"Can You Make A Living Doing That?"

• 41 Dollar Friday
• Sugar Blues
• Worried 'Cause Mom Hasn't Written

I was certainly ticked off, as I stood waiting for a trolley.

I had just missed one, as I stepped onto the platform a little after 10 PM, thinking that I could be at the Lilly Pad by 10:45 PM.

Instead, I wasn't on board one until almost 11 PM, and didn't pluck my first note until about 11:35 PM.

When I knocked off the final time and went to the Quartermaster, their clock read 2:24 AM.
$14.90/Hr...
So, I gather that I played about 2 and a half hours and made 41 bucks, with nothing larger than the three five dollar bills that were in my stash at the end of the night, meaning that around 20 people threw me tips, which bodes well for the current season that we are in.

Out of 20 people throwing tips, I stood a 50-50 chance of any one of them throwing a 20 or higher.
So, it could easily have been a 60 dollar night, which was kind of the goal I had in the back of my mind.

I had been determined to play for 4 hours, come what may. My fingers were tired after 165 minutes, and I would have had to rest them for 10 minutes before continuing. I will definitely need to consider a nylon string guitar, like Dorise Blackman played, if I ever want to partner with Tanya Huang...

This is kind of a "reality check," in the sense that; busking for 4 hours on a Friday night, when there are a good amount of tourists in town, is a pretty good yardstick for measuring how things are "going," and answering the recurrent question of: "Do you make good money doing that?" or, more pointedly: "Can you make a living doing that?"

Just how lucrative busking is at a particular spot needs to be gauged using at least a 3 hour time sample. You can't just sit down and play for 20 minutes; and make a determination. Some of my best nights started out with myself making nothing the first 20 minutes, and then ended with 50+ dollars after, say, 2 and a half hours.

It kind of feels like it either takes the tourists that long to determine that I can actually play, and am not just skeezing, using a guitar as a prop; or it takes them that long to determine that I am there for the long haul, putting in the hours (which is respectable to some) not just there intent upon running the first tip I get directly to the beer store; giving it the appearance of being a more serious "profession."


It might take about a half hour for some of them to see me there a second time, on their way to and from the Quartermaster, or Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern. A lot of times it is as if they are consumed by their quest for whatever they want from the Quartermaster, hoping they can find it, that it will be open, and that they make a sandwich that they will like, etc.

And, they will likely be carrying loose change after having broken a 50 dollar bill in purchasing a couple sandwiches, a bag of chips and a soda.

It might even shade their perception of my music towards being of a quality commensurate with the best sandwiches (Quartermaster or Verti-Mart), po-boys (Nola Po-Boys) hamburgers (The Clover Grill) in the French Quarter, along with the best powdered cocaine (the skinny black kid with the red sneakers) weed (the older black guy who sits on Lilly's other stoop) and other things on the block.
"This is just world-class everything," they might think while deciding that a 20 dollar bill is  appropriate for the Bob Dylan guy under the spotlight.

I used to look at things more "cosmically," and think that I was being put to a test of some sort, by the Great Music Spirit, by having to play a whole 20 minutes without getting a single dollar, to see if I can put aside my material aspirations and continue to play "for the right reasons."

Along with imagining that there is, perhaps, a young lady in a third floor room, laying back on her bed with her window open, and my music drifting in, and myself just happening to be playing a song that has some meaning to her, perhaps one that she had just been humming to herself on her way home, or something...

"Name It And Claim It"

Along with that (which satisfies the need to be playing "for someone," even while being ignored by everyone in sight) I also often imagine that someone has just thrown a tip in my otherwise empty basket. That is a prime example of the "name it and claim it" type of mindset that some organized religions extol.

Some "think and grow rich" type of books also promote this mechanism, telling people to think about their car, for example, as already being the Porsche 944 that they are dreaming about owning; "when you are washing it, repeat 'I'm shining up my Porsche now'" as you do it.

Soon, reality will align itself to your model of the universe, and you will attract the 944 and conjure it into your garage. I suppose if you don't have a garage, you could repeat: "There, I just put my Porsche in my garage," after you've parked the Kia on your packed dirt driveway.

There is some overlap between the two, because most of the people who attend those kind of churches seem to be "praying" for expensive cars and the like.

"I gave my heart to Jesus, and one week later, I got 50 thousand dollars in the mail! That's my testimony..."

So, that too, helps me to play with the right attitude -picturing someone throwing a tip before it actually happens.

This is only an issue during the first half hour or so, when the first dollar thrown is going to mean being able to buy a can of cat food and then walk the 2 and a half miles home; the second dollar, being able to ride the trolley (and get Harold his food more quickly) and the third dollar, maybe a cheap cigar that I can break open and roll into cigarettes to get through the night, etc.

There is a certain dollar value at which I stop worrying about money. This is right around 12 or 13 dollars, after I scoop about 10 out and safeguard it in my back pocket, leaving 3 or 4 in there that I don't have to stress over some punk grabbing and running off with.

So, I was pretty angry over not having made it to the Lilly Pad until about 11:35 PM; especially after having knocked off my blogging around 9:30 PM, and having "made a beeline" to the spot.
Right now, it is 9:22 PM, on this Saturday night.

In order to not repeat the same mistake as last night, I will be shooting for the trolley that comes around 10:15, so that I can play for 3 hours and knock off a little before 2 AM.

I have a small bud of potent weed that I know better than to smoke any time before my arrival and tuning up at the Lilly Pad.

My strings are old. I think that any one of the dollar tips last night could have become a twenty dollar bill had I had that little bit of extra glimmer from a new set of strings.

I'm still recovering from "the month of Travis," and won't be up to speed with new strings and a new harmonica until at least next weekend.

I broke the "d" string last night, but continued to play on Canal Street, after having encountered David the Water Jug Player, who sold me the 5 dollar bud, the second half of which I have ready to go for tonight; and the first half of which, I rolled and smoked with him.

This led to me taking the guitar out and inventing "music for guitar minus d string," alongside David until just about 4 in the morning.

Pretty soon, they'll be starting to talk about you-know-what, only a few months away, now

I ate too much sugar when I got home and learned a lesson about it, after having woken at my normal time of about 1:30 PM, and then having gone back to sleep because of feeling dead tired.

I had just enough time to drink a cup of coffee, throw this laptop in my bag, and make it to the Uxi Duxi 20 minutes before they closed at 8 PM. I am sipping a double shot of "green bali," and have been at this post for, I guess, almost 2 hours now.

The 41 dollar night will be followed by whatever tonight brings; and there is a Saints game at the Superdome tomorrow (Sunday) and I hope to grab my little spot under the little stairwell outside one of the entrances to the place.

The Superdome was built to the same dimensions as the Pantheon in Greece, David the Water Jug Player told me last night; giving a good example of the kind of things you talk about after you take a few tokes of potent weed.

Humankind has evolved since the days when thousands of people would watch a man being killed and devoured by lions for entertainment, I thought, as I sat there talking to David the Water Jug Player; glad that Travis wasn't there to present a lecture on Ancient Greece at the time.

"Now they suspend an NFL player and put him in jail if he stages fights between bulldogs," I mused, thinking that this denoted some kind of progress, in the way of civilization.

"I guess the Pantheon must have seated about the same 70,000 as the dome, David..."

Time To Start Picking Up

I should just close up this laptop, and proceed directly to the Lilly Pad, where I could be plucking my first note by 9:30. All I'm going to blog about is money shortage, so why am I sitting here?
Last night, I didn't start playing until about 12:30 AM, and made about 8 bucks in a little over an hour; off of pretty sparse tourism.

A water fast might be on the horizon. All I would have to lose is the 5 pounds I gained while on a pancake with butter and all fruit spread heavy diet...

4 of those dollars came from a couple of young guys who said that they had heard me playing earlier. I was packing up, but they still tipped me.
I had been doing "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan when they had walked by.
This is a song that I think I could play repeatedly for 3 hours, and probably net my "average" of 54 dollars off of it.
One of the "problems" is that it is in the key of G, and thus the notes on my C major harmonica don't yield the bluesy notes that people are familiar with.
This is no big deal because Dylan played in a "anybody can play a harmonica" style.
One of the drawbacks with using the harness to hold the harmonica to free the hands up to play guitar is that you can't do any of the cupping of the hands around the thing to produce a wide vibrato of the notes (and to look like Jake or Elmore Blues while doing so).

