Protest Songs

 I haven't made my nightly run to any store. I was just putting on my sneakers in order to go do so when I heard raindrops pelting my window and the sibilant sound of tires on wet asphalt on Canal Street.

I guess that means that people walking along the sidewalk can hear my guitar amp when I'm doing my music; that would explain the glances I sometimes get through the window.

Being the cynic that I am; I always envision them thinking that there might be a party going on with a live band and maybe they could crash it in order to skeeze beer, weed, girls etc.

But, the rain has stopped now, and I have 20 minutes to get down to The Fresh Market, where I will most likely get a decent but cheap bottle of red wine.

I have a pork roast in the oven at 240 degrees, and will make a good veggie juice drink to go with it; and red wine will be divine with it.

I have gone a whole 18 hours without drinking.

I think the problem is my resiliency. I feel so damned good after I do prune juice, take the morning dump, and then drink only kratom and tea and carrot/apple/kale juice the whole day, that the recovery is marked, and I feel bullet proof.

Now I have 17 minutes...later...

Samuel Adams Octoberfest and Sunday Night Football on Thursday Night

 Well it was yesterday morning I said a short prayer about staying sober the whole day.

The opportunity I have, to come through this political virus with something to show for it is blaring.

I actually came out ahead because I am making more money by being unemployed than I ever did busking, outside of the few nights which were the anomalies, where I made 50 bucks an hour playing.

Now I am watching the football game, even though I should have shut the TV off, on principle, as soon as the brainwashed sheep and tools for those whose only agenda is to regain power over this rich nation, reared their heads by not rearing their heads for the National Anthem.

It so reminds me of a defense attorney trying every avenue he can in order to get some kind of mistrial or otherwise extricate a menace to society from the tentacles of the justice system.

No matter what the prosecution say's, it then becomes his job to poke holes in the arguments, raise doubts, and in a lot of cases, move to suppress evidence which clearly points ot his client's guilt from the record.

Every damned thing that the president does, they step up and say: "Well, I would say that..." and then they throw whatever they can pull out of their ass at him as criticism, concluding that this man is not fit for the office, yadda yadda...

The guy makes a good president. Period.

Maybe nice guys finish last when it comes to presidenting a country.

Not many people outside of New England like coach Bill Belichk, who has basically dominated pro football the past 20 years. He is a lousy interview, he gives short answers void of sound bites and, of course, and this is on point with the society that we now live in, he has been accused of cheating.

The Patriots knew that the footballs were deflated a bit, to make it easier for Tom Brady to grip the things in the cold weather. But, didn't the opposing quarterback use the same damned ball? Yeah, but....

But what?

So, it is some people's job to ignore the fact that Trump has been able to accomplish great things because he wasn't a cog in some machine.

The whole dynamic of planet earth right now is contingent upon the separation of all "people of color" from all people who are not "of color" i.e. white people. Period.

It is easy for a person who has low self esteem and feels inferior to the core to cry out for "justice." Sure, they want a piece of the pie.

It is a sin that some people "have to" work for minimum wage. They have to; they have no choice.

Well, maybe if they never bothered to improve themselves in any way or manage to contribute in some way (and become compensated commensurate with that contribution) then sure, they might feel like slaves.

Why should they, whose lives matter, be slaving away for minimum wage, when the visionary who saw opening a hamburger joint on every corner of every city sits behind a desk raking in billions a year? His life doesn't matter any more, why does he get so much?

You don't have to work for minimum wage; you can crawl under a rock and die. Of course, some do-good-er will come along and rescue you; we can't have people dying under rocks in America; this country is greater than that.

When we had the hydrogen bomb, back in '45, we didn't press our advantage and try to take over a world that was ripe for it. No, we eased off and tried to act based upon higher ideals.

We took our knees off their necks.

Now we live in a world where the people under 30 years old aren't worth a shit, for the most part.

I almost rue the fact that they get to live here.

It started out as kind of a joke; us taking all the colored people's money. 

Feeding them food at McDonalds that they would no no better than not to eat; so as to fuel the pharmaceutical industry on their diabetic high blood pressure sinus clogged asses. But white people liked it too, for a while.

And then when Michael Jackson came out and tap danced to the delight of all, it became clear that there was gold in them there hills.

So, open up the floodgates to let hip hop flow, with the tacit understanding that "it's just a song" and kids really shouldn't strive to be thugs and uncivilized savages; it's just a song.

But, if you don't have a good father to be a role model, then, well, you get what you get.

And so we grabbed a bunch of their money, with the fact that the rappers made a lot of money (apparently) as the selling point.

Then, Tiger Woods came along and "broke into" a game that previously was a white man's game.

But, before he broke Jack Nicklaus's record for major tournaments, and was in fact (and will perpetually be) just one major victory short of the record; he revealed himself to be just another nigger.

He cheated profusely on his wife, who was white. He couldn't control himself. A black man just can't.

Bill Cosby...O.J. Simpson...

I saw young black kids at a golf course toting a set of clubs for the first time around 1996.

There they were; defiant and just rapaciously after the money that they worship. The stuff that their favorite artists brag about in their raps.

The white man came to the general realization that "money doesn't buy happiness." 

The blacks are way behind the curb. They are going to have to go through a huge struggle in order to obtain what they think is the key to happiness. Then, they might be in a position to realize that money doesn't buy happiness.

