable enough about music to have prompted me to take it out of the case and play him something.

I already blogged about this incident.

But the kid, who had probably been birthed during a Rainbow Gathering, became angry and said that he would love to "burn" me (I guess he meant at the stake) after I had told him that it wasn't "the" guitar, but "my" guitar.

His "argument" was that he had had guitars even nicer than mine (which he knew the name and model of by looking at) and that the most recent of which had fallen off a train somehow and broken. Just because his guitar fell and broke by accident didn't mean he should be punished by not being able to play one, he seemed to imply.

"I'll show you how to make money with a guitar!" he said, adding that he would just be "over there on that corner" banging on a guitar that he has no investment in either materially or emotionally, and so I should have nothing to worry about. He was practically jumping up and down and pointing to the corner. If he were a dog his tail would have been wagging rapidly, and he might have been urinating uncontrollably.

I had told him, trying to keep the facetiousness out of my voice: "I kinda need it to go out and make my own living; sorry."

If it weren't for the cooler head of the older guy that I had been first talking to, I probably would have had to physically beat the kid away from my instrument. He knew how to make money with a guitar, after all. What was my problem.

Perhaps, after 2 years, the staff at the music store has finally differentiated me from his ilk.

So, I went out with brand new strings Saturday night, but didn't put them on. I started playing on Royal Street, as there was a brass band playing in front of Lafitt's.

I eventually moved back to the Lilly Pad, but made only about 25 bucks for the whole night. I feel like I'm just holding the spot until such a time that things pick up around here. By then I would have further cemented myself as the guy who always plays there.

But, when I got back there, there were already a couple of bikes locked to the post that I usually use. I walked it over to the next post, which is a lot fatter around. There was a skeezer looking guy sitting on a step near it. I could tell he was a skeezer because there appeared to be no reason for him to be sitting there; he wasn't talking on a phone, didn't live in the house behind the steps, and just gave me a dirty look, whereas a tourist (who would probably be from a much more civil place, even New York City) would have at least returned my "what's up?" and nod of the head. A skeezer from Ignore-leans, would do just as he did.
I'll save skeezer psychology for another post.

I was just trying to get my lock cable to go around the post and was happy to have been able to just barely snap the lock shut; and didn't realize that I hadn't wormed the thing through the frame of the bike.

Most likely the skeezer was sitting there doing nothing except waiting for some kind of crime of opportunity, guy dropping his wallet, guy not putting his bike lock through its frame, etc. and most likely he was the one who stole it and left only the seat locked to the post. And I'm supposed to feel like a scrooge because of my refusal to ever give anything to any one of them?!?

Plasma Wednesday

I'm going to the plasma donation center tomorrow (Wednesday, August 16th) using the only 3 dollars to my name right now to get an all day bus pass. The place pays something like 25 bucks for the first unit and another 50 should you return to donate the all-important second unit (the first one is consumed by whatever tests they run on it to determine if they can even use it).

When I donated 12 years ago in Jacksonville, Florida, they loved my plasma, as it had no traces of crack or any medications in it.

First Thing Monday Morning

I stopped by one of the "staffing" places that had been recommended by another resident here, and the vibe couldn't have been worse. All that was spoken there was Spanish between the staff and a couple other applicants, as well as a couple people who came in to pick up checks while I was there.

"I'll call you if anything comes in that I could give you; but, I have a lot of people coming in to apply every day..." she said, as she folded up my application in order to file it away.

It might be another case of one race of people helping their own, exclusively. With all of the undocumented Latino people cornering the "under the table" work market, I guess the ones that are actual citizens need to feed their families, too. And, it probably makes sense to have Spanish speaking people work somewhere where they can understand the boss and all their fellow employees.

There is no way she is going to call me. She had a hard time hiding that fact from her face.

But, I put in the application, and then went for a double shot of kratom that had me headed for the plasma place in short order.

I still got to the place too late for a new donor, as the process for that can take up to 4 hours and it was already 4 PM when I got there.

I then had fun walking around the Wal-Mart super store that is a half mile up the road from the plasma place. I found a couple flavors of cat food that Harold hadn't experienced yet, like salmon and chicken with "extra gravy." He wound up loving it.

After I left Wal-Mart, I walked to the nearest bus stop and struck up a conversation with a Jamaican young lady who was sitting there, after she seemed to allay her fears that I might have had my eye on the Wal-Mart bags at her feet (i.e. after I took this laptop out of my backpack and began this post ..."I am at the bus stop near the Wal-Mart..."

Another older black man came by and sat on the bench with us.
I told the Jamaican woman that I would be alright as long as the bus came by within the next 45 minutes, showing her the time on my all day pass, which was 5:17 PM.

"Mine's good until 5:52, do you want to trade?" she asked.

"Sure, that would give me a chance to hop the trolley to my house after the bus drops me off."

The bus pulled up and the two started walking over to it, with the woman letting the older guy go on first.
The woman turned and asked me: "Are you coming?"
I was hastily tying up my pack after having put my laptop in it. "Yeah, just a second."

The woman got on the bus. I knew it would take her at least a couple seconds to swipe her pass, after the older guy took a couple to swipe probably his senior citizen pass.

I was within a few feet of the door when it closed. The black driver stared straight ahead and started to pull off. I wrapped on the glass with my knuckles. He just kept staring straight ahead and drove off.

I called the number on the RTA sign and got someone back at the office, which is almost directly across the street from my apartment.

I reported what had happened, adding that I was pretty sure that the Jamaican lady would have told the driver: "Wait a second, there's one more coming," since we had become acquainted in the half hour that we had sat there together, and since she had taken the time to say "Are you coming?"

I was sure that she and the older guy hadn't yet paid their fares, never mind seated themselves safely, before he put the bus in motion; in fact the lady was still in front of the yellow "do not come forward of" line when he slammed the door and pulled off.