But this opens up a whole different approach to the instrument.
Think the harp solo on "Isn't She Lovely?" by Stevie Wonder, or the one on "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues," by Elton John, rather than "Whammer Jammer," by The J. Geils Band, as far as style.
No card arrived on this, the day after my birthday, from my mom, making me concerned that she is alright, more than anything.
I have my all day bus pass, good until almost 3 in the morning, and could be busking by 10 PM.
This would solve 90% of my problems.
Having a 50 dollar night, might make me tell Travis to just keep his money and "have a good life," should he show up for the remainder of his stuff and try to foist a couple dollars and a cigarette upon me.
I don't know why it should be important to me that he understands that, knowing what I do now; he would never have been allowed to stay at my place.
If I were to have told him that I didn't want anyone staying with me; he most likely would have come up with a good chunk of money and handed it to me up front. Then, I would have had the option of kicking him out after his 10 days were up.
The way it worked out, I kind of had to keep him around with my sights set on his promises over "when I get my food money on the 5th," and "when I get back from New York on the 10th."
I can't help thinking that he is a manipulative skeezer who was using me.
As we hung out together, with him doing almost all of the talking, he was probably gauging me to determine just how nice of a guy I was i.e. how much he could chintz out on me; with me being alright, because I can go out and make money busking; so why should he have to deliver on his promises? I'd be just fine.
I have thought of one way that I could exact some revenge upon him. Since I do have his food stamp card, along with the pin number, I suppose I could call and cancel the thing. Then he wouldn't find out until the 5th of next month rolled around, and the money didn't come.
Then, he might have to wait a couple of weeks.
I think he sells his food stamps, though, because he prefers to eat at restaurants. He talks about planning to try all of the restaurants in the area of his new home; which is just another clue that he probably makes more money than he was letting on to me, as he tried to freeload..
OK; closing up this laptop and going out to busk....

Hurricane Nate A Blown Opportunity

Friday And Saturday Squandered

So, Friday night, after having felt a few drops of rain, and having been soaked in the past, decided not to walk the 2 miles to the Lilly Pad to busk.

There was actually a "curfew" of 7 PM in the French Quarter, but the radio said that it wasn't being observed, as evidenced by the Quarter being "packed."
This was right around the curfew time of 7 PM, and the radio lady said that the bars on Bourbon Street, typically had signs stating words to the effect that "the curfew is only a suggestion (not a law?)"
Pot's Messing With Me
I probably missed a golden opportunity Friday night.
Had I been out there, among tourists who were scrambling to get their last bit of partying in before the deluge, the levy breaking and the corpses floating up from out of their graves, etc., I might have had a good night.
Especially if tourists mis-interpreted my backpack as being a sign of homelessness, and felt sorry in advance for me being outdoors in a hurricane. And, especially if they were consuming alcohol at an accelerated rate, attempting to get in as many "hurricane" drinks out of different bars, for the purpose of comparison. And, especially if the human species has instinct driven behaviors pertaining to natural disasters and will be generous tippers when one is impending, in the same way that birds might stop chirping at the same time.
But, I guess when it came to the hurricane; I blew it.
I partially blame it on the bag of pot that I had found laying in the grass by the trolley stop.
Smoking weed makes me more paranoid about going out, walking past the crack area and then the heroin area carrying my stuff.
I had forgotten the fact that it used to take me forever to leave my place after I had smoked a bowl of weed.
I told myself that there would hardly be any tourists out, because of the hurricane forecast.
Travis Goes Out With A Whimper
Travis had told me that he would be back from the video gaming convention in New York by Tuesday.
He would take me food shopping, allowing me to spend 50 bucks of his food stamp money.
Tuesday, I got a text message from him saying that he had missed a bus, and would not be back until Wednesday.
Wednesday, I was totally broke.
He showed up in the late afternoon and presented me with his food stamp card, along with the pin number, and told me that I could have the remainder of the balance on the thing.
The balance was $37.26.
He didn't have 75 cents to give me so that I could take the trolley to the Lilly Pad to busk.
He was telling me about the hardships he endured in New York; I guess as a way of excusing himself over the fact that he had promised me 50 bucks worth of food and, more importantly at the time, was going to get me an all day bus pass, so that, after I stocked my cabinets with food, I could ride the trolley to go busking.
It was easy for me to read between the lines that he had taken care of his own needs, putting himself first and was using me as "the path of least resistance." When it came down to the slight discomfort of hunger in his belly versus being able to follow through on his promise to give me 50 bucks, and not 37 dollars and 26 cents; he stuffed his face.
There is a difference between being frugal, saving your pennies, etc. and being a cheap prick to the detriment of others, I have concluded.
While he was there grabbing the tail end of his stuff (leaving what is the least important to him for a final trip) there was a  kind of urgency about him, as if he was trying to get his belongings out of my place before, perhaps it dawned upon me that I had been used by him and he was giving me, basically 25% less than he had promised, and I might hold his stuff for ransom.
The thing that was most bothersome was the way he had framed the fact that he was shortchanging me in relation to his own needs.
Talk is cheap, especially in Travis' case.
He could have given me the whole 50 bucks and said something like: "I hope you appreciate the fact that I starved for like 12 hours while I was waiting to get paid, so I didn't have to spend the card down below 50 bucks."
That would have meant something to me.
Instead, all he did was talk about his own hardships "I was in this certain part of New York where it's gonna cost you a minimum of 10 bucks, just to eat anything," and explain how he absolutely had to make sure that his landlady Dorise was going to get the full amount of rent due to her, and get it a day early. It was as if this was supposed to make me feel relief over the fact that his bills have been paid and that he hadn't had to go hungry for a day while in New York. Like the money that I wasn't getting had gone towards the very important cause of his own comfort.

But, I knew that he was an odd egg.

I figured that he was innocent, in that he is like a "sociopath," in that, it really seems like he has no concept of how his selfishness in going to be perceived by others.

In my book, it is just not cool to approach someone with 75% of what you had promised him; with the only "excuse" being that you had taken a long bus trip and were just so hungry that you had to eat some of the money, and to expect the other guy to see this as having been a worthwhile expenditure of the money.

I'm really wondering what I should do now. Should I call him and ask: "Dude, you ARE going to give me the 12 bucks that you shorted me on the food, aren't you?"

I am wavering between intense anger at him, and wanting to just forget that he exists and get on with my life.

He could conceivably think that he has found a long term solution to his housing problem and probably won't "need" to stay at my place again, maybe ever. His skimping and cutting corners became ratcheted up in intensity; inversely proportional to the amount of stuff of his that was still at my place.

At one point, I was close to telling him that I was going to throw his cat outside and slam the door behind her, rather than continue to feed and provide litter for her out of my own pocket.

Then, I determined that it wasn't right to punish an innocent animal for the sins of one man.

Once the cat was safe at his new place, he became that much more lax concerning things like giving me a little cash or even a cigarette.

When he handed me the food card yesterday, he had tried to distract me, I believe, by admonishing me: "Please, whatever you do, don't lose it!" Was this intended to make me appreciate that he was entrusting me with something of great value to him?

After I spend the 37 bucks off the thing, it won't be loaded again for almost a month. It only takes 7 to 10 days for a replacement card to arrive in the mail. He wouldn't miss a beat should he show up a few days from now, to grab the last of his stuff that I have apparently been storing for him, free of charge and learn that I had lost the thing.

That "whatever you do, don't lose it," was just a smokescreen, meant to distract me from the fact that I was being shortchanged. It is that kind of manipulation that pisses me off more than just being ripped off.

And, I wonder about the fact that the balance was just about exactly 25% short of the promised 50 bucks.

Has Travis read somewhere ("The Seven Habits of Ruthless People") that most people will take 75% of what they are owed and, though they might protest, they will deem it "better than nothing," and ultimately accept it without pitching a fit?

I suppose that, whatever I do, it should be aimed at getting as much as I can out of him. It wouldn't benefit me to write him a scathing indictment of himself if the result would be him concluding: "I was actually going to throw him another 20 bucks but now I'm not."

An image search of "Travis Blain" turned up results, none of which depict the cheapskate in question...

The "100 dollars" for having let him store his stuff this long, which I then reduced to "just give me a tip, if you like my performance in storing your stuff," thinking that his money was as hard earned as my own, and thinking like a friend, seems to be in jeopardy of becoming "nothing at all." If he is going to short me on the 50 bucks for food, then, why give me anything at all?