It is people with deep seated low self esteem who would conclude: "Yeah, but I'm making millions!"

There is such a disparity in the spiritual evolution of people that it mirrors the supposed economical situation, with the "1%" holding half of the money in the world.

There is a "1%" that holds about half of the Christ consciousness in the world.

But, funny how nobody seems as adamant about clamoring  for that status.

Well, enough of my soapbox speech. I'm going to get a nice piece of crack and smoke it while I watch a new video I downloaded that features a lot of pretty women pissing into the mouths of random guys.

 to that

 

The Left Brain Room

 

I moved my laptop into the bedroom in an attempt to address the bad habit of not blogging every day, like I used to do.

Not bad so far; two days straight..

But, every night as the sun goes down, I am compelled to get on my bike and go to get the first beer of the night.
"Money is the worst thing that you can give to an addict" someone once said.

I Just Watched Golf Today

 Saturday, both replacement cards were stacked in my mailbox; and I reactivated them and went on, as if the previous week had never happened.

94 Points, my ass...

There was more money on the unemployment card, that's balance benefited from my week away from it; and the food card came with the early hurricane "Laura" money already on it.

It was easy to reorganize my thinking over the past week and start making a list of things like "a belt" and "a new credit card wallet" along with "toilet paper" and the other suspects.

Maybe it would have been a golden opportunity to give up drinking, but I had seen a bottle of wine at Rouses Market, which was rated at 91 points by The Wine Enthusiast and was marked down to 12 bucks a bottle. This is 3 times what I like to spend on just "table" wine, but I took a chance on the stuff and found it to be just an alright flavor and too light bodied; almost watery, as if they actually had stretched the batch by adding a bit of water to bring the vats right up to the top.

Day 3 Of Fast Marred By Baby Lima Beans

 The title of the post say's it all.

Every apartment at Sacred Heart, it seems, is well stocked with all kinds of foods that will keep you alive, but which hardly anyone likes.

Bags of kidney and all other kinds of beans abound. Noodles and rice.

It would be possible to live off of noodles and canned vegetables here.

Boom! More Than Just A Book By Tom Brokaw

A Foreshadowing or Two

Little did I know, when I emerged from the Goodwill Store Sunday afternoon with an armful of books and a brand new (to me) Black and Decker juicer, that I was setting myself up for the week that was to come.

Last week, at Wal-Mart, buying the new tire and tube that I am riding around on, I had grabbed about a dozen cans of food for Harold, in some of the different varieties that I have seen only there, like chicken and scallops. I was also preparing for this week, without realizing it.

I have been accumulating pandemic unemployment assistance funds on my Master Card, and was also notified that, because of hurricane Laura, food stamp money in Louisiana would be arriving on the first of the month (tomorrow) and not on the regularly scheduled days, determined by the last digits of recipients social security numbers.

So, everything seemed to be hunky dory as I went out for a bike ride around mid day.

The Beer Cave

I stopped at the Shell station, which is run by some Arabic speaking people who are a stark contrast to the one's who run the Brown Derby across the street from it, in the way they treat me.

At the Shell, I have had the experience of having one of their employees, the oldest looking one, drop what he was doing in order to jump on a register and ring my stuff up, as soon as he saw that I was second in line at the other register.

The whole staff there seems to be trying to woo white people's business.

And, as nice as they are to me, I have heard them pushing back against mostly women of color into verbal encounters.

I am pretty sure they are from some male dominated culture like Armenia, and are rubbed the wrong way by any aggressive displays by females.

The black lady had handed the cashier a bunch of change and said something like: "You can count it."

What seemed clear to me, from what I overheard of the encounter from the beer cave where I was, was that she didn't want to have to count out the right amount only to hand it to him so he could recount it, to verify that it was correct.

But, I guess it was a few cents short, whereupon the woman raised her voice, and the situation devolved into name calling before she stormed out of the place; all over a few cents.

I was in the beer cave Sunday, picking 2 Guinness Stout's out of a lone six pack that had only five left in it.

One of the employees greeted me and in very broken English seemed to be pointing out the fact that I had recently fallen into the habit of going there "four times a night."

He seemed to be trying to tell me something, but in a friendly way. Maybe the staff were concerned about my drinking. For a long time, I would only get energy drinks from there, and for a while, a pack of American Spirits. The cashiers started to pull my brand of them (dark blue) down from the rack as soon as they saw me coming in, and have them already on the counter, ready to be rung up. But I had never been going there "four times a night" for those things.

It was a curious encounter, and I still am not sure what the guy was trying to tell me. Perhaps one of the night cashiers linked the frequency of my going there to there being "something going on" with it.

Why don't I just buy a 12 pack and get the thing over with for the night?

I would save a lot of money over buying them at the singles price, two at a time...

But, I am usually cautiously optimistic that "this" will be the night when I enjoy beer sensibly by drinking just a couple of them, paired with a good meal of steamed broccoli in an olive oil and mushroom infusion, poured over whole wheat pasta with maybe a little Feta cheese sprinkled over it; and would be satisfied with that and would relax and enjoy the evening and get something productive accomplished.

In that scenario, about a couple hours after eating and drinking, I might crave more beer, but would have the onus of pedaling my bike there and back, once again, to get it; braving the slight element of danger involved in riding a bike at three in the morning through the streets of New Orleans, and this might help me to cut down on drinking more than would the "deterrent" of having to walk to the fridge and bust another couple bottles out of the 12 pack box.