I added that the driver, who is black, had let two black people on before slamming the door on a white guy. What did he think I was doing at the bus stop, and what did he make of me hurrying towards the bus with a day pass in my hand, I asked her rhetorically. This was a couple days after the infamous "Nazi" rally had taken place in Charlottesville, Virginia, by the way.

I thought about telling her "my 8 year old daughter" had gotten home from her after-school program and was locked outside the house, expecting me to be there before night fell, and that if anything happened to her I was going to hold the RTA responsible and, of course, sue the hell out of them. Black people are gullible, if nothing else, and she would have believed me. After all, this land is all one giant wonder to them, having been pulled out of a grass hut naked and thrust into a world where there are big buses and magic cellphones and scary lawyers that sue. She would have believed me, and I'm just assuming she's black, because her job is to sit there all day and occasionally answer a phone call and give directions after clicking a mouse a few times, and all those types of jobs are filled by blacks in New Orleans.

I stopped short of that, and of telling her that I was going to stay at the stop and let a few more buses pass until the same driver came back around and then riddle him with bullets as soon as he opened the door.

I was in a good "2 shots of kratom" mood still, so it is amazing that the driver's actions, which were clearly intended to provoke me to hurl a chunk of concrete at the side of the bus, or to make a threat such as the above, or do anything to allow him to bar me from riding the bus; were able to anger me at all.

I know better. I've seen the concrete chunk game in action, since I became homeless 14 years ago, it has played out repeatedly.

The driver has to know that his route goes right past the plasma donation center which sits 7 miles outside of New Orleans, and is hard to get to because it's across the river. He probably was judging me (by the backpack, again) in some kind of negative way, and thought: "Let me see if I can take that little plasma money away from white boy."

Add caption

My Russian wife, Nina, who had arrived here for the first time after having lived in the Armenian city of Baku for most of her life, and then Moscow for a couple of years, summed it up when we were somewhere and a black man came along and tried to flirt with her.

"Nasty," she said after he walked away.

I guess the Russians aren't impressed by how high they can jump, either.
If you are white and live in New Orleans for more than a couple years and you don't truly hate African Americans, then you just haven't gotten out and seen the city.

Black people from all over the world are exempt from this, including the cool Jamaican lady I talked to. It's the ones that were brought over and enslaved and then released without a contingency plan, who have become a blight upon our nation.

Alex In California Stops Reading As Of August 1st

A Time To Sever Ties

Right you are, Daniel!

It's been crazy, and very cosmic, lately.
Gratitude
There is this whole issue of showing gratitude towards people.
I've been trying to be more diligent about it.
Saying "thank you" wherever called for, had become a focus of mine lately.

Treva, a cashier at Rouses Market on Royal Street gave me some cat food that her cat wouldn't eat. I made a point of thanking her on the way out.


I Write Off David The Water Jug Player

Then, a couple of nights ago, I decided that I was through with David The Water Jug Player.


I ran into him on Canal Street.

I had been avoiding him because, for one thing, he drinks heavily and will relate the same stories to me repetitively, even though I might try to curtail him with: "Yeah, you told me already..." or something.

Also, he started to automatically ask me if I had any weed, upon seeing me.
He has said that, since I receive assistance in my living arrangement and I get food stamps that I should basically have my pockets stuffed with weed and should naturally share it with someone like himself, who can't get a place like mine because he has been convicted of a "drug felony" and who spends whatever money he panhandles on making sure he gets trashed on vodka every night.
I always suspected that he felt like he was successfully hustling me.

The other night, I decided to smoke him up after I finished playing. I had gotten a generous bud handed to me and was actually in a good mood about it, as I spotted him around 1 AM on Canal Street.

While we were hanging out, there was a white guy passed out in front of the Hippie Gypsy store.

A couple young black ladies came by and one of them left 2 dollars next to the guy's head, probably so that, when he eventually woke up, he would be able to get a hamburger; or, more likely, a half pint of vodka to "take the cobwebs off."
David and I were talking on some subject that was probably more interesting to a drunk than to myself, when he excused himself, saying: "Wait a minute, I gotta get those 2 dollars," and then he walked over and snatched up the money.
At that point, I changed my entire opinion of him.

It put into a new perspective my entire relationship with him, these 5 years that I've known him; and cast him in a negative light.
It was then easy to imagine him thinking that he has been hustling me all this time; "playing" me for the kind of white guy who will be generous towards a black man, because of feelings of "white guilt," that I might supposedly harbor because of the way my great grandfather might supposedly have treated his black slaves.

Black Gratitude

I always thought it weird how David would thank me profusely (over-thank me) whenever I gave him anything. The blue guitar that I gave him (after someone had given me the Takamine that I play now) was worth probably about 72 "thank you, Daniel"s
I noticed that also, whenever I made any kind of point, he would over-agree with me. "You're right Daniel, absolutely right, Daniel, yes indeed. Right you are, Daniel!" Then he might repeat what I had said before adding a few more "you're right"s.
The other night, he had done the same thing. But he had raised his voice at a point when a group of black ladies were passing.
He went up a few decibels with his: "You can say that again, Daniel, you're right about that, Daniel" and I noticed him flashing a quick glance towards the ladies that seemed to convey some sort of intelligence -maybe David's version of a wink.
He was most likely doing something that I've suspected him of all the while I've known him, which would be basically to mock me, and then to share the joke "covertly" with others of his race, by basically raising his voice so that they could pick up on it, realize what he was doing (playing that white boy for whatever he's worth) and return some kind of very subtle, knowing look towards him.
As he was stealing the money that had been laid by the passed out drunk, another black street guy said: "Just like that!" to which David replied: "Just like that!"
I'm not going to try to interpret that, but it resonates with one of David's philosophies whereby he believes that "there is always more coming" (used to rationalize extravagances, such as when I handed him my sack of weed and a paper so he could roll a joint out of it, and then looked back to see him struggling to roll the whole thing into a joint fat enough for 6 people..."There'll be more Daniel, there's always more coming, Daniel) and that he is somehow in the good graces of some Rastafarian god, who would bestow blessings upon him in the form of an opportunity to steal "Just like that" (some nigger comes along and snatches your money away because you're passed out and will never know).
So, I decided to ditch David as a friend and to stop believing in his god and his "spirit of music" and all that.
The young ladies passed by a few minutes later.
"Oh, someone took the 2 dollars....did you take that man's money?" she directed at us (since we were sitting together) with disgust in her voice.
I could have said "I didn't take it," with the emphasis on "I" which would have implicated David.
David just shrugged his shoulders in a disgusting display of bold faced lying.
I decided to sever my friendship with David the Water Jug Player.
Just like that.