"You're going to go out and busk tonight, aren't you? You should make decent money on a weekend night, so you should be alright," would be his typical take on the matter.

That is the same dynamic that Louise, another former guest of mine, used when, upon seeing me find a Christmas card in my mailbox that had 20 bucks stuffed in it; immediately pocketed the 20 that she had been holding in her hand, ready to give me for having stored her stuff for a week or so.

"Nobody sends me 20 bucks on Christmas!" was apparently her excuse for reneging on the promised amount for keeping her stuff.

There has got to be a psychological term for that behavior. "You just got some money, so I don't have to give you mine," being the pretzel logic behind that. Travis seems to be inflicted with the same screwed up thinking.

It is Thursday night. It is my birthday, actually. I turned 55 years old at some point during this day; according to whatever minute I was born on the 12th of October, 1962...

Wednesday's Hardships

Last (Wednesday) night, I began walking towards the Lilly Pad.

I arrived at the Family Dollar at just about 9 PM, where I spent 2 bucks off of Travis' food card on a Monster Zero drink.

I then walked the 2 and a half miles to the Lilly Pad, step by step.
There was a time when I walked there (and back) almost nightly. That had often been so that I could apply the $2.50 saved on trolley fare towards alcohol.

I made about 11 dollars, playing from about 10:30 PM until 12:16 AM.

I bought Harold the cat the first can of wet food that he would have in a couple days, and then went to the Rouses Market, where what seemed like only a few items took over 20 bucks off Travis' food card.

Then, to insure that I would not have to walk to the Lilly Pad tonight, I bought an all day bus pass.
This left me about 5 bucks, for the shot of kratom (my first in 3 days) that I just drank, and 2 bucks left over that I can, I guess, start my tip basket out with.

If my mom sent a birthday card, as she has been doing every year, it might arrive tomorrow.
Whatever money she might have put in it would be very timely.

I think I recall that, last year, I had a total of about 23 dollars to my name, after having found a card in my box that had 20 bucks in it.

Yikes, it's already almost 9:30 PM, and time to busk. I would rather stay in and mess around with my recording studio, but 99% of the time I thank myself for having gone out and played. I can always mess around with the studio when I get back.
Studio Space
Needed: A place to record vocals, undisturbed.
I am still just a drill and a hacksaw from being able to break in to the abandoned rectory that abuts our property. The place could be like my own 461 Ocean Blvd, as far as a studio is concerned...

I want to do something about Travis. I know calling him and chewing him out over the phone might not be productive, but I feel like doing it, anyways. Leaving him the opportunity to be conscientious and do the right thing has been counterproductive. Give him an inch of leeway and he will take a mile.

"Listen, asshole, where's the rest of the f***ing money you promised?!?"

I could threaten to tell Dorise Blackman, his new landlady how he had done me. That would probably gain me the most leverage over him.

He seems to be in his "introductory, ass kissing, trying to present himself as a shining example of dependability" stage of their relationship. That would correspond to the "dude, you would be saving my life, and I will SO hook you up," portion of our proceedings.

It will only be a matter of time before he starts to chintz out on her. "Hey, I could clean my own place instead of the cleaning lady coming by, and that would save you from having to pay her for a few hours a month, then you could just cut my rent by, say, 50 bucks a month..." type of thing...vintage Travis.

3 Hours To Busk Before Rainfall

It's 9:20 PM on a Friday night.
I would be foolish if I just go back to the apartment with no money in my pocket to wait for the storm to come.

But, I'll probably have to walk all the way to the Lilly Pad, unless I find a buck on the ground between the Uxi Duxi and home; and I can already feel a tiny drop of rain, every now and then. I would be risking having myself and guitar soaked.

But, we're really not supposed to have "thunderstorms" until about 3 AM; by then, I could have 30 bucks in my pocket, hop the trolley home, and then hunker down over the next few days, through the storm.

So, I guess that's what I'll do; put this laptop to sleep and then walk the mile to the apartment, pick up the gear and then walk the 2 miles to the Lilly Pad, and play from like, 11 until maybe 1.
Yesterday, I went to Howard Westra's to watch the Patriots game.

I was pretty much broke and considered asking Howard for a little cash, but couldn't bring myself to do it.

He had gotten back from his cruise to Alaska, had presented me with the gift of a shirt that says "Alaska" on it, with some mountains in the background. He called it a "winter shirt," probably because it has sleeves that go halfway down the forearms, and is made of nylon.

I put the shirt on, under the Patriots shirt that I had worn there, and walked the mile and a half to the bus that runs all night.

I got to the stop right as the bus was pulling up; and before it stopped in front of me, I found 2 dollar bills folded together on the ground in front of me.

Howard had mixed reviews of his trip.
It was "alright," but he wouldn't have done it again. It was too much off-season for things like foliage and too foggy at this time of year for whale watching; you get what you pay for...

Had he coughed up an extra 100 dollars at one point, he could have joined a group of people who broke off from the rest and somehow got closer to Mt. McKinley and came back reporting that they had seen bears.

Howard didn't see bears, but saw a few whales, with one having broken water right by the boat, surprising and thrilling all.

He will be able to show me his pictures in a couple weeks, he said, when he gets them.

That's right, Howard took pictures on a camera that used old fashioned "film" and has to bring them to a photo place, like in Walgreen's to have the film developed, the old fashioned way.
He said that he took pictures of a light brown colored moss, which they had only encountered after having reached an altitude of about 9 thousand feet, I think he said.

He complained about how expensive everything was ($7 for a beer on the cruise boat) which gave me the impression that he hadn't gotten as rich off his stock portfolio, as some might have thought.
He said that his housemates, Ken and Berta, seemed to have been cold towards him, upon his return from the Arctic Circle, and had been "short" with him a few times at the dinner table.
It is a mystery to him why this is so.

"They kept encouraging me to go on this trip, but now that I have, they seem to resent me," said Howard.

I proposed that, perhaps they had gotten into a fight while he was gone, and were not so much being "short" with him, but rather trying to disguise the fact that they had been at each other's throats, while he was away.

Or that, they discovered that they really liked it when he wasn't around -perhaps it was peaceful in a way that they couldn't have envisioned, and really nice to not have to worry about what Howard was going to eat for dinner each night.

Or that, they, too had no idea just how rich He had become recently, since Donald J. Trump became our steward, and had been testing the waters by suggesting that he live a bit and go on the cruise. Maybe trying to see if he would say something like: "I might as well, I've got a quarter million dollars and when I die, I can't take it with me!," or something.

Maybe, now that they have seen that he had had enough to go on a cruise, they felt that he could have been a bit more generous towards them.
They might just have been upset that he hadn't sent them a post card, to let them know that he was alright,
I don't know Ken and Berta that well. Howard did say that Ken has "an alcohol problem," and can become belligerent when he is drunk, especially on Jameson Whiskey, and will say things that "aren't appropriate to say around a woman." Also, Berta had asked him to leave a few months prior, after he had become abusive, but he had refused.

But, we watched the Patriots game; I was invited back by Howard to see the next couple games that are going to feature the Patriots and told that I could also show up on any given Sunday, as Berta traditionally cooks a dinner on those afternoons, whether the Patriots are on TV or not.

But, I couldn't bring myself to ask him for any cash, as I had a couple dollars and change on me, left over from the 10 I had made Wednesday night, plus the 7 that Rose had paid me back.

Plus, I found the 2 bucks on the ground.

Earlier, I had found a sack of weed, laying in the grass by the trolley stop near Sacred Heart Apartments.

Harold the cat had enough food, as did I. I was out of cigarettes, but am getting sick of them.
Well, it's already 10, I had better get going if I'm going to busk.

Hopefully, tomorrow's post will be about me making 50 bucks in a couple hours, and then having just made it home to let a nervous Harold the cat in the house with me, before the first thunderstorm hit.
Open Shot Editor
I went ahead and put the Windows version of Open Shot on this hard drive, along with the GIMP photo editor, and did a quick video to see that it was working. If it works, then it is.
Since I've been too lazy to reinstall Linux on the newer hard drive, I might as well get the most out of this older one.
I'm happy about the sound quality that I'm able to get with just a mic up in front of me, playing guitar and harmonica and singing, like I do when I busk.
It took a bit of playing around with mic placement, equalization, compression and the right kind of delay and reverb.
But, I think the quality is good enough that all I need is a skillfully done performance, and my stuff will be CD quality.
After I overdub the fake bass, snare drum, plus extra guitars and backup vocals, I should be good to go...