This has kept my limit right around the eight bottle a night level, entailing the four trips to the Shell and back. 

This is about where the twain meet between the alcohol induced fatigue and resultant dip in motivation; balanced against the desire for two more bottles.

Factoring in the extra labor of pedaling to the store and back and the remote, but still present danger of being knocked in the head with a baseball bat and having the bike, along with the two beers stolen from me

I would have to then make the trip again on foot, to replace the 2 beers, probably without the aid of my glasses, which would be laying mangled in the grass somewhere (to be searched for in the morning light) and with blood running down my forehead into my eyes, further blinding me and making it harder to see then next guy with a bat in the complicated shadows of that oak tree lined walkway.

That is usually enough to tip the scales and make me forgo the procurement of beers number 9 and 10.

I tried to convey that to the friendly and seemingly concerned store employee. Maybe his concern was related to the fact that for the longest time, I never bought alcohol, but now I was being seen staggering in there at four in the morning for the fourth time any given night. He just wanted to make sure I was alright, I guess; but it gave me something to think about...

I bought the two bottles of Guiness Stout and then stood for a few minutes in the sun, rolling the first one back and forth in my hands to warm it up to stout drinking temperature. This is about 10 degrees warmer than what the average beer cave is kept at. And this is an allowance made for other beer that is in it, which are pallid American brews that start to taste nastier with every degree that they warm up to, such as Budweiser.

I was thinking that the B vitamins and the carbohydrates in such a fine brew would be almost like a meal for me. I was getting pretty skinny there a couple months back, and since starting to drink at least two beers a night have put on about 5 pounds, so there's that benefit, I thought

The devil's advocate in my brain was, of course saying; "Then why don't you just get the non alcoholic variety of Guiness Stout, the "N.A." variety; that has all the same nutrients, but won't sabotage your endeavors?

Alcohol, as has been well documented here, is something that I have to be very careful around. 

Ninety nine percent of the days that start with beer for breakfast, end up with that day being chalked up as "wasted", or worse, "a disaster."

This one would end up in "disaster", but wouldn't be wasted, as we shall see.

I think I have the core belief that, since a lot of creative juices seem to be able to flow through me that I am thus being "given" a lot by my creator, and so, a lot is expected of me in return. There is just no wiggle room to allow for drinking.

I can fathom this, at the cerebral level, but as far as putting it into practice; I had to note that I was, once again, on this Sunday afternoon, postponing yet one more day, the return to a life of cleansing and fasting, and the cold turkey withdrawals from all things addictive. Reaching a point where I would wake up first thing in the morning, drink a glass of freshly boiled water, meditate, jog a few miles, then return home to maybe do a shot of kratom and get right to work on the project of the day, as is expected of me.

Is kratom an addiction of mine? Well, when I consume it too fast and feel myself ready to vomit, I grab a huge cup to catch the puke in, so I can re-drink it (unless I'm sitting on a 20 ounce bag of it) so you tell me...

I was still working on that first stout, which was delicious and nutritious when I arrived at the Goodwill Store. 

Out of sheer good will, I left the second bottle in the holder on my bike as I locked it up, thinking that maybe the vitamins in it might nourish the crack addled and meth messed up brain of a skeezer and set her on a path towards sanity

The stout was really so good that I wanted to turn someone else on to it, even a thief...

This is in contrast to what I had done a few days earlier when arriving at the apartment building with a 12 pack of Abita lager, and telling Freddie, a black man: "This is Abita lager!" after he tried to skeeze one off me, as soon as he saw that I had 12 of them, whatever they were.

"Black people don't like this kind of beer; you guys always drink Olde English, or Milwaukee's Best. You probably won't like it..."

Yup, I actually said that to Freddie, who is probably about 55 years old and is very skinny, and has been living at Sacred Heart since I got here.

Freddie actually left grimy hand prints on the wall just inside my apartment about a month after I moved in. I had propped the door open a bit to allow Harold the option of following me as I took the trash out to the dumpster, or to think about it while I was doing so and then meet me at the door on my way back in.

As I stepped out into the parking lot, I saw Freddie and a couple of other guys working under the hood of a car. Freddie was just taking a break from it and heading towards his apartment to use the bathroom or something, and he passed me on his way in, as I was coming out with my trash.

When I got back to my place, Harlod had not only not come to the door to be let out, but was hiding under the bed. On the wall, just inside my door was a set of black hand prints that appeared to be composed of automotive grease.

Since it had taken me only a minute to dump my trash, and I was actually able to place Freddie at the scene, after seeing him walk past me with grease covered hands, it wasn't a far stretch of the imagination to conclude that he had entered my place and run his hands down my white walls. I mean I had his dog gone hand prints as evidence! The prints were about a foot apart and then trailed downward a couple feet.

I remember thinking that, unlike the jury in the O.J. Simpson trial, who acquitted the knife-ster because of the .0000098 percent chance that it was not his blood on the bodies and in his vehicle, mingled with the blood of the victims, and on the gloves that he apparently could never have worn to commit the crime (because they would have been too tight and uncomfortable) I had no such "reasonable" doubt about Freddie's guilt.   

So, I guess it was a little bit of payback, albeit 3 years late, for his having done that. "This is really more for white people, that's the only people who drink this..."