Alex In California Writes Off This Blog

So, in the meantime, one of my most regular blog readers over the past 5 years, Alex in California, decided to sever ties with this blog, claiming that I had malware on it and was phishing for people's passwords.
Strange how I had been trying to show more gratitude towards people that do things for me; and then read a rant by the former Alex in California, about how I apparently gave him not one word of thanks for the stuff that he has sent me over the past few years.

I'm going to do a "bio" piece on Alex soon...

And, I Googled "How to tell if there's malware on my Blogger blog, and lo and behold there is a free Google associated program to do just that.

My blog passed with flying colors.
The only concern I had that there may indeed be a worm or virus on it came because I had recently been plugging into the network at Sacred Heart Apartments to blog, rather than going to Starbucks.

I really don't know how sophisticated viruses are these days. I know that some hackers used to crash sites and destroy computers just for the fun of it.
I don't imagine there is much money in spying on the computer users at Sacred Heart.
Even if someone was to implant software on the machines that can turn the webcams on and use it to track the movements of the person's eyes; what would that information be worth to anyone? One guy sits and watches black on white porn all night, so what?

So, if Alex in California reads this (which is unlikely, unless he discovers that something else is messing with his computer and then feels safe coming back) then I wish he would stop warning others not to visit my blog.

Bobby In Building C Writes Me Off

And, to go with what has become the theme of the week, Bobby in building C, who had been my friend wrote me off.

It was basically because I had taken my air conditioning unit apart in my room and had stuffed pillows into it, in order to quiet the thing down.

There are hoses inside the thing, one labeled "in" and the other, "out" and they emit a sound as if water is rushing through them under high pressure. It is a constant sound, somewhere between a "shoosh" and a "hiss" and it is loud enough to render the "noise reduction" function on the Audacity Editor ineffective.

If I set the thing to remove the sound of the air conditioning unit, then it will, as a side effect, remove all of the sounds of myself breathing in between words when singing, along with most of the "h," and "sh" sounds; basically any sound I make which is similar to water rushing through a hose under high pressure.
Bobby criticized me for not having pursued the matter through the proper channels.

I had told one of the maintenance guys about the thing, and how I thought that it may be hooked up wrong. All he did was to shut the unit off, reset the temperature, tell me "You need to wait a few minutes before you turn it back on," and then to turn it back on and tell me "It's working now."
He had no solutions to the problem of the loud hissing noise.

Bobby told me that, when he moved in, his unit wasn't working very well, and he was able to get a brand new one. He had to wait a month, but he got a brand new one with a fancy digital display on it, that throws cold air.

Bobby suggested to me that I have myself examined by a psychiatrist because I opened the unit and stuffed pillows around the offending hoses, rather than pursue the matter the way he did.
I haven't talked to him since.

He seems to think that we wield a lot of power as disabled veterans here, and that the staff are going to bend over backwards to help us, out of fear of being sued.

"If you were older and had health problems and you almost died because your apartment was too hot because you're air conditioner wasn't working right, you would OWN this place! You could sue them up the ass!" said Bobby.

I might have maintenance take another look at the thing. I was so appreciative just to get any kind of apartment 2 years ago, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I figured there might be apartments that had units that didn't work at all, never mind just being noisy, and that they probably had a limited budget, and that not all of us could have brand new ones with fancy digital displays... 

French Quarter Street Musicians New Orleans

I found this somewhere and thought that I might be in it...but it seems to be daytime buskers...

So Sad

• 8 Dollar Monday
  
• Larry Intelligence
  
• 6 Dollar Tuesday
  
• Bobby Trying To Help Me
  
• Cosmic Occurrences With Time And Symbolism
  

I'm sure that news of my 6 dollar Tuesday night busking will turn up the flame under my friend Bobby in buiding C, who has been trying to help me "as a friend."


He has told me that I could use his amplifier and his guitar, which has the built in electronics to plug into the amp and which plays great in order to amplify myself in hopes of increasing my income the "4 times" that I have heard reported by other street musicians that became amplified, going all the way back to The Boogie Man in St. Augustine, Florida (who also told me that he had doubled his income through the addition of a harmonica to his banjo playing and singing, prompting me to try the instrument myself) and through Johhny B., and even Nervous Duane who has his own favorite spot where he can crank his amp up considerably and "I turn that thing up and I always make money..." make money.


Bobby has always kept me abreast of his acquisitions, as far as music equipment. After he bought the Fender "Acoustic" amplifier (custom rigged to reproduce clean acoustic guitar sounds) he insisted that I try it.


He has also been talking to various people that he knows in and around the restaurant business, putting out feelers for where there might be a dishwashing opportunity, that might give me a way to guarantee a certain income, so that a 6 dollar night would give me 6 dollars on top of what I've already made, say, working from 11 AM through the dinner hours at 10 bucks per hour.


The only Catch 22 in that scenario is the fact that, if and when the restaurants start to get busy, necessitating my coming in and washing dishes, the corrollary would be that it would be starting to likewise pick up at the Lilly Pad. I have had 150+ dollar nights at the Lilly Pad, and they have probably come on nights when restaurants were slammed and the dishwashers might have worked 12 hours and taken home 88 dollars. I'm almost certain they haven't come in August.