Insert: This Just In...

I was, honest to God, going to post this up probably tomorrow; after having found, while going through the hard drive in this laptop, which is the one out of my old computer; a bunch of "liner notes" written by Elvis Costello.
When I read the following one, it was, coincidentally, right after I had read a "bashing" of Elvis Costello (along with the Grateful Dead) on the blog of Alex in California.
I thought: how ironic that the guy Alex just panned, happened to have worked with this particular guy that he seems to admire as a trumpet player (worked with him in New Orleans, as a matter of fact, and this song might just have been recorded almost across the street from where I used to busk on Decatur Street; near where Lee Oskar lived at one time, too). ...I'm gonna have to show him this...
I was going to post it under the head of something like; "Here's that no-talent guy you were talking about, playing with one of your heroes,"
But, after reading Alex'  blog post from yesterday, I realized that he is probably going to think that this is a response to it; but, it was about to get posted anyway, as a reaction to an older one.

Back in 1983, I wasn't quite ready to listen to "any trumpet playing band," and thought that Elvis had finally succeeded in losing me, in one of the batches of now former fans, whom he fell out of favor with, at an average rate of about 10,000 per album; thinning the herd, one album at a time, reducing him to his current (it has to be assumed, fire tested and loyal) fan base of whatever it is today.

The first and largest exodus certainly occurred after he "went country" and released the "Almost Blue," album of cover songs, originally performed by guys like George Jones.

"Elvis Costello sucks now; he's doing country," I remember a friend of mine saying back in 198(3?).
Having come to expect that I was going to hate every new Costello release that came out (and had seriously considered putting a scratch in the vinyl of some with a nail then trying to get my money back from the record store, telling them that "it came like that" because "this just isn't even music," I thought) I bought "Almost Blue."
It became my beloved go-to volume of "drinking music" that I would listen to on cassette, during my trip home from a bar that I frequented that was about a half hour drive from home.
Funny; that year I probably listened to more country music than a lot of people who only listened to country music; only mine all came from one album...*
*In another example of Elvis' knack for parting with convention, the song "Almost Blue" wasn't on it. It was on "Imperial Bedroom," which lost him his quota of fans, but gained him Ira Gershwin as one.

The "Trust" cassette, I listened to one time and then chucked into a drawer by my bedside where it sat until, about a couple weeks later, I found that I was being plagued by an almost insidious melody that recurred in my head. I racked my brain, trying to think of where it came from, before eventually pulling the drawer open and finding it somewhere near the end of the first side of what would become my favorite cassette for a long time.

But, when "Punch The Clock" came out, which I bought on vinyl and then transferred to a Maxell "high bias" tape which was shiny silver in color, it was like the straw that broke the camel's back.

"There's no fucking way I'm ever going to get into any "marching band" type stuff! Horns are just not rock and roll instruments!" I was adamant.
I screamed at the Elvis on the front cover of it: "Why do you keep doing this to me!?!" 

If I hadn't a good paying job at the time, I would have been looking for a nice nail laying on the ground somewhere.

But, there I was a couple months later, with the horns blasting from the Pioneer speakers in the back of my Colt Turbo, meeting the screwed up looks that glared at me from the sidewalks with a "It's hard to explain" countenance right back at them.

I would have rated the album 85 points out of 100 then, but, 30 years later after moving to New Orleans, I upgraded it to "a work of art." I had gotten used to groups of horn playing street kids on the corner of Bourbon and Canal Streets, with their bass drums and all, a far cry from the nerdy kid named Hubert who played the trombone and never got a date back in high school, in status.

Then, to come across the liner notes and read that...well, I'll let the liner notes finish the story...

From The Punch The Clock Liner Notes

"Shipbuilding" started out as a piano melody composed by Clive Langer. He asked me if I could come with some words that would suit Robery Wyatt... "perhaps something to do with the hours of the clock" being the only clue. Robert had recorded a beautiful soulful version of "I'm A Believer" so I did not feel that the song had to be inspired by current events. Anyway he had a way of narrowing the distance between a simple love song and an obviously political number. Take a listen to his reading of Chic's "At Last I Am Free" and then hear his version of Victor Jara's "To Recuerdo Amanda" and you'll see what I mean.
I was leaving for an Australian tour with Clive's demo in my bag. The government was in the process of reversing their disastrous fortunes by springing to the defense of an obscure and obsolete imperial coaling station and sheep farming outcrop. In as much as you spring to the defense of The Falkland Islands when you are in the Northern Hemisphere and they are in the South Atlantic. Especially after the nincompoops in the Foreign Ministry have done everything possible to suggest to the particularly vicious junta in Argentina that their claim to "Las Malvinas" might go unchallenged if they would only care to invade...Oh what a lovely war. Except that it was never called "A War". It was always referred to as the "Falklands Crisis" and later the "Falklands Conflict". Thank god CNN wasn't what it is today or we'd have had a theme tune and a log overnight: "South Atlantic Storm: The Falkland Countdown".
By the time I reached Australia the bloody liberation was underway. I thought I'd seen it all in the British media coverage: grown men drooling over the hardware, the sick illusion of invincibility before H.M.S. Sheffield was hit by an Exocet missile, The Sun's "Gotcha" headline when 300 Argentine sailors drowned when the Belgrano went down, the construction of the odd heroic myth to cheer everyone up after a series of blunders had lead to a pointless and brutal slaughter of Welsh Guards and of course the Real star of the show: The Prime Minister arriving on our screens each day as if directly from the theatrical costumiers. Sometimes as Boadicea. Sometimes as Britannia. Oh! I nearly forgot the raving lunatic who reared up from the Tory backbenches to suggest a nuclear attack on Buenos Aires. However none of this could prepare me for the depravity of the Australian tabloid coverage. To listen to them the "Poms" were getting slaughtered Gallipoli-style and the "Argies" were eating Falkland babies.
Most of the above was beyond words but the notion that this might really drag on and become a war of attrition seemed as believable as anything else. Ships were being lost. More ships would soon be needed. So: "Welcome back the discarded men of Cammell Laird, Harland and Wolff and Swan Hunter. Boys are being lost. We need more boys. Your sons will do...just as soon as those ships are ready."
For what it's worth this was pretty much the thinking behind the words of "Shipbuilding". That it didn't come pass was a blessing. It was always less of a protest song than a warning sign.
Clive, Alan and I co-produced Robert Wyatt's recording of "Shipbuilding". He sang it beautifully and the single reached many people in Britain. Despite being daunted by the prospect of "covering" the song I wanted to include it on "Punch The Clock" so that it would be heard by a wider audience. As Steve Nieve played the piano on Robert's version I thought we should feature a trumpet soloist on our rendition.
Truthfully my ideal was Miles Davis, though I was probably thinking of the Arabic lines of "Sketches of Spain" rather than his recent fusion records. (I had even attempted to imitate some of those figures in the background voices on both Robert's "Shipbuilding" and "Pills and Soap". This last arrangement also took a cue from parts of Joni Mitchell's album "Hissing of Summer Lawns", although my vocal delivery obviously disguises this quite well.)
If that seemed improbable then what happened next was almost miraculous. I opened the paper to find that Chet Baker was playing a hurriedly announced residency at The Canteen. I went alone to find Chet in a wonderful musical form despite the presence of several drunken bores who would loudly cal for more booze in the middle of some of his most delicate playing. You got the feeling that this happened most nights but it seemed particularly appropriate that the main culprit was said to be one of London's leading jazz critics. Between sets I introduced myself to Chet who was wandering about in the club untroubled by patrons. There is no false modesty in saying he had no idea who I was. Why the hell should he? However he accepted my invitation to come and play on the "Shipbuilding" session the next day. I mentioned a fee. He said "Scale". I think I probably doubled it.
It was a tense but rewarding session. Chet took a little time to grasp the unusual structure of the song but once he had it he played beautifully even if he looks pretty deathly in the studio photos. I'd also say it was one of The Attractions very best performances. At the end of the session I handed Chet a copy of "Almost Blue" a song which was modeled on his style. He ended up recording it but that's another story.
My one regret about the track is that I was tempted to put a spin echo onto a couple of Chet's phrases. I suppose I still had "Sketches of Spain" in the back of my mind. Then again at the time I didn't really understand what composer David Bedford was trying to do in the arrangement of the strings and had them rather buried in the mix. Now I'm really glad that we are all on the record.