So, I left one in my bike rack and then went inside Goodwill to make what would be one of my last purchases for the next week to come.

There, I saw several books from the "Best Short Stories of (years 1989 through 2019)" series. The eight volumes that I found were all different years than the three that I already owned. And, at 50 cents each (them being softcover) I grabbed all eight.

Then, there was another rare sight in there, not one, but two juicers, with the Black and Decker one seeming to be more heavy duty than the other one they had, and a couple bucks cheaper at $13.99.

There was a pretty long line at the register, so I put the stuff down and then went out to polish off the other stout, which was still there.

Now, I was even more set up to engage in the juice fasting and reading and everything else that I had been postponing through each day spent drinking beer and falling asleep rather than sitting up to read..

To celebrate the success of the Goodwill trip, I stopped at the Brown Derby and bought two cans of a very good IPA ale that's name escapes me, but is made by a local brewery. I had to buy two to cover the 5 dollar minimum.

And, off I rode towards home, sipping the ale on my way to drop the juicer and the books off.

Then I decided to keep riding my bike around in the sunshine and fresh air, but stopped for more ale at a couple places, to include Whole Foods where they put my gallon of distilled water and other items into their only option of a paper bag.

I have learned that any weight over five pounds in those paper bags will cause the flimsy paper handles on them to break, especially when hung from the handle bars of a bike, especially when that bike goes over any kind of bump.

By the time I got home, I was drunk enough so that when the paper bag finally busted open, as it was doomed to do because of the condensation from the frozen items having moistened the paper and weakened it; and as I stooped to gather up apples that were rolling around on the floor, I had pretty much decided that I had had enough of beer drinking for now.

The only problem would be how to discipline myself in just quitting everything cold turkey.

Not a problem at all because, somewhere along the way my little credit card holding wallet had fallen out of my back pocket as I rode; and so I was suddenly without any cash or food stamp money, and will have to wait between 7 to 10 days before having any.

I am kind of glad because now I can fast and cleanse for a week like I've been meaning to do for three months now, and hopefully break the beer for breakfast habit.

Trump To Dole Out 10 Trillion In Stimulus Money In Mid October

So, Donald knows that if he hands the good citizens of the USA, copious amounts of cash money -in order that they be able to cope with the "horrible, terrible" virus without missing a beat (a beat in this case being a cigarette a beer a joint, plenty of Little Debbie cakes as well as other food, etc) that the 10 trillion dollars, or whatever, is going to be spent, in short order; and redirected, through taxation, right back to the coffers of the local state and federal reserves.

The family of the convicted violent felon who went and got himself shot...

Real American citizens, will be able to just sit back, "unemployed" and watch Youtube, drink and get high, and wait for the nice checks to appear in their mailboxes.
They will run out and spend it. They will have to, just for ordinary staples.

 

And with every transaction, the government will get a piece, until the money is all "gone" and back in the coffers of the government.
 

In due time, all the commoners will be broke again; but they will hopefully have lived high off the hog, and accumulated a lot of nice toys.

This will keep an economy going of people scrambling to meet the demands of this now "nigger rich" segment of the population (who might be quickly amending their opinions of the president) -who are now making more money by sitting on their ass, sheltering in place, and not leaving the house, type of thing.

But, they will all be broke. Which means that all the money would have been recouped by the state and federal entities and then, guess what?

Donald J. Trump can then give us all "another" 10 trillion dollars!!!

 

Right before the election, and most people won't realize that it is the very same 10 trillion that he had already given out, and then collected back through taxation.
 

The same huge ass sum of money can be given out over and over again. This is how a "rich nation" winds up actually looking like one.

The only caveat is that it might devolve into something like socialism. But wouldn't actually look like it, unless a majority of people become really lazy and quit their jobs, if they are "lucky" enough to be "essential" workers. If they would rather sit and collect unemployment, this could become a problem.

I mean the real purpose of the insurance is to protect people like myself. If I were to go out and play my harmonica in public just to support myself, I could become like the Typhoid Mary of New Orleans, and we just cannot abide that, here.

So, I have to relegate myself to collecting twice as much as I averaged busking for sitting at home, and working my other job.

This is one that I was "offered" through my dark web connections, and basically involves sitting at my computer and mailing in votes for Donald Trump in the guise of all the corona fatalities, who aren't available any more to do so themselves. Almost 7,000 dead people have already voted Red, and it makes me snicker to think of how the Democrats are so adamant about keeping the mail-in ballot thing operable. The post office is working fine, imo.

But that is a deep dark web secret that my having installed the Tor browser and a "virtual private network" has opened up to me, and given me a chance to become a true patriot. It is tedious, working as an envelope stuffer, but the whole "Bourne Identity" aspect of it fascinates me. It kind of sheds some light upon why Donald doesn't seem to be concerned with escalating numbers of "corona" deaths. They are all going to vote for him from beyond the grave -such a white collar, intelligent white man counter punch to the BLM, and antifa idiots, who only know how to raise their fists and drink the Kool Aid...

One of the biggest benefits of this "pandemic unemployment" arrangement is that only valid U.S. citizens will be benefiting from the nice sums added regularly to their debit cards. 

 

The illegal undocumented folks will be "out back" as they used to say in Jacksonville, Florida.