It seems that I have already started at the bottom rung and climbed up the street musician's ladder.


Working in the restaurant business would be cool if I were a chef that had invented my own dishes, and that people came from all over the world to enjoy.


Bobby also has gotten a trailer which can be pulled behind a bike, and a battery pack which can be charged at home and which will run an amp like his, through a voltage converter, for probably at least 8 hours.


I had always thought that Bobby was an opportunistic shopper who knew a good deal when he saw it and who had grabbed the stuff which just happens to be what a busker would need to play Royal Street, alongside Tanya Huang, Brian Hudson and Christina Friis, because he had gotten deals that he couldn't pass up. Now, I wonder if he had hatched a plan to help along my musical carreer a while ago.


8 Dollar Monday Brings Priceless News

Larry

I'm sure the most noteworthy thing that occurred during last night's 8 dollar outing was when a pair of guys who looked to be in their early twenties came by and who had said that they were from Jacksonville, Florida.


They looked like traveling types, but not really dirty ones. They threw a couple bucks in my jar after listening to a couple songs, saying that they wished they had more. That has been the mantra of several tourists the past couple months.


We started talking about Jacksonville, with myself relating my experience of being homeless in the upper middle class section of "Mandarin" in that city. This conversation eventually changed its focus to Saint Augustine, about which I had a few stories. Then, suddenly one of them asked me if I knew "Larry."


It was soon determined that we must have been talking about the same Larry, after I described him the way only a buddy who was his camp mate for at least a year in that neck of the woods could. The guitar case stuffed to the gills with sheet music printed out at the library was the clinching piece of identifying information.


He then filled the other guy in about "this old guy who plays in front of the taco place on Saint George Street in Saint Augustine."


The "old" part makes me wonder if Larry's hair has gone gray in the 8 years since I've seen him.


And the "Saint George Street," part makes me think that Larry has elevated his status in that oldest city in America and has forged a bond with the management of said taco place and has been extended the privilege of playing on that venerated street.

When I was there, in 2010, the "historic" section, which could fit in about 10 blocks of Bourbon Street here, had been cordoned off with strict guidelines imposed upon any kind of performer, stating for one that he/she had to be at least 50 feet off of that venerable historic street, and concrete markers had even been placed in the pavements of all of the side streets leading off of St. George.


It was a shame because, out of 1,000 tourists, 999 of them would walk Saint George street, but they would enter and leave by any one of 16 side streets, and so a busker was likely to see more like 200 tourists pass on such a night.


At one time, the city had become overcrowded with street performers with jugglers (for example) supposedly blocking entrances to businesses or, in the mindset of business owners who were going under in the great depression era of 2010, were enticing people to throw money in their tip jars that could otherwise have been spent inside the establishment; on necklaces made from seashells.


Only a handful of artists could sit on St. George Street and busk, and have a legitimate shot of taking home 100 bucks per night, only by dint of their having obtained permission from the business owners.


Larry must have fallen in with someone who ran a Taco place on St. George Street, who said that he was welcome to pull up a stool and busk out front, or just as likely, Larry works in the place making tacos when he is not out front busking.


Either way, I feel good to have had one element of this blog come full circle, in a way, in the manner that Charles Dicken's novels always had characters that would be introduced in the early chapters who then would reappear later, usually as quite a surprise.


It was good because the reader is already familiar enough with the character to be able to fill in a lot of blanks pertaining to his role in the present action.


So, the young guys are going to go back to Jacksonville, and when the one of them next visits Saint Augustine is going to carry news of me to Larry, the old guy who plays in front of the taco place.


I think that, if I started to Google photos of the Saint Augustine "scene" thoroughly enough, I might chance upon a photo of the guy which might also reveal the name of the place, and, who knows, maybe with a simple phone call ("wait a sec, I'll run out front and put him on the phone") I might be able to hear the voice of Larry after an eight year or so haitus.


It would be hard for me to recommend him coming to New Orleans to do what he does, but then again it would be hard for me not to.


I could see Larry sitting in front of Filipi's Taqueria on Decatur Street and playing not loud enough to annoy anyone (because he sings from the head and not the diaphragm in a soft falsetto which belies his 6'3" 250 pound deportment, and which some ladies have described as being "sweet" -like the way a mother would sing to a baby she is rocking to sleep, I always thought) and making a decent living; maybe even more than myself.


He would be ultra "approachable," as his music skills are minimal, and not intimidating (in a "We better stand back and let his guy entertain the masses" kind of way) and yet, aided by his guitar case stuffed to the gills with sheet music, he is likely to be able to perform almost anything that anyone might request, and would put his heart into it, and would thereby establish a rapport with whomever tourists had asked him if he could play some Townes Van Zandt or some Peter Green era Fleetwood Mac.


"Wagon Wheel," "Wish You Were Here," "American Pie," "Freebird," Allman Brothers, a half dozen Jimmy Buffett songs, ...I'll let you know when I run out of stuff that Larry can play...


And he might even do better than myself (because with the amount of "energy" he puts into playing, he is able to keep at it for 8 hours a day).


Unfortunately, a lot of the blog posts from the time when I was in Saint Augustine were lost after this blog was deleted in 2009, after I installed a third part hit counter that was putting malicious code on the computers of my visitors along with counting them. But Larry was a major character.


I might just try to contact him in this connected world that we live in.


I hope if the tourist sees Larry, he will tell him that I am an amazing musician, or something to the effect.


I can blow away anything that I might have played back then. I have learned an amazing amount in those 8 years.


That is an observation that was made by Ricky the clarinetist.


My first day in New Orleans, not knowing any better, I set up directly across from the Monteleone Hotel, having chanced upon it when it was untaken by any musicians.


It may have been that Ricky, the world-class clarinetist who had been playing there and who had taken a quick break, saw me coming, but figured that I wouldn't even try to play there, since I only had an acoustic guitar.