Footnote: From then on I always went to see Chet whenever he played in London. Jazz club patrons, who'd probably never heard "Shipbuilding", looked a little startled when he picked me out in the crowd or dedicated a number. We'd have a drink and he'd say funny things about the "jazz singer" who was wowing house with less than a pink dress and little talent. however he seemed somebody that you "knew" rather than somebody you were "friends with". I even interviewed him once for a video special and sang a few numbers, including "You Don't Know What Love Is", with his trio. I think he knew I didn't want to talk about "the drugs". However, despite the fact that he once said in an magazine interview that he didn't care for that fateful echoed phrases he never raised that matter with me and I never got round to apologizing. I guess you can't change history.-Elvis Costello

Alex criticized Elvis as not being "original" in his choice of stage name, for starters.
One can see that the notes are rife with references to other songs/artists/sounds/production approaches, etc. And all his liner notes are equally littered with them -things like: "We ripped off the piano riff from Dancing Queen, by ABBA for the in between verses thing" (on "Oliver's Army").
But, to me that's the same thing as Stephen King describing a character using familiar references, like "somewhere between Jack Nicholson and the Incredible Hulk" in order to help the reader form a mental picture.
And the ABBA riff in that setting is a whole new thing.
(In defense of Elvis Costello)

Born To Live Alone

8:09 AM 10/3/2017
Rose Delivers

A penitent Rose was at my door last evening, giving me 7 dollars as payback for the 5 that she had borrowed on about the second week of the month.

She expressed a hope that I felt better; as she had gotten the note that I slid under her and Ed's door.
I told her that I had made an almost full recovery; except for a lingering cough that will probably take at least a week to go away; less, if I quit smoking.

The flu episode has, at least, kept me away from smoking pot for a few days, long enough so that I have temporarily forgotten about it. I would like to forget about spending 5 bucks a day on the stuff.

When I went out to play on Saturday night, I was pretty much free of pot, caffeine, kratom and alcohol, and became so busy with playing music that it didn't occur to me until the end of the night that I had played sober. I had fun, and discovered the joy of making up lyrics over a chord progression that is so ingrained in me that I could focus upon rhyming words and trying to tell a tongue in cheek story on the subject of killing a roommate.

A Passive Aggressive Ploy

Travis had texted me: "Let me know if you go out to play, and I'll stop by."

He never stopped by the whole night, and at one point, I became glad that he hadn't.

He typically smokes a bowl of weed with me when he stops by -his calling card, in general- and I couldn't help but think that his message was intended to inflict some injury upon me, by getting my hopes up that he would visit and smoke with me.

It is pathetic and endemic in potheads like himself (I speak from experience) that eventually he will feel like he is being used by people who become conditioned to him always smoking them up because he is always smoking himself and they just happen to be around, and who develop more of an interest in his weed than his "company."

A New Sniglet Of Mine: "Pulveric" (relating to, or centering around powder)

He adheres to a pulveric dynamic, such as, how he will hold a bowl of weed before lighting it, as if making the person whom he is going to smoke with wait, and holding the weed hostage with their attention being the ransom i.e. forcing them to listen to his talking until he has given them a satisfactory dose of it.

I'm sure this dynamic has been in play several times before in his life:

Street Musician Daniel Waxes Analytic On Pulverism (right)

Someone would remark upon the fact that Travis had never made it to a given party or event; and the feeling would be mutual that it was his weed, more than his company, that was indeed missed by all, and so, in this regard, it was a shame that he had never arrived.

The one time at my apartment, when he was holding a bowl of weed with the lighter perched near it, and I was kind of in a hurry and had said: "Hey, are you going to fire that up?," he breathed a sigh of exasperation, as if annoyed by my impatience.

More likely, he was suffering from a feeling of insecurity about his ability to get people to like him in general and who would willfully sit there, engaged in a one way conversation with him doing all the talking.

I have seen other such pathetic losers who might have an "eight ball" of cocaine, along with the rapt attention of a group of people, perhaps seated around a table.

Gentlemen and ladies, some of the latter even being pretty, all with their eyes glued to him and their ears perked; intently listening to his tales of  bravado, feigning interest in him and his life, waiting for his hand to go to the pocket that they all know the coke is in, after he has, along with them, come down enough to be craving another line of the stuff.

Then there is the whole ritual of him chopping up the coke into a fine powder and arranging it into rows of lines on a small mirror, while all gathered at the table cast surreptitious glances at it, gauging how much there is, and how many lines he is separating it into. A sudden hush will have fallen over the room at this point.

He might wind up cutting fewer lines than there are people there, a tacit signal that not everyone is going to get one. In this way, he would hold their destinies like the razor blade, between his fingers.
This would be the proper moment for the lesser of his acquaintances to excuse themselves and take  leave, lest they betray themselves as being there only for the guy's coke, and not his company with his interesting stories about himself.

In fact, depending upon the number of lines that the mirror is short, it can often be intuited, who should do this. If the there are, say, three more people than lines, the lines would correspond to three individuals there who could be logically grouped together as being, perhaps, the three whom he had just met that night.
They would squirm in their seats and cast almost imperceptible glances to each other, as if to communicate, "I guess we are going to be cut off now." As their free falling moods, from coming down off the last round of coke are compounded by this perceived reality, they will excuse themselves, and start to get up to leave; in that way, playing their only remaining card.

They would be trying to appear as if they hadn't been just hanging around because the guy had coke, but rather, because they like him and are fascinated by his run-on stories.

This might compel the guy with the coke (who holds all the cards) to say: "Are you taking off? Sure you don't want to stick around? Want another line?"

And then, they would sit back down and rejoin the group, evincing almost imperceptible frowns from other members of it, as they see the prospect of having the same amount of coke, but less competition, diminish.

They might even fancy themselves as being better friends of the guy with the coke, having sat through more instances of him talking about himself; feigning interest and snorting his powder, than the newcomers.

Then, after the guy with the coke takes a snoot full himself, he will separate what's left on the mirror into a number of lines, corresponding to the number of people at the table, but would probably make one of them fatter. This fatter line would be used for the coronation of one of them as his "best" friend, into whose hands he would pass the mirror, and point to the fatter line with the words: "That one's you, right there, Joe."

"Aw, shucks, guy with the coke...I don't know what to say..."

This would be to reward the person's friendship, and to possibly hold him up as an example to the others of how they too, could become better friends to the guy, by being more like Joe. It might be that Joe had brought a bottle of whiskey or some weed to the guy's little party.

But, the verdict would be in, and any resentment that the guy getting the second fattest line might harbor over having been lowered on the totem pole will just have to stew in him and be addressed later, because the second biggest line will have taken precedence over any settling of grievances, or other perceived injustices.

Then, the remaining lines, all of the same smaller size will be graciously accepted by the lesser acquaintances, who had been ready to leave, but had sat back down, to hear another round of stories, told with bravado, by the guy with the coke about himself and his life.

"Know what I did next?" the guy with the coke might ask.

"No, what did you do next? I'm dying to hear, you tell such great stories!" they might all rejoin in unison, or it might fall upon the prettiest lady to voice it, with a twinkle in her eyes.

This would most likely go on, basically until the guy was about out of coke, when all would be bid a good night by the guy with coke, and then as they were all being shown out, the friend who had gotten the fattest lines would be detained by him; to stay and finish the coke, just the two of them, by another glance or motion of the head. He would retreat to a bathroom or somewhere else -out of sight, so as not to "rub their noses" in it; while the rest are ushered out.

OMG! Then what happened?!?

This is why the last time that I snorted coke was in 1985, and I have never touched it since; the reason being that it always turned into the vignette depicted above (I was the guy who got the second fattest line when the mirror was passed on that particular occasion, by the way).

And this is the kind of socialization by drug culture that fits the profile of Travis, who dons dark shades in order to skulk out at night, to deal with his weed source, exchanging a few key phrases, like "just chilling," when asked what he is up to, or "working a lot," in order to hint that doing business was his reason for having put on his sunglasses and gone out to see the guy at his dealing spot. He might throw in "no worries" -a phrase I will always associate with Travis- perhaps in response to the weed guy telling him that he had run out of little baggies and had to put the dope in the cellophane from a cigarette box, or something.

No worries. I'll be locked in my room, smoking and interacting with a computer no matter how I transport.

And so, when Travis had texted me: "Let my know if you're going out to play and I'll stop by," it was part of his way of practicing passive aggression towards me for having read him the riot act over the phone, when I was on the bus on the way to Gretna, after he had apparently not seen my text to him asking for a bit of cash.