This means they will miss the boat, and will have to work (menial jobs probably) in order to survive, while their U.S. citizen contemporaries are watching Youtube sheltering in place, and making more money than they, who sweat in the hot sun as they tote 80 pound bundles of tar paper up ladders to rooves 45 feet above.

 

"GET OUT!!"

Maybe a lot of them will say: "Screw this, America just isn't the scam it once was," and will become citizens, so they can get a piece of the 11 trillion dollar pie." (yes, my fictitious amount just went up a trillion; I guess Trumpism is infectious).
And, so after dealing the illegals a blow, and having provided in a concrete way for the working man who will be out of work indefinitely -as long as Donald wants to keep the Covid19 based economy going- and with the stock markets hitting record highs, in order to satiate the billionaires of the country, Donald can relax a bit and maybe take up a leisurely hobby like creating a reality show called "Face Off With Donald," which could be on every night and wherein people of all walks of life, Never Trumper's and all, can sit in an oval office turned studio and grill the guy and see if they can best him in an argument, to the entertainment and delight of the nation every night, and on every major network.

 At those whose arguments are particularly anti-American; Donald can point his finger and say: "GET OUT!!" whereupon they would have to leave the oval office with their tails between their legs, escorted by armed security.

 

Donald can then stare into the camera and talk to us, scold us, threaten us, update us on the state of the union, whatever. The show would hopefully be his most pressing engagement in an otherwise peaceful and stable world.

And, about the "prison towns" where all the leftist Democrats (who were rounded up and incarcerated the Christmas Eve after the election) are to be housed. They will be outposts where detainees are treated with the utmost human dignity and provided for with the finest food and medical services; even offered a chance to hold their own elections and have their own governments. They can work and farm and sell their products to the outside for U.S. currency, but, should they be too much anti capitalist to capitulate to such a manipulative and anti-spiritual treatment of a human being, can just get everything for free. Those places will be oasis's of Socialist Utopia within our borders. The only difference between living there, for the antifa and BLM inhabitants, and living in a full fledged Socialist nation would be the razor wire encircling the community. Just the razor wire.

The Same Experts Are Trying To Forecast The Weather 50 Years From Now

Hurricane Marco disintegrated, while veering away from us, and we only felt a couple drops of rain, as we waited behind our sandbags, stocked to the gills with batteries and water and peanut butter. 

How scientists can conclude that we are in state of "global warming" using the same toolbox is a real head scratch-er. 

Unless data is being used "politically" -the first thing one has to consider here in 2020. 

Things have been going pretty well here. It has been a trade off lately of drinking wine along with great food, but not so much that I am passing out and not getting some other things done. 

 Like Putting A New Tire On The Bike 

I put a brand new tire on the bike, one that was actually labeled "700C" which is the exact dimension that is etched into the wheels of my bike. I then found a tube which denoted: "Also fits 700C" I haven't had such a feeling of correctness in a long time. I inflated it to 55 pounds, as the instructions were to put it between 50 and 75 pounds, and the thing is solid as a rock with plenty of deep tread grooves and has been endowing my apartment with that nice rubber smell that we all love.

Should I Buy A Pistol?

I guess I have until the day after the next presidential election to decide that (although I'm going to want to take it out to the Bayou and practice shooting stuff with it).

I remember liking a .32 caliber one that a friend of mine had back in the 80's.

A Heterosexual Couple of Hurricanes, Marco and Laura Coming To Visit

Please Don't Blow Off My Head!

Send it all through the juicer; all of it!!

Now is the time to run to the store to stock up upon 72 hours worth of supplies while I can still do so without getting drenched, or worse, having my hat blow off my head.

72 hours worth, hmmm...So I guess 2 cases of beer and 3 cans of cat food.

Yesterday, I minimized the damage due to my having resumed alcohol consumption by getting a bottle of red wine.

I got home and threw some mushrooms in a skillet with some olive oil and put the heat on low-medium.

While these sizzled, I fed collard greens into my juicer.

After the thick green juice started sluggishly oozing out the spout of the thing, I sent some carrots through, which produce a lot more juice to help rinse the greens through the system, and then some apples, to balance the tart sourness of the collard greens and help the carrots to sweeten up the concoction.

Since I had shopped at the Fresh Market, I was able to add some cactus and some things that are supposedly radishes, but are oblong and yellowish-tan in color. Along with some conventional red radishes and a few other things that I had grabbed (with no idea if the whole thing should be eaten, or if the skin needs to be peeled off because it is poisonous) it all went into the juicer, until I had a 24 ounce cup of an incredibly tasting liquid.

Perfection was achieved after I scooped the fried mushrooms out of the skillet and just added them to the drink, which quickly cooled them down from scalding to just warm. The drink was warm and delicious, the perfect complement to chips and fresh, store made, "pico de gallo."

Washing it all down with the 4 dollar bottle of  Gallo Cabernet Sauvignon made for a taste experience which was out of this world; and made the wine taste like a 40 dollar bottle.

This healthy fare, along with the body building supplements and vitamins I have been taking made me feel the way I used to 20 years ago.

I like to go there just to see all the colorful people who shop there...

I used to drink red wine every night, but only the fixed amount of down to the bottom of the label on the front of the bottle. This would leave about a half a glass for the next night, in order to compare its taste to whichever other kind I would get. This helped me sort through the gamut of wines under 10 dollars a bottle in order to find the best values.