When he got back from the store to find me there, he explained that he was a world class clarinetist ("I've played at Preservation Hall") and that he made serious money there, with regular tourists looking forward to hearing his clarinet ringing out in front of the hotel and others seeking him out, just to hear him play.


That time, I refused to yield the spot, thinking that I was perhaps being tested in some way on my first day in New Orleans.


Ricky didn't get visibly mad, but only retreated a bit into the entranceway and sat and listened to me play for about 20 minutes.


I think he knew that I was going to realize the futility of playing that spot with an acoustic guitar and would be gone shortly.


He was right.


After about 20 minutes of playing my "best" material, aware that Ricky was sitting behind me, leering and putting a hoodoo on me, while I tried to show him why I thought I was worthy of the spot, I had made only 2 dollars.


I left it to him.


I saw him about a half hour later and he had a hundred dollar bill in his case, along with a few other bills. He was tooting away on stuff like "Sweet Georgia Brown," and the scarecrow's "If I Only Had A Brain" song from The Wizard of Oz, and could be heard 3 blocks away.


"I told you," he said, scooping up the 100. "That guy gives me a hundred bucks every year. Every year; I just gotta be out here," said Ricky.


It was probably about 3 years later when Ricky next heard me play. He was sitting with Paul from Doreen's Jazz Band who said something to him to which he replied something to the effect that I had gotten infinitely better since the first time he had heard me play.


I had gotten off a freight train drunk on whiskey and had stumbled into the Quarter with a piece of crap guitar on my back -a "fixer-upper," both the guitar and myself, I guess; but it was probably a blessing in disguise that my first lesson in busking came from Ricky, the world class clarinetist.


12:23


It has been at 12:23 AM that I've checked my watch at the Lilly Pad at such a time when I felt the first wave of exhaustion come over me and was pondering knocking off; more than any other time of morning.

I was telling this to Lilly.


She said that she had had a similar experience when, it seemed that every time she looked at her clock, it was 7:11 AM.


This past (Tuesday) evening, I got to the Lilly Pad at about 10:45 PM and played for sparse crowds, making 6 one dollar bills, but getting 6 complements.


I played until I felt that I had put in a solid effort and, after looking down Bourbon Street to see only a few gaggles of people, decided to call it a night.


I pulled my phone out and looked at it.


It was 12 something, with a piece of probably loose tobacco stuck to my phones screen over the second two digits.


I brushed it aside to reveal that it was 12:23 AM. It changed to 12:24 in front of my eyes.


One theory about what seems to be a bizarre coincidence might be that, throughout most of the 1990's, I had a little black and white TV on which I would only watch David Letterman each night at 11:30 PM, and then would snap the thing off (before being sucked into watching the drama involving cheating lesbian midgets on a Jerry Springer type show that might vie for my attention).


Now, David's musical guests would always be the last thing featured every night. In fact, after they performed, there would only be enough time for a few bars of the Late Night Theme from Dave's band and a curt "Goodnight" with a wave before the logo appeared and the program went off.


This would mean that just about night after night for years, I would be primed at 12:23 AM to hear David's musical guest. This would be of interest to me. I was still holding on to the dream of being the musical guest on the Late Night With David Letterman show some day, I guess.


Why this might have instilled in me the urge, at this same time each night, to knock off from busking is a mystery. But, that is one connection between music and that time.


About Lilly and 7:11 AM, well, Lilly I'm sure she had her own dreams.


Back To Lilly


So, the fourth time that Lilly invited me over to swim, I arrived at about 5 PM., and was let in through the gate under the inquiring looks of more than one lady seated in front of Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern.

Lilly made quite a fuss over her phone and was having trouble getting the music on her play list to play. She seemed quite determined.


I later learned that she and her daughters had compiled that particular play list, most likely with Lilly and I's swim in mind.


There was choreography which went along with the songs on the list, which was followed by Lilly.


"California Dreaming" played after we had just gotten in and were floating, buoyed by brightly colored foam floats, of which there happened to be 2 already in the pool, evoking the talk that Lilly and I have had about us moving to Spain after she marries off Chantilly and Angelique to nice gentlemen.


And then, one of my busking songs played.

Another Celtic song played, during which Lilly informed me that the Celts originated from the north of Spain, and then fixed me with a gaze, during which I noticed distinctive Celtic features in her face. I was bracing myself for an Enja song to begin any second, though one didn't.


And then, "You're My Best Friend," by Queen played after we happened to have gotten out of the pool and were sipping coffee together, like best friends do.


But the most vivid image had been, when I was sitting there, congratulating myself for having made it there on time; suspecting that Lilly would have felt stood up had I not come, when "Another Day," by Paul McCartney and Wings played.


"Every day she takes a morning bath she wets her hair, wraps a towel around her and she's heading for the bedroom chair; it's just another day."


Lilly emerged from around the side of the house, bringing coffee, and had wrapped a towel around her head, just like the lady in the song. How much thought had gone into the play list; with her daughters well wishes mixed in, and how Lilly had paced the entire affair ("Wait, don't get out yet. Ok, now let's get out") was very endearing. I was so glad that I hadn't stood her up.


"Stay, don't stand her up...and he comes and he stays, but he leaves the next day; so sad.." sings Paul McCartney.


"I love this song so much," says Lilly.


I have the song about 80% learned, planning upon surprising her with it upon one of her 11 PM returns to the house. Lilly is indelibly the woman in the song to me. To Paul's credit, the song is a showcase of music writing skills and has elements such as a minor chord going to its major form, which made me smile because that is a good example of the kind of "rules" The Beatles used to "break," supposedly because they didn't know any better. A song is either in E minor or E major, but not both, right?


The exact same chord change appears in "A Day In The Life," right when the alarm clock rings before the "Woke up, got out of bed...dragged a comb across my head..." part of the song.


Interesting.