A Huge Bunch

I had berated, after all, the most important person in his life. One so self absorbed that, as I have said before, I can write anything I want about him on this blog, without fear of him ever reading it. Because he won't; even though I'm "one of only two people" that he considers friends in all of New Orleans. I wonder if he counts his cat Beast as the other...

His intention in sending the text was to whet my appetite for smoking some of his weed; which could reasonably be seen as a Pavlovian response in anyone who knows him, and who he tells "I'll be stopping by later" in a text message.

And it's a tradition in the drug culture to punish someone this way; to hit them where it hurts the most because they are using them, and seeing them as solely a drug source, and not as an interesting friend, with a bunch of interesting stories; a huge bunch, in Travis' case.

In a genuine friendship, If the latter were the case, then the punishment would take the form of worrying that something might have happened to the guy, causing him to not show up.

But, when drugs become the substitute for friendship (ala the Nine Inch Nails song about addiction where the junkie declares: "Everybody goes away in the end") well, then, you gotta hit 'em where it hurts the most

The anticipation of smoking weed but never getting any would be worse for me than if he had never texted me in the first place. And he would have gotten his revenge upon me for my having spoken badly about the one person who is his all; at the center of his universe; master of the Sega Genesis.

I saw through this ploy, after considering firstly, that he had already physically moved into his new apartment that he's renting from Dorise, and it's a few miles outside the Quarter -an awful long way to travel at night with dark shades on without smashing your face into something along the way. And, secondly, on the same note; he would have had to have taken the bus, and that would have been 2 dollars and 50 cents, round trip and, eh....2 dollars and 50 cents, mmm...that's a lot of money... It wouldn't cost him a thing to stay home, smoking weed and playing Sonic The Hedgehog.
So, I didn't look left and right as I busked, nor be distracted by any thoughts of his possibly showing up and smoking a bowl with me, and hence, never fell victim to his passive aggressiveness.
I soon forgot all about him.

Besides, he would have wound up talking about whomever artist's music I was playing; right over the song, and I wouldn't have stood a chance of getting tipped for our performance in the "spoken word over music" artform.

Honest to God, I started playing a Stone Temple Pilots song the one time he had "stopped by," and, as soon as he recognized it, he launched into something like: "Yeah, The Stone Temple Pilots...they were kind of...I don't really consider them grunge because they kind of came at the tail end of the whole grunge movement....but they do have some grunge elements; and, it's interesting that you were playing that Zepplin song right before it when I walked up, because the Stone Temple Pilots actually covered that song; so the two songs are kind of linked that way; in fact, when I saw them at the Beacon Theater, and they've actually only played one show there, and I just happened to get tickets to it; which was another bizarre thing -how I got free tickets; I'll have to tell you that story some time, that was when I was working at a radio station in New York, which was kind of like THE rock station in New York the 90's, now, but they were more of a classic rock station, and so the Stone Temple Pilots were kind of on the borderline of what they would play...but, anyways, the night before they were supposed to play their show there, the power went out and....etc. etc. etc. etc..." all this, while I simultaneously played the song; making me wonder if he thought I could play the guitar, sing AND still hear him. I don't think it mattered. I think he speaks for mere catharsis.

"That don't confront me none, as long as I get my rent."

So, believe me, his failure to show up was no great disappointment. No worries, at all.

If I wanted to, I could tell him that some guy came by with some really good weed and gave me some, and he had missed out, but I don't even want to waste that much breath on the matter...

He is supposed to take me food shopping, when he gets back from some video gaming convention in New York, on the 10th of October. I suppose I could hold the last of his stuff hostage at my place until after we have done that.
11:31 AM 10/3/2017

The Writing On The Wall Continued: The Abyss

Somewhat secure in the knowledge that Travis was willing to hop a bus over to Gretna to rescue me, should my plasma be rejected, I walked to the plasma lab.
I Lose 4 Pounds

When I weighed in, I found out I had lost 4 pounds over the 4 days since I had last donated; days and nights spent in delirium, having feverish dreams; waking up with the lights on and the radio playing, realizing that I had been dreaming about things like gunmen shooting people at a Country Music festival and another weird one where the musician Tom Petty had died; only to catch the actual news on the next loop.

I passed the initial sign in, and was soon giving plasma, while catching up on reading such things as Alex In California's blog, which used to be about busking in Silicon Valley, but, since Alex changes the subject of his blog like he does socks (assuming that he changes his socks at least once a month) it was about constructing cat water bottle holders, to be marketed internationally on E-bay, or something.

I can only read stuff while donating, because one of my typing arms is strapped to the machine and so I can only click and scroll.

It was informative, in the sense that I gathered, through what I was doing, that a lot of my 40 readers worldwide, who check in at least once a month, a fact that I know because they are not "unique" visitors to the pages; probably do the same as I, and come to this blog maybe once a week and then skim through a whole week's worth of posts.
One Post Per Week Moving Forward?
This reopened an internal dialogue over whether I should start to do one post per week, maybe every Monday, and make it a distillation of the entire week's events. That way it, in theory, could be one long and well thought out post, complete with maybe pictures, drawings or cartoons -things that I often don't have the time or energy to include every day; but which exponentially increase the quality of the post, I think.

The drawback might be that, hindsight wouldn't benefit me. How could I write about my hopes that something might happen in a way that might raise the hopes of readers, right along with me, when I'm writing it knowing that it didn't?

But, the "Readers Digest Condensed" version of a whole week's activity would have been pruned of mundanities, such as "I heated up some instant coffee in the microwave and then sat at my coffee table and sipped it."Unless the oven malfunctioned and threw sparks, causing Sacred Heart Apartments to burn to the ground -that would probably make it to the final draft.

But, if there are indeed 40 or so people who read my stuff, then I suspect it is because they, like The Jerry Seinfeld Show aficionados, might enjoy reading a lot of stuff about "nothing," because there are enough essays about me sitting at my coffee table, to back up that notion.

So, the issue of mundanities had some light shed upon it in that, I do appreciate such things in Alex's blog, such as which bus he took, where he got off, etc.
I have a sort of mental map of the neighborhood where he lives and, when I have the time someday will probably Google-Map the area. Then, if I ever do make it out to California, I will know which post office or which Starbucks is a good busking spot; if Rabbit Trumpet Man hasn't already grabbed the spot...
My image of Alex in California is of his being similar to a certain cartoon character. I'm not well versed in cartoons and am not sure if it is that rooster (Foghorn Leghorn?) that I am thinking of, with maybe a nod to The Three Stooges, but he would be a character that is up with the sun and trying some new thing just about every day.
The opening scene would show the big rooster reading a copy of Entrepreneur Magazine, and then sitting and thinking. It would then follow him into a workshop where he would become a whirling dervish, with elbows flying, tools being used, dust being raised and some curious thing resulting.
Then, would arrive the diminutive rooster.
"What's that?" it would ask.
"Why, this here thing, is a cat water bottle holder, son. Here's how it works!"
Then, he would place the thing down and say "Here, kitty, kitty kitty" whereupon a cat would come along and, thinking it was a scratching post, would tear it up. Then it would be back to the drawing board.

Then he would be seen carrying lengths of PVC tubes.

"Where are you going with those?' would ask the little rooster.

"You'll see, son. You'll see..."

Then after a similar process, the big rooster would be ready to say:
"This here, son is a PVC tube trumpet! The trumpet is one of the first musical instruments ever made; it will never go out of style!"

Then, he would blast a not on the thing and, in cartoon style, maybe the roof would fall in, and the two roosters would be shown scurrying out of the cloud of dust.

Then the sun would come up on a new day.

"What's that?" would ask the little rooster.

"This here is a piece of plywood, and this is some paint. People like signs, son, have you noticed signs everywhere, son? Well, I have!" etc.

That is how I have come to think of Alex in California, after having caught up with his blog, like a Foghorn Leghorn, with maybe a nod to Homer Simpson, like in the episode where Homer opened up his own "computer store."

"This is where all the money is nowadays; computers!!"
The Continuing Story: The Abyss
I finished being drained of plasma, after about a 2 hour ordeal, which included seeing myself referred to as a "scumsucker" on the above mentioned blog.

I then walked to the Gretna Wal-Mart, where I probably doubled the number of white people inside upon entering the place.