I have always considered Woodbridge (always around 7 bucks a bottle, and the standard "table wine" served at a lot of restaurants when people order a glass) to be the measuring stick of all other wines under ten bucks. For some reason, the Fresh Market has it for $4.99 a bottle. That store inexplicably has some items priced way higher than the competition ($2.29 for a can of pineapple that is $1.29 at the Family Dollar across the street, and $3.99 for a hand full of collard greens when an arm full is the same price at Rouses Market) and just as baffling are things like the Woodbridge Cabernet Sauvignon at half the price of everywhere else.

But, with the two hurricanes on the way, I guess I'd better close this out and go down there before we all feel the first drop of rain.

I Need To Do Better

I really haven't come up to speed with the world, yet, which has the people at the equator moving around 7 miles per second.

The Whip was good

But that is a relative speed; just ask Einstein. Since the earth is moving around the sun at a particular speed, the earth's rotation would not have them moving at a constant 7 miles per second. Twice daily that speed would be realized when the tangents line up, but for half of the day one would be traveling faster than that, offset by the other half of the day when you would be rotating counter to the solar orbit. Maybe this is really where "biological clocks" become set.

It would be like installing a bunch of small merry-go-rounds onto the hub of one huge merry-go-round, so that the persons experience of revolving and going up and down would be further enhanced by the whole merry-go-round she is on going around and up and down along a greater arc.

There was a ride called "The Scrambler" in the park where I went as a kid which achieved this motion, by having seats that spun around, attached by long arms to a hub, which itself rotated. (there was another ride in Whalom Park in Lunenburg, Ma. called "The Whip", which I am at a loss to remember the mechanics of, but I remember it being one of my favorites. Update: Oh, look, there it is above!).

The Scrambler, Twist, Twister, Cha Cha, Sizzler, or Merry Mixer, is an amusement ride in which suspended riders spinning in cars experience centrifugal force, while spinning along two separate axes. Riders are seated in small carriages clustered together and connected by beams at the top to a central point. The clustered vehicles are spun in one direction, while the ride as a whole spins in the opposite direction.^[1] There are a number of variations of the design.-Wikipedia

The spindle with the cars represents the earth's rotation, while the central hub simulates the orbit of it around the sun; hence the popularity of the ride; triggered at a primal subconscious level...I believe the one in our park also had each car on an axle, allowing them to rotate freely and introduce an additional wildcard motion...at least before the unfortunate fatalities occurred (but hey, all you can do is post a "Do not stand up while ride is in motion" warning, then people ore on their own. Maybe the whole idea of the ride was behind some sinister plot to reduce the illiterate's among us).

 

Einstein also said that, while there are objects hurling through space at half the speed of light, so that one might surmise that two of them hurling directly away from each other would make them appear to be moving away from each other at the speed of light; this could never be so. Impossible, although it appears to happen everywhere in space.

So, what happens is space becomes bent, or a fourth dimension comes into play...

No matter, not even a single atom, can move at the speed of light. It would take all of the energy present in the whole universe PLUS the energy in that one atom; to accelerate it to the speed of light.

So, when this point of velocity was reached, that atom would have had all its mass consumed as fuel in order to propel it, and therefore would no longer exist. Nothing would. There would be no more universe, just an atom that just disappeared as it gained the speed of light. Unless the atom slowed down, bogging it down into "existence".

In the beginning, God created light. -The Holy Bible

And, yet, even at this "great" speed of light, it takes 12 minutes for a beam of it to travel from Earth to Mars. That's almost as long as the song "Dark Star", by The Grateful Dead.

So, while people on earth are dissolving into molecules at the conclusion of that song, having been blown away, and transported out of this world by a version of it; people on Mars would just be hearing the song's first note sound (assuming they were getting a good broadband signal -not always a given on that hell-hole red planet).

People on Mars generally vote Republican, while Neptune is a "blue" planet, which is where those designations originated, by the way.

So, nothing, not even a single atom can move at the speed of light; only light can.

At least not in this universe. Wherever Jesus came from, is a different story. He brought light into this world. He existed in the realm of light, but slowed down in order to take on mass, in order to save others from being relegated to being nothing but mass, attracted by gravity and stuck here. Why do you think the Catholic service is called a "mass"?

This is a world of skeezers; standing in front of the Sacred Heart building, shamelessly asking anything that walks by on two legs for something for free, at other's expense.

"Forgive them, they know not that they skeeze." (John 16;14)

But, where was I?

Oh yeah, the shitty blog written by a washed up burned out wannabe hippie...

Last (Wednesday, 8/19/20) night, I had a couple beers while getting to a few things online.

But, I found that it was hard to get to feeling drunk. 

Because of the healthy diet of juiced vegetables, plus the supplements I have been taking, which are engineered to help body builders, and are i.e. steroids, I found that I was metabolizing the alcohol and not feeling a buzz at all.

After having stayed up all night, making two treks to the store a half mile away, getting two twenty four ounce beers each time, I was pretty darned sober come sunup.

So, I went to the Fresh Market, determined to put the matter to rest by getting a 12 pack of some really good Abita Lager.

And, sure enough, upon returning, I encountered a brown skinned man who asked me twice if he could have one of the beers.

I have always hated people who, only after seeing a large quantity of (anything) in the possession of another will assume the attitude that that person has so much that it is therefore incumbent upon him to "share" with them. "You've got all that, what's the problem with giving me some?"