In that song, the guy wakes up and drags "a comb across his head" then drinks a cup of coffee. The lady in the Wings song drinks 2 cups in the next verse.


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I Play Sober

I went out and played sober Friday night, and there was a clumsy period where my fingers weren't quite in sync with my mind; but it smoothed out, and I played, I guess, at my highest level.

Somewhere around our neighborhood...

During the fumbling around in the first few minutes, I had a dreadful thought come to me; wondering if I was only going to be able to play at my highest level by taking kratom.
Luckily, I convinced myself otherwise by remembering something that Dorise Blackmon (Tanya and Dorise) said once, which distilled down to: If you don't think you are playing as well when sober, it's because you are hearing everything better, and more annoyed by the tiny digressions that you have become conscious of.
So, I made 23 bucks in an hour and a half, after arriving late.
That was partly due to having had to wait until 10:30 PM for the rain to stop, and hence, getting started at about 11:15 PM.
Flood
Sacred Heart Apartments became even more like a castle than I had already envision it after 8 inches of rain fell within 3 hours, Saturday, and we soon had a moat, about 18 inches deep, all the way around the building, right up to the edges of it.
I was able to stand up on the frame of my bike and, by grappling along the wall, pull myself alongside the building, for a little while, thinking that I might indeed be able to make it to the Uxi Duxi without getting wet, but then my front tire found a hole to get stuck in, and I had to just get wet up to my knees.
The water was no more than 18 inches deep, with the street car tracks being high, though not dry. I made it to the bike trail, pedaling along, visible from only the knees up, using the "snow" knowledge that I gained growing up in Massachusetts to visualize the streets and sidewalks (and especially obstacles like fire hydrants) and made it to the Uxi Duxi, and then to the cat food store and then back the the apartment, realizing that I had forgotten coffee (d'oh!) but wound up staying in; even though it was a Saturday night and once I got out of our neighborhood (where a malfunctioning "pump" I was told was the reason we alone were in 18 inches of water) I would have been in a crowded French Quarter (The Sachamo-Fest all weekend) and it wouldn't have been raining.
I would have been a busker who was soaked from the knees down, but that probably would have helped the tip jar. D'oh! again...
It's Monday.
Sunday night I made 18 bucks in just short of 2 hours...
But I'm broke because I, for instance, ran out of toilet paper during the recent draught, money-wise, and I just don't believe in going into the men's room at the Rib Room restaurant and stuffing a bunch of (very high quality, I might throw in) paper towels into my backpack. That's something that a drinker, not a kratom addict, does...

Live And Learn

It's 10 PM on a Thursday night.

After a 4 dollar Wednesday night, and the rain having let up, after a deluge; It's time to get on my bike and go out to play.
No cigarettes, no kratom, no weed, no coffee...
A blessing in disguise. Now, I'll have to experience what it's like to play music totally sober; and I'll perhaps like it, or I'll be at the labor pool tomorrow, applying for work...
August has been like this the past few years; something that I should have anticipated and made plans for. Live and learn.

Rectory Studios

What a fine music recording studio the third floor might make: The abandoned rectory building (above, right) with perspective to the entrance that I go in and out of -the brick colored building, left center rear.

The side that faces away from the apartment parking lot would be a good way to come and go; without drawing attention from skeezers.

Kratom Cures Food Allergies?

Yeah, it's Wednesday and I am as broke as can be and almost out of a lot of things; like food.

I have discovered that I can eat cheddar cheese melted between two Saltine type crackers using only perhaps a quarter pound of cheese to make a meal.


Dairy products had always been on my forbidden foods list, but I have been able to get away with eating various constituents such as the 100% whey protein isolate formulas that I used when I worked out regularly, and I suppose that It is pretty much 100% milk fat isolate that I'm surviving off of lately, eating cheese melted between two saltines and (optionally dipped into some kind of tomato based liquid, preferably soup).


The main theme of the day will be kratom, as I am finally too broke to get even a shot of the green leaf, and so will interrupt a run of quite a few consecutive days of having gotten at least a (5 gm.) shot of it.


I was riding along a great loop where the kratom bar was the first stop, a mile and a half up the road, and then the Petco store for Harold's daily bread; along the trail back which would ultimately turn again after a pass by the Whole Foods and a stop at either the Family Dollar or the Dollar General.


Tyson And Shannon From British Colombia: First Encounter

This past Sunday was perhaps the 8th straight day that I had gone through that prole, and I thought that I went out and had a good money night, only to discover that the couple who sat and listened and talked to me for a couple hours were only putting one dollar bills in my jar, at various times such as after I had just played a song. I was too polite to crane my neck to look in the jar after them.


I figured that I would find at least a 20 dollar bill folded up and tucked into a corner of the jar, but, got home to discover that I had had a 10 dollar night. I like to think that the couple were enjoying themselves so much they forgot all about the fact that I live off my tip jar and that I had only gotten a few sporadic dollars besides what they threw in throughout the hour and a half that we hung out.


I was thinking that when I went back out last (Tuesday) night and only made 2 dollars on an almost empty street.  
The couple never came by. Of course, they will probably assume that Friday or Saturday would be good nights to try to catch me at the spot, should they want to. They said they were going to be here for 6 days, and are from British Colombia, Canada.


Lilly just called and invited me over to swim at her house; I had better grab my shorts and get going. It's Wednesday and I'm down to less than a dollar to my name; and I don't know how I messed it up.


I should have known that the only money to be made would be from the Decatur/Royal Street daytime mobs and would come one dollar at a time; not through hundred dollar endowments, but that is probably where I should have been the past week during the mornings into the the late afternoon hours; collecting at least a paycheck....


Official Starting Point Of Post


It is not quite Tuesday, the first of August, 2017.


The end-of-the-month-ness is palpable around here, a lot of skeezers have run out of money long before now, and have endured, as I have, a slow season like I ain't seen in the 6 years that I've been here.