I don't like most African Americans for the simple reason that they seem to have no sense of humor, and will take a lot of things literally and not laugh, smile or even respond in any way when I try to make a joke.

Some of my friends are black (for lack of a better cliche) so I'm not racist.

I checked the balance on my Octapharma Plasma card.
"As of September 30th, your balance is negative one dollar and forty four cents..."
Wow.

When I had bought that last shot of kratom off the thing, having throw some change into the transaction, in careful not to exceed the amount that was on it, I must not have been careful enough." was one of the thoughts that raced through my mind.

Why couldn't the machine at the Uxi Duxi have just declined the sale, rather than overdrawing the card and then tacking on a 35 dollar? insufficient fund fee?

I wondered if the plasma place had "forgotten" to log my donation, convenient to them, since I was in line for the big bonus for having made 7 trips to the place for the month. A lot of the other 99% black patrons will harangue the staff on their way out with: "Yo, you logged me in, right, you got me, right? Right?"

"Yeah, it's in there"

But, I had just made my donation, and hadn't hounded them. Maybe I should have, given how critical it was that I get the 40 dollars.

I had a gnawing hunger in my stomach, as I sat in front of the Wal-Mart with no money in my pocket, nor on any plastic card in my possession.

Of course all the people milling about, none of whom I would ask for even a penny, seemed to be a mockery to me, pushing their carts of stuff to their cars.

Let some skeezer come up to me and ask me for a dollar right now; that would put the exclamation point on the occasion, I thought.

Was I actually going to call Travis?

Was I going to walk 4 miles to the house where Howard Westra lives? Howard hadn't returned from his cruise to Alaska, but his housemates, Berta and Ken would probably let me sleep there and feed me. Then, I could call the plasma place in the morning and see if they had accidental lost my paperwork, or something.

I had run out of gas with the notion of "everything happens for a reason," and actually started to wonder: "What have I done to deserve this?"

Ravenously hungry, broke, weak from having been sick then having had my blood platelets drained; I came as close to despairing as I have in a long time. I was ready to stop believing in God. I hate this; I really hate this. If I were to die then, I would really have to wonder, why the hell did I ever live?

I Jump Off The G.N.O. Bridge And Plummet 100 Feet, But Survive Miraculously

What are the odds that a barge loaded with hay would just happen to be.....

Just kidding, I didn't jump off the bridge. LOL!

Just before calling Travis to see if he would come get me, I decided to triple check the balance on my plasma card. My experience with computerized things is that, if you do the same thing, you will get the same result; over and over and....

"As of Septmeber 30th..." Here we go again,

"your balance is 38 dollars and 56 cents..."

I should have breathed a sigh of relief, but just felt numb. I guess, having resigned myself to whatever crappy fate I was dealing with, I resignedly just accepted the fact that it must have
taken the money a little longer this time, to appear on my card. I thanked the same God, whose existence I had been starting to doubt, and then went into the Wal-Mart.

So hungry that I didn't know where to start, I grabbed a mango and some bananas and a frozen can of mixed berry juice. A Rock Star energy drink would be my first dose of caffeine in a couple days, and Harold the Cat would be getting the special treat of a can of Salmon Florentine Fancy Feast food.
After getting an all day bus pass, I got back to Canal Street with just 23 of the 38 bucks left.
A pack of American Spirit cigarettes, some batteries for my spotlight, etc and I was down to 6 dollars. I really need to re-evaluate money, and stop thinking that a 20 dollar tip, for example, is what it used to be.

I grabbed my gear, after feeding Harold the Cat, and went out and made 21 dollars in about 2 hours.

That was a low amount, but it came from sources like an Australian couple who stopped and listened, with the guy having pulled his own harmonica out and jammed along.
They had thrown a dollar in my jar, but I could tell by their body language, with the lady having whispered something to him, that they really felt like they were tipping me well by throwing another 3 or 4 bucks in my jar.

It was like that biblical verse where Jesus said that the poor lady who had given only a farthing had given more than the rich man, because of her financial situation. They hadn't been here long enough to know the value, or lack thereof, of a dollar...

I was happy with the 21 dollars, but most of all happy because I had regained my desire to play music, had gotten over the fever, and had improvised lyrics over a chord change that really seemed to connect to people, as I got a steady flow of one dollar bills throughout the 15 minutes that I played the thing. Just making up words out of my head, but trying to tell a story. I might be on to something.
CD Idea
My latest idea for making a CD, besides calling Dorise Blackman to see if, along with all the properties she rents out, she might have something that I could use as a "rehearsal space," is to overcome another problem I have which is hard to qualify; but the solution is that I'm going to envision 12 different people that I know and kind of make one song with each of them in mind.
In other words, I don't want to record the whole thing thinking that, for example, Tanya Huang the violinist is going to hear it, or to make the whole think fit for the likes of Tim, my caseworker..
I'll "gear" each song to different people, based upon what I think each might appreciate. That way, every piece won't have to display technical mastery, nor will the whole disc have to be a "comedy" disc....
Yup, today, we're going to organize our thoughts on a CD, son!

The Writing Was On The Wall

I didn't go out and busk last (Friday) night; even though the $1.25 for the trolley ride to get there was all the money that I had.
I had walked up to the Uxi Duxi, thinking that I was due a free shot of kratom, on their "get the 7th shot free" program.
As I walked towards the place, having stepped out of an apartment with a newly fixed air conditioner, I felt very weak, had no spring in my step and, worse of all, was not very optimistic.
I had run out of just about everything, I had no cigarettes or coffee and the only food I had was a bag of kidney beans and a can of sliced potatoes. And, I had only tap water to drink; the same water that we had been advised to boil just a week earlier.
I wondered if a shot of kratom would magically mask the symptoms of the flu that I apparently still had, and even make me want to go out and busk on that Friday night.
I found out that I wasn't due for a free shot, because I was only on my 6th. The barista, Dom, still let me sit in there and use the wireless to post yesterdays; "Weak And Famished," post.
I had developed an attitude of acceptance of everything that has been happening lately. If my Lord wants me to go cigarette, pot, coffee and kratom free, in order that I attain some kind of level of consciousness, then, I'm pretty sure that I wasn't going to embark upon a water only fast; at least not this day; but; having gotten the flu and then not busked; run out of money, etc...here I was walking back to the apartment not having had any of the above the previous 24 hours. I was willing to see things that way and to be grateful and in awe of the power of the spirit to bring such things about. Even though I was suffering and felt like a very old man. It occurred to me that, this was how old people passed away. They teeter on the brink of being healthy and just one good case of pneumonia away from dipping to a low that they never come back from. Had I gotten a free flu shot from the nurses that show up every Tuesday at Sacred Heart to administer them? I didn't think so; I was always either asleep at the time of their arrival, or too busy being healthy to bother with it.
I became ravenously hungry, feeling as if the weakness in my body originated in my stomach and was emanating out from it.
Walking very slowly; feeling as if I wouldn't have the strength to jump out of the way if a car jumped the curb and came right at me.
And having no desire to play guitar and sing joyful songs.
There must be music that is suitable for performance by someone who feels like shit, I thought. Some kind of dirge, or perhaps that "Yes, I'm lonely; want to die," song that John Lennon wrote for the Beatles' White Album.
When I did get back, it was about 10 PM. There had been times when I drug myself out there feeling as miserable, just out of sense of duty, or after promising myself that I would thank myself later. There were even times that I recovered from illnesses while busking, so that by the end of the night I felt much better, and had a pocketful of money to boot.
I swallowed down 3 aspirins, thinking that they might improve my mood.
But then, sitting there, I realized that I had no fresh batteries for my spotlight, and strings that were about to break. And, I was out of practice, in a way, and would have to even cut my nails. I even had Travis texting me with messages like: "Dude, you should just take it easy tonight, get some rest," etc.
The thought of all that, made me decide to lie back down and hope that somehow more sleep might invigorate me..
I called Rose and Ed on their land line. They didn't answer. They, too, had gotten their check the midnight before, and were apparently out somewhere.
The thought that there was some kind of spiritual conspiracy to wean me off of everything except the water from my faucet gained veracity.