"You've got 12 beers, all I'm asking for is one!"

People buy 12 packs because it lowers the average price of one bottle from $1.61 to more like 80 cents each. That is, unless that person starts handing them out to others who are hard-wired to try to get everything in life for free.

I was shaking my head over that as I returned to my apartment (that I will be able to live in for free for the rest of my life).

The guy approached me and asked me for one of my beers. I said: "No, I'm planning on drinking them. That's why I bought them.."

Then, after I remained out front and cracked one open, so I could enjoy being out of the apartment and in the sunlight and fresh air, he approached me again and actually tapped me on my shoulder, as if he thought that maybe he hadn't fully gotten my attention the first time, and then reiterated his request.

I may have seen him before, but those times, he had probably just walked past me without making eye contact, not seeing any beer or cigarettes on me -or maybe he spat on the ground, because I'm white.

These encounters almost seem scripted.

I come around the side of the building and notice one or two of them sitting out front, on a slab of concrete that I call "beggars slab".

Their heads rotating left and right like periscopes, scanning the surroundings, looking for human beings, specifically, because they are trying to get something for themselves. "I'm out here trying to get myself a couple dollars for a beer, that's all, goddamn. What's wrong with these white people?!"

And I see the heads swivel in unison, like synchronized swimmers, and lock upon me, as I draw closer.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three...the staring persists for just a little too long, for anyone who is just casually taking in their surroundings and gazing idly about. Their eyes bore into me so I feel like a specimen on a microscopic slide. 

They are studying me to determine what I might have. What's in the bag, can we have some? Is that a pack of cigarettes in your front left pocket; can we each have one, er, or two if you don't mind?

Looking up again, I see that they have their game faces on, wearing expressions that say: "Look at me and pity me for what this unfair world has done to me -left me sitting here without a cigarette or a beer or a joint or any crack- aren't you going to do the right thing, to right the injustice? I'm begging you, I'm pleading you; help me, help me!"

Then, in unison, the heads turn away, as the recognition sets in that, here is a guy who "don't never give nothin' to no one for free!"

The "save me" type expressions morph into ones of contempt and utter hatred. 

One of them might mumble to the other: "Don't waste your breath," and one or both of them might spit on the ground as I near; their eyes still following the bag in my hand and alternately shooting towards the pocket where I might have a pack of cigarettes. As if they can't resist seeing what they might be missing out on -what I ain't never gonna give them for free, at my expense.

"Ain't that a damn shame; he gonna go to straight to hell when he die. There go one stingy motherf***er!"

 And Now It is Thursday, and I can't turn off the italics, WTF?

It is now Thursday morning, and I must go and try to get a tire for the bike. I am concerned because the rim is labelled "700C" which has to do with centimeters and I am not sure I will find such a tire size at the Wal Mart.

Running Out

Running out at one-thirty AM, to get a new vaporizer and to grab two cans of Coors Banquet Beer at the sale price of $3.50, I contemplated the repair of my bike tire(s) as I walked.

The "Windstream" bike that Jacob gave me about a year ago, has a layer of Kevlar  on it, which is a lavender color that becomes visible after the rubber over it wears off.

Theoretically, I could continue to ride on just the Kevlar part, which might take years to wear all the way through so that the tire doesn't hold air any more, but that might be pretty slick and probably dangerous to ride on.

I can't imagine the Kevlar getting much of a grip on asphalt.

But, the theme of the day seemed to be running out of things.

My allotted data through the "Obama" phone ran out earlier, and, while this was happening, my vaporizer's light began flashing, indicating that, it too, had run out.

The "fifteen minutes" that it might have taken for the data that I bought to appear in my account, I spent making the run to the store for the two unnecessary items.

I am starting to think that signing up for a plan trough Metro PC, using the smartphone that Bobby bought me about a year ago now, might be my smartest approach, since it seems like I am using just about a gigabyte a day of data, just to do my usual things.

 Last night, I wound up watching documentaries about gymnasts, to include grainy black and white images of Olga Korbet.

 

After the 1972 Games, she visited President Nixon in the White House. She then said, “He told me that my performance in Munich did more for reducing the political tension during the Cold War between our two countries than the embassies were able to do in five years.”

And, of course Nadia Comanechi, whom I had a crush on as a 12 year old; so much so that when the Time magazine pictured (I believe it came weekly) arrived in our mailbox and I unrolled it (both my parents were working at the time and us kids arrived home from school to find the mailbox stuffed) I remember blushing, as if it had been personally delivered to me by the Time people.

And then Kim Zmeskal who was the highlight of the summer of 1992, when I was in jail with a small black and white TV, that I rented from the commissary.

I had missed a lot of gymnastics in between then and now.

I hadn't heard about the ones that broke their necks and became paralyzed after their coaches had tried to accelerate their recoveries from broken bones, putting them on starvation diets to make them lose the weight that they had put on from sitting around in a cast, and then rushed them back out there in time for the competitions.

I ran out of data before anything about Doctor Larry Nassar came on.

 

I'm Back

 I fell down a rabbit hole of beer drinking and sloppy ineffective living for a few days there...

I got a flat tire on the bike, my lighter died, the laundry is still in a pile, and I haven't set up my music studio the way I envision in order to bring Feng Shui to my environment.

Fengshui compass, everyone should use one...