I have continued to trudge out there, almost nightly, bringing back no more than 6 bucks some evenings.


I have made a "morning" ritual of my shot(s) of kratom at the Uxi Duxi kava bar up the street; usually getting there around 5 PM, to do a shot, in order to focus my mind and plot out the rest of the day.


I continue to wake up at just around 1:30 PM, when the sun is at true noon here, without the aid of an alarm clock.


Rose has called a few of the mornings since I last posted, at around that time, having figured this out, I guess.


I could have made quite a profit lending them money at 100% interest, had I had any.

The Ever Difficult To Draw Lilly

And Lilly has called a couple times, to invite me over to swim in the afternoons, when her daughters are at work, but her husband, whom she is separated from but who still lives in the same house, is in his room in the front on the side opposite where I play almost every night. I think that whichever one of her daughters is least sensitive to harmonica music occupies the room right behind me.


It is out of respect of this commitment that Lilly has made to assisting a street musician who she is determined to see succeed, which has extended as far as her vetting prospective tenants of the properties that she and/or her husband that she is separated from own, to insure that they are fine with guitar and harmonica music "that you can hardly hear" until all hours of the morning, which makes it a kind of no-brainer to drop whatever I'm doing and head on over there in my only pair of shorts and with an extra shirt for a towel (Lilly claimed that none of her towels had been washed because they basically take up the whole washer; but I would be surprised if she were not germaphobic).


I brought about dire consequences the one time that I dallied at the kratom bar and at the Petco store.

I like to take a long time reading Harold's "menu," comparing prices per ounce, and trying to find new flavors, like sole, venison and rabbit to try on him like a scientist, and finding them in "bits" or "shreds" and in gravy, and preferably with garden greens added.


One of the Petco employees, who seems pretty knowledgeable [and who has some kind of certificate of completion in some kind of Petsmart 101 course to prove it] told me that cats were 100% carnivores and would never, in the wild, eat any of the cranberries, pumpkin, green peas and carrots that are commonly seen, and even touted, as ingredients in many of the more expensive gourmet cat foods.


I guess cats join humans in their affinity for foods that offer them no nutritive value. Once Harold gets hooked on pumpkin flavored trout then, I'll have an even more costly habit to support.

It takes a few dozen cats to take down a buck in the wild, but, once they develop a taste for venison, no deer in the vicinity will be safe.


Kratom


I will say that, for some reason, the thing that I am most hellbent upon accomplishing, as soon as I swig down either one or two shots of "white sumatra" (for those trivia buffs among you) kratom.


I am likely, at that point of the day, with the sun going down and myself already in possession of Harold's evening meal, to head directly to the Lilly Pad to begin work.


That, of course, is an abandonment of the blogging that I used to do almost religiously before going out each night.


This wrote in whatever anxiety, jitters, stage-fright or every day feelings of doom and gloom that would be weighing upon me in those hours before going into the Quarter, and gave the posts a rushed aspect, spawned by thoughts of "I really should be out there now trying to make money, instead of sitting here blogging about how little I have been making."


The kratom shots that I do usually make me nauseous, the onset of which occurs after I have pedaled to the pet store and have spent what feels like a half hour looking for what might be the purrfect (sic) flavor to try on Harold.

There was one day when I vomited up a quantity of puke that looked like a prop from the movie The Exorcist along the bike trail. I had done a double shot and had not washed it down with hardly any water at all. It was weird because it came up rather gently into my mouth, and I could have re-swallowed it, but didn't, thinking that my stomach might have known what was best at the time.


I went ahead and completed my daily loop by swinging by the Dollar General (batteries, cheap cat food to supplement the stingily proportioned gourmet stuff, Monster Energy drink) and the Whole Foods (off limits after the food stamp money runs out) and the Family Dollar (single energy shots reduced to 50 cents while they last) and skipped the Ideal Market, too.

Then, I continued past the apartment building and rode up to the Uxi Duxi to replace the kratom that I had barfed up.


There has been just enough food materializing from unlikely sources to keep me from spending kratom money on sustenance.


A group came in and set up tables in the recreation room to serve food to the veterans who live here. There were lots of apples, some pears, lots of champagne grapes (delicious, and a temptation to ferment them into wine) as well as plates of prepared fare like sweet potato and sausage whatever, and decadently sweet chocolate cupcakes with "20 Years" iced onto the tops of them. I didn't ask.

Tourists have given me food in lieu of cash tips, and just today, when I went behind the Rite Aid dumpster because I thought I might puke, I found 6 half gallon cartons of "cashew milk," still cold enough to have condensation on them. I boxed them up in a Yungling Lager box that was convenient, and balanced them on my handlebars back to my refrigerator, which now holds about 3,000 calories worth of the stuff, with only 2 days before a trip to the St. Jude food bank becomes an option, and 5 days before my food card is charged with 194 bucks.


Skeezer Teaser

I closed the lid on the beer case box and sealed it, so it could potentially look like I had a case of cold beer on my handlebars. I did this for no other reason than to mess with the alcoholic skeezers at Sacred Heart Apartments. I wanted to see how they would react. It would appear to some of them that, with 24 cold beers on me, I absolutely without a doubt should give a few away; it would be rude to ride past my neighbors like that, and not offer. Selfish, and rude. And racist.


At least one resident's jaw opened, at the sight of the box concealing cashew milk, as if he was about to try to skeeze. I was kind of testing them, in a way. Would any one of them become indignant "You got all that beer and I can't get just one of them?!?" I was curious. Plus, my ace up the sleeve would be to open the box and say: "Dude, this is cashew milk," after he had made a scene and I would say "embarrassed himself," but sociopath skeezers are proof against such non productive emotions.


This month, I will attempt yet another way of managing that 194 bucks so it doesn't run out around 12 days before month's end.


The smart thing would be to divide the amount by the 30 days, and then try to come up with a way to feed myself off $6.47 per day.