Then, I started to think about how Travis had shown up earlier that afternoon to grab his TV "Your gonna hate me, but I need to take the TV," he had said.
First of all, he had entered and asked: "How are you doing?"
My answer of "Not too well," seemed not to faze him nor stem the flow of his rant.
"I haven't had a cigarette in like 12 hours," I said.
This cut him off in mid sentence and, after a short pause he asked: "Do you need one?" as he slowly and gingerly reached for his pocket, as if giving me a chance to say no before he actually produced his pack, as if it would be harder for me to turn one down if they were in plain sight.
"Yeah," I said, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I felt.
He probably considered that I was trying to quit them and had made it 12 hours so far, I thought in his defense.
He gave me a cigarette. It was an American Spirit brand, twice as expensive as what he usually smokes. He sends away for bulk tobacco online and uses his own rolling machine and papers to produce the most inexpensive cigarettes possible, usually.
Then, he gave me another one, "for later," he said.
He then excitedly showed me the Genesis game console that he had just bought at the Family Dollar. "It was just 40 bucks, I had to get it," he said to the guy whose place he had stayed at for 20 days in exchange for 75 dollars off his food stamp card, a big bag of cat food, half of which his own cat, Beast, had consumed, and 20 dollars in cash.
Some of that money went into the purchase of cat litter for that same housebound cat that seemed to shit an awful lot, and that seemed to have started a territorial dispute between itself and Harold, my cat, causing Harold to start to also shit in the same box, when he had previously used the box maybe once every 2 months, preferring to meow while reaching for the door knob all other times.
Then Travis showed off a Genesis game console that he had bought "It was only 40 bucks, I couldn't resist," he said, before beginning a lecture on the whole evolution of video gaming and where Genesis and their flagship Sonic The Hedgehog game fit into the picture.
I was, kind of naively I suppose, genuinely happy for him, intuiting that he would be in his own little heaven, locked in his room, smoking pot and playing video games, in between making his living locked in the same room, working for Amazon online.
More than once, he asked me "Is there anything you need?"
Obviously he had made a chunk of money (American Spirits, video game consoles, first month's rent plus security deposit to Dorise, money to stay at the hostel, and of course keeping a bottomless pot pipe) and felt generous.
Was he banking upon my character (flaw) knowing that I would almost never ask anyone for anything, being vocally anti-skeezer, and all?
"Well, I guess I don't really need coffee or cigarettes or weed or my 'daily' energy drink or kratom..." I said, in a tone of voice meant to convey ...but, if you're throwing money around on 43 dollar (with the tax) games and 8 dollar packs of cigarettes, I suppose I could use a little cash...
"OK," he said, as if shrugging off the whole notion.
The next time he asked: "Are you sure you don't need anything?" he added "because you really helped me out and I do consider you a friend; you're actually one of only two people in New Orleans that I consider friends."
I took another stab at it: "Well, I'm totally out of food until next Thursday (a week away) and feel too weak to go out and play, plus my spotlight batteries are about dead; my strings are about to break, and I really just feel so shitty that I don't think I can bring myself to sing "I Feel Good," by James Brown, complete with the 'Owww sock it to me!' part."
I think Travis has figured out how to "play me," as street people say, because he paused, as if waiting for me to add: "But, Rose and Ed owe me 5 bucks and I know they got their money last night. They haven't been answering their phone, but if I get that, I suppose I could buy some dollar store batteries for the spotlight and a trolley ticket, and then go out (with a 100 degree fever and try to sing 'I Feel Good) and play. I might have a decent night and then be out of the woods..." which I added.
"OK," he said, as if that settled in his mind that one, out of his pair of friends in New Orleans might get 5 dollars, and would be just fine.
"Your going to hate me," he then said, "But I have to take the TV."
He took the TV and then left.
Night fell and Rose and Ed's phone continued to go unanswered.
I guess I was in for the Friday night.
When do you draw the line? When do you decide that the deck is just stacked against you and just throw in your hand? When do you stop framing dire circumstances opportunities to overcome big time -the bigger the obstacles are, the harder they fall, type of thing?
When do you stop counting on people like Travis and Rose and Ed, and just grab your guitar and gear and trudge to your spot, on the verge of passing out with every step and vulnerable to any predator who preys upon the weak, and then play as well as you can, and sing with a head cold, knowing that some tourists are going to think that you're not a very good singer and will conclude that throwing you a dollar is only going to encourage you along a path that is obviously going to lead you to disappointment; and that the only way you are ever going to make a change in your career path and hopefully find your bliss elsewhere is if you aren't making a cent doing what you are doing; tough love in action?
And knowing that playing in the dark is going to cause tourists to cross to the other side of the street before encountering you, because a guitar neck can kind of look like a rifle barrel from that distance if its in the dark?
These were the thoughts that I had while drifting back to sleep, with all the lights on, and after having slid a note under Rose and Ed's door, telling them not to hesitate to knock whenever they return so they can give me the 5 bucks; so that I can go and sell my plasma the next day, feeling like a heel for lying on the "have you had any flu or flu-like symptoms in the past 6 days" question.
The fever climbed back up, and I woke up in a puddle of my own sweat, early Saturday afternoon.
I looked at the clock. There was time to make it to the plasma place, without having to jog any part of the way, or be at the mercy of the bus showing up at a particular time.
I had a dollar and a quarter and 15 pennies to shamefully chunk into the bus meter, while a busload of mostly black people who had mostly just gotten their government checks smiled from their seats.
I was ashamed for having taken one of the acetaminophen/oxycodone pills out of Travis' stuff, and having replaced it with a few aspirin; I could have, should have, called and asked his permission. The worst he could have said was: "Dude, I kind of need them because my back still acts up, especially when I'm sitting for hours, playing with my Genesis console that I spent 43 dollars on; money that would have made a nice gift to you as a token of my appreciation because "you really helped me out;" and would have allowed you to recuperate properly from the flu with plenty of fluids and rest, negating your need to pose a public health risk by selling blood plasma rife with the virus like a veritable 'Typhoid Daniel' so, no, I can't let you take any of my pills." Right?
I did text Travis, when I was on the trolley headed down Canal Street towards the hostel where he was staying. He had left my place one day short of his allowance of days, to leave himself the option of coming to pick up his stuff before the end of the month. If the security people were to check, they would see that he was allowed in the building that one more time. Amazing how meticulous his planning was, when it involved his own welfare, I thought. I also thought about the 19 bucks that he was apparently ready to pay to stay at the hostel that particular night, so as to leave that option open.
I asked him for a little bit of cash; at least 5 bucks.
He didn't answer right away, and hadn't before the 115 bus came and whisked me away on my gambit; penniless; and gambling that my temperature would be low enough when I got there, that they would buy my stuff. It would be my 7th such sale of September and I would get 40 dollars.
When it had been him, sitting on the church steps outside Sacred Heart, not feeling well, and wanting me to drop what I was doing at the Uxi Duxi to go there and let him inside because he just wanted "to lie down" in my apartment (where his pot was, also) he was texting me every 5 minutes or so, and answering me just as quickly.
I texted him again, while going across the bridge into Gretna -the bridge that it is illegal to walk across, so that I would be risking a trip to jail if I wound up having to do so. "Never mind, already on bus."
I thought about the 2 cats in the apartment for the 30? 45? 90? days that I might be locked up for for trespassing on the bridge.
Then, he called.
He was full of apologies for not having seen my text asking for money.
He had been in the St. Roch market, he said, with some friends that he had made at the hostel; and hadn't heard the text alert.
I basically read him the riot act, for the edification and amusement of the busload of passengers going over the bridge.
I mentioned the fact that, while at my place he had conjured up hundreds of dollars to give to his new landlady, Dorise, told him that I was sorry to have interrupted his shopping spree in the market with my annoying request for money that might be my only hope of making it back home, and then told him to play a few games of Sonic The Hedgehog for me on his 43 dollar game console that he had just had to have, etc. I apologized, myself, for the mood that I was in, using the excuse that all I had eaten in the past 24 hours was a can of sliced potatoes and some red kidney beans, boiled in the tap water that he may be familiar with if he reads the newspaper headlines.
It just occurred to me now, as I write this, that nobody on that bus, after having heard my problems yelled into a phone offered me any help whatsoever. What is living in New Orleans like, have you ever wondered? Well, there's a pretty good answer...

Travis then apologized again and pretty much convinced me that he had had no idea of what I was going through. I became convinced that he is as thick headed; and well intention-ed; as my other friend, Howard Westra -the one who would ask things like: "Having a salad?" when I was sitting there having a salad.
He offered to get on the bus to Gretna to come get me and bring me back. "Give me a call later to let me know if you need help," he said.
I hung up the phone, noticing as I did that its battery was almost dead; zero "bars." The writing was on the wall.
To be continued...