Wow, This Blog Is Still Here?

Everything, All The Time

I left on my bike Tuesday night, on my way to the Lilly Pad.

I didn't even have enough money on me to stop and get a beer at the Unique Grocery...oh, I'm sorry I just caught myself.

The Law of Attraction is based upon the fact that you attract into your life, more of what you think about....

I had been thinking that I subconsciously make myself run out of money at such points in life where addictions are out of control and the only way I'm not going to drink and smoke crack and try not to notice that, out of the corner of my eye, the things I value the most are dissipating.

So, I wasn't going to drink that night; I was going to go to the Lilly Pad totally sober and set up and play. If music wasn't enough of a source of joy for me, then they are hiring overnight stockers at Winn Dixie and starting them at 14 bucks an hour.

I rode down whatever that street is that pops out right in front of The Ideal Market, which is painted yellow and is staffed by and all Latino crew, and about which nobody complains; no black person feels slighted by the hiring policies of that store, and nobody is pushing for "diversity" there. That is funny.

I think it is because those are some hard working people. I would venture to say that they (Latinos) even work harder than me. 

I was one of the "star" employees at the labor pool that I worked out of in Jacksonville, Florida, back in 2006.

I used to show up in the morning, with bodybuilding supplements in my lunch pail. While the other guys out on the same jobs would look for the nearest Rally's or Wendy's when lunch time came, I would gulp down a bottle of a drink called XXL (something) which boasted 1,150 calories, with 40 grams of protein and a ridiculous amount of carbohydrates, plus every vitamin under the sun, and trace minerals and amino acids and, add to that, I would spike the thing with 5 grams of pure creatine monohydrate powder; which is something that the baseball player named Mark McGuire used heavily during the 1999 season, when he broke the home run record for a single season by hitting, I think it was, 77 of them.

By contrast, Babe Ruth (who ate hot dogs and hamburgers and was known to have a six pack of Budweiser stashed somewhere in the locker room, for the 7th inning "stretch" hit something like 60 home runs; and maybe Roger Marris (sp?) had 68, to break that record.

I saw Mark McGuire play that year. I was in Phoenix, and it was 113 degrees outside, but only 72 inside the Bank One Ballpark, that had a roof that would close over the place, keeping the cool air in. I would buy the cheapest ticket, which was called, quite aptly "a four dollar seat." That was just to get me inside the place as a respite from the life sucking heat outside. I would find my four dollar seat and plop myself down and be fast asleep for the duration of the Arizona Diamondback's game.

Every once in a while I would wake up when some guy did something on the field causing the crowd of, usually about 30,000 to go wild, cheering. I would wake up just long enough for it to register "Oh, yeah, I'm sleeping in Bank One Ballpark," and then, back off to dreamland.

This program actually worked out so well that I was able to catch up on my sleep, since the Diamondbacks would play these 3 or 4 game series on consecutive nights against the same team. So, I could be in my 4 dollar seat, sound asleep a good hour before the first pitch, and then continue to sleep until some guy came along with a broom about 2 hours after the game ended; affording me up to 5 hours of sleep in the air conditioned atmosphere, provided the teams cooperated by playing for more than 3 hours.

But, I saw Mark McGwire taking batting practice and, with arms that looked like tree trunks, hitting home runs so far that he was knocking light bulbs out that were above the 2nd tier restaurants and seating areas where one would never hope to catch a ball, never mind to have the light bulb above them shattered by a ball hit by someone like McGwire...

We were pretty sure he was aiming for them. The scoreboard up there became hard to read because you wouldn't know if the Diamondbacks had only 3 runs, or if they had 8; but Mark had just knocked a few bulbs out during his warm ups...

To cap off the McGwire story; Major League baseball outlawed the use of creatine monohydrate the very next season, after he edged Sammy Sosa from one of the Chicago teams out, in the "home run derby" that was going on that year. They both outdid Roger Marris (sp?) whose record had stood for something like 34 years; all in one season.

So, creatine monohydrate was banned by the league; Mark McGwire saw his muscle mass decrease. He struggled to reach 50 home runs the next year; and wound up just quitting baseball entirely. 

He blamed it upon the stress that having that much muscle mass had been putting on his bones and joints, but anyone who does creatine knows what the reason was. Barry Bonds has been discredited as a hall of fame member for "performance enhancing substances, also."

To make that relevant; it reminds me of those musicians that show up bright eyed and eager to jam. They are enthused about passing the joint around and getting started. Ready to rock and roll!

But, after the weed guy never shows up; or the guy who was supposed to bring the case of beer arrives empty handed ("They closed just as I was pulling in the parking lot, ain't that a bitch?") they decide they just don't want to play anymore; like Mark McGuire. They just quit the game...

"Oh, I need my yogurt and hummus, now!"

But, I was showing up at the labor pool in 2006, using all kinds of body building supplements, and the harder the job they gave me, the better.

"Gunslinging," was what they called working on the trash trucks. All you had to do was go through about 2 miles of residential streets, picking up all the trash barrels that people had set out for "trash day" and then lift them up and empty them into the hopper, so the truck could use its hydraulics to crush it all down, and then it was off to the next house..

This job struck fear into most of the labor pool workers. Most of them would rather not work that day than to go out on a gunslinging ticket. "You can have that..." they would say.

I was never even considered for one of those jobs. I weighed 140 pounds. They just overlooked me, but asked the 200 pounders if they wanted to gunsling.

The heaviest allowable trash container that people could set out was 100 pounds. The gunslingers had a general sense of whether or not they would empty a can if they thought it was heavier. They might leave a notice stuck to it explaining how it exceeded the weight limit, or whatever; rather than just get 2 guys to grab it on either side, and do the resident a favor.

There were times when, after a tropical storm, people might have a lot of sand to sweep up off their driveways and that might make a trash can more than 100 pounds; but there was also racism involved.

The mostly African American gunslingers, while happy to gain the spoils of half full liquor bottles thrown in the trash after parties, and other treasures in people's trash, were quick to refuse to lift a can that was too heavy.

So, it was as if the idea had only then crossed his mind when the manager, Victor, sheepishly asked me if I wanted to go on a gunslinging job.

I had heard the horror stories; but, then again I considered the tellers of those stories and how I had outworked most of them on other jobs.

I took a gunslinging job and was soon hanging on to the back of a trash truck as it meandered through upper middle class neighborhoods in Jacksonville Beach.

I grabbed the trash barrels  by myself and heaved them into the hopper. That was good news for the guy driving the truck; I didn't need a second person to help me.

I ran from one house to the next. I know the trash truck might have a maximum speed of 80 miles per hour, but it could certainly go more than walking speed. I was aware of how tedious