A 2 pound block of cheddar cheese can be bought at Sams Club for under 5 dollars. A couple boxes of Saltines for another $5. I can see eating for at least 4 days off that 10 dollars. Of course, upgrading from Saltines, to more healthy crackers that cost almost 4 times as much (below, $10 a box) would consume about 80% of the 194 dollars for the month, just on crackers and cheese.

The fact that the money runs out two thirds of the way through tells me that I am actually consuming more like 10 bucks a day on food, if I just eat unchecked, with the difference coming out of any available busking money. After kratom and food for Harold and weed. Energy drinks and cigarettes are the first victims of budget cuts after slow nights. Coffee can somewhat replace the former, and tobacco can be picked up and re-rolled at several French Quarter locations.


Perhaps I will try to kick in 30% of my food costs in cash and take the rest off the card, so as to keep my balance afloat the entire month. The danger is in things like buying a "family size" box of cereal because it's only a couple bucks more and then eating the whole thing in one sitting, negating the savings (though, maybe I could use the extra calories).


The Project On Hold


The first time Lilly and I swam in her pool, I blogged about it.


The sight of us coming out of her gate together put to rest any designs that "Rascal" may have had on the Lilly Pad and put a damper on her claiming the daytime hours as being hers. "No, eight-thirty is late enough," said Lilly on the matter. I guess Lilly can see me playing a full 8 hours, starting at around 7:30 PM. I suppose that, were I to occupy the stoop every night for those hours, my income would theoretically triple. But; what is 3 X (less than 10 dollars?)


The second time, when I dallied at the pet store, etc. Lilly called around 6 PM, wanting to know where I was.


I was at the Uxi Duxi.


Lilly could hear the music that they play there in the background and might have sensed that something was awry. "Let's just do it another day. Go ahead and get your energy shot and your cat food, we'll just do it another day," said Lilly, over the din of djembes and castanets.

"Where are you calling from, Daniel?

I don't like the sound of it..."

I called off the trip to Lilly's pool.


That night, she approached and seemed very angry. "Tomorrow!," she asserted, pointing a finger at me. When I tried to stand to plant a kiss on her cheek, she drew back. "Tomorrow!," she repeated.


So, the third time, I knew what to do.


She had called again, to tell me that she would be lounging in her pool around 6:30 PM, after the sun had gone behind the buildings.


I had a hard time keeping on schedule. I kept finding things that needed to be done; and on my way out of the apartments, I ran into people whom I talked to. By the time 6 PM rolled around, I was faced with the decision of going straight to Lilly's and being on time; or going for my shot of kratom and hoping somehow that it would make me pedal faster and she wouldn't notice how late I was.


She called, while I was at the kratom bar again, asking me where I was.


The fact that I was way up by the cemeteries "You went the opposite way..." was enough to make her cancel our swim once again.


This time I knew what to do, though.


I finished my shot of kratom and then rode straight to the Lilly Pad, where I was able to place a call to her at about 7:25.


She didn't answer, as I couldn't expect that a lady who had been stood up for a shot of kratom to, but I was able to leave a message telling her that I was right outside her gate, ready to swim if she still wanted to.


That seemed to do the trick, as I was approached by her around 11 PM and she was in different spirits than she had been the previous time. She was dressed up and made up and smiling.


We scheduled another swim, which took place earlier today.


I did a couple shots of kratom, picked up some beef and carrots flavored food for Harold, and went straight to the Lilly Pad, with my guitar and pack on.


Rascal was strumming away on her ukulele. In front of her stood a guy who lives in the neighborhood and who had come up to me a few nights prior and introduced himself saying: "You must be the nighttime busker...I'm a friend of Rascal, the girl that plays the ukulele..."

I gave Rascal a brief smile as I drifted past and towards the gate that was being held ajar by Lilly, who held a finger to her lips to warn me to be quiet as we passed her husband that she is separated from's room.


I don't understand the exact dynamics of that situation. It crossed my mind that she might be using me to try to make the guy jealous, playing shark and fish in the pool with her; but it might just be that she doesn't want to elicit a comment from him like: "Stooping to skeezers now,...honey?"


So, that was this Monday, the 31st of July, 2017.


I went out and made only 6 bucks after swimming, or a double shot of kratom. It seems like there is something cosmic about how I am constantly being put in a situation of having to choose between spending my money on kratom, or anything else.


The project has even been put on hold, due to my not having bought a 3 dollar screwdriver which is going to allow me to unfasten the plywood over the door to the boarded up rectory building that I envision as being a perfect recording studio, where I can vent things musical that I might not even do at the Lilly Pad.


I can already sing out a lot more freely at the Lilly Pad than in my own apartment, where I just feel the presence of my neighbors and their grips on their broom handles too much.


I know it is a self imposed limitation, one that had my friend Barnaby saying: "As brazen as you are?!?" when I told him about it. But, again I go back and cite the fact that Luciano Pavarotti, for example, would warm up "in private."


Part of it has to do with having a brand to protect.


The same reason that Whitney Houston became upset when her husband, Bobby Brown started singing loudly and out of tune at some party where there might have been video cameras; because he has a brand to protect.


It would be easy for the rumor to surface that Bobby "really can't sing," as averred to by several party goers who might report that "When you hear him sing live, like at a birthday party, without all that studio equipment and production, he really can't even hold a tune..."


And that embarrassed Whitney, who had been starstruck by at an early age and who had ascended to wed the great Bobby Brown.


So yeah, instead of trying to psych myself into being thick skinned and finding the balls to sing "Feeling Groovy," knowing that as soon as I step out of my place I'm going to be faced with: "It makes a nigga out here without even a goddam cigarette glad to know that things are so groovy for you, white boy!" types of attitudes.


The abandoned rectory.


A 3 dollar "star-tipped" screwdriver.


Soon.


There is a CD that is going to put New Orleans on the map as a "music city" just waiting to be born.



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