Monkey Off My Back

 

It's safe to go back in the water, if the French Quarter is a body of it...
I have known that the governor of Louisiana had mandated that everyone in the state wear masks and observe rules of social distancing (bring a 6 foot long tape measure with you everywhere you go, type of thing) and all that.

And that is fine for the regular citizens, the muggles, if you will.

But, in the French Quarter, it is business as usual. The bars are open and are, at least, giving a nod to the whole situation by placing some of their tables out onto the sidewalks and having people consume their drinks while standing in the street, six feet away from the next guy, or whatever.

Like a turtle just crawling out of its sand tunnel in order to rush to the ocean to lay eggs, or something, that "something" possibly being female turtles, I am just now discovering things online that are kind of like communities, where like minded people with similar interests coagulate in support of each other. I am wondering, not if I can have a novel in Barnes and Noble, but if I can somehow maybe become a coach to some of the aspiring writers whom I could actually help, mostly because of the precipitous decline in English Usage standards that has afflicted the latest generation of thumb writers and screen starers...

But, New Orleans is where something like 77% of the state's "revenue" comes from and so, let us handle this pandemic, just stay out of our way, type of thing.

So, I will possibly go out and busk tonight, although it is storming outside now at 1:25 PM, when I am usually waking up.

I stayed up all night reading "Bicycle Diaries," by David Byrne, the Talking Heads guy. It is an OK book (the guy uses the word "implying" a lot, though).

It's hard for me to read it without hearing his whining voice singing, rather than narrating, the text with a typical Talking Heads style bass and drum thing going on behind it, the entire time.

 

Well, people, as I peck away now I haven't slept in almost 24 hours. I do that a lot. I am afraid that I won't wake up with the same zeal for whatever my "passion" at that moment late at night might be.

It feels like "now or never" when the creative bug strikes. But really only when it strikes immediately after smoking a joint. Then, you can be pretty certain that you aren't going to wake up after eight hours of sleep and all the THC having gotten out of your system, with the same piqued interest in knocking out that song about the dust mote (a metaphor for planet earth, or whatever the weed would have it) as you might have had while still wide awake and with the guitar tuned and the amps warmed up, etc.

 

There was an absolutely beautiful Yamaha keyboard at the Goodwill Store a couple days ago and it was marked $39.99 on it, and I didn't buy it.

 

Nothing good last forever, and the thing was gone the very next day. Of course it was. It sounded so good to me that I thought me perceptions were off; like maybe in contrast to the ugliness of the Goodwill Store, where a white man is commonly seen as someone who is trying to parlay his already considerable advantage over his darker brethren due in part and parcel to the whiteness of his skin, and was in competition with the downtrodden victims of white society that at least have the Goodwill, where a nigga ain't gotta pay like fifty dollars for a damned nice looking pair of kicks, know what I'm sayin?

It's a shame. And I am thinking that I might should never go back there. They are right. Why should I get a really nice silk shirt for 3 dollars plus tax and deprive someone who might only have 3 dollars to his name and just needs a decent shirt because he's starting a job the next day and.....
Whoa, sorry, I got off into fantasy land there.

But, I can as a matter of fact say that I have been the victim of non verbal hostility inflicted upon me by African Americans in the Goodwill Store.

There was a guy (whom I know I blogged about) who shook the book rack that I was staring at a few feet away because, I believe, I hadn't acknowledged him.

Not after he had made some verbal noises, which consisted of reading book titles aloud and then offering up commentary about what he surmised the book to be about, but they were disjointed things like: "'Fedora's Italy' now, why I want to go to Italy, what's in Italy?" which I am guessing proceeded from him having seen that particular publication which I had seen myself.

But, I was standing upon the principle that a man should be able to go to the store and look over books and not be bound by anything to turn his attention (especially when the store is closing in ten minutes and he is trying to quickly scan the whole fifty foot, four tiered rack) toward some guy who may or may not have been trying to interact and strike up a conversation through his ejaculations of book titles and then ensuing quips.

And he was black and he shook the rack. He actually grabbed the thing and rocked it to and fro so that even the book I was staring at suddenly looked like it was in San Francisco during the big one; maybe 7.2 on the Richter scale, so that the title was slightly blurry.

But, yikes, I sure did mess up not grabbing that keyboard because my unemployment money came the very next day and that thing had sounded great.

 

Well, readers, I have to go. I have just received an email (above) not from the president of the United States directly, but through his people. And, you know, since I became a top supporter, I got a nice stimulus amount added to the bank card that I was already getting what I thought was to be a paltry weekly amount.

Well, I had better go and take the poll and, yeah, contribute something. The cool thing about it is any donation at all kind of shows loyalty I guess. And then I get a nice bonus out of nowhere, in the form of a stimulus...hmmm.

Geez, Don, I was going to contribute 5 dollars; I like my stimulus checks appearing out of nowhere onto my unemployment card balance; I was just going to take a screen shot. That's why I moved my mouse pointer up to where the "take a screenshot" menu is.

I wasn't leaving. I wasn't becoming disloyal. Never a traitor, I say!

"I would like Daniel to keep this box checked; let him know that; or you're fired.

That is SO Florida that he is (less than presidential quality if you ask me) Photoshopped in front of.

That is a very important state. And one that still resonates with the Bush/Gore debacle back in 2004, I think it was.

Come on, retired wealthy Floridians; you don't see any colored people in your front yards, notice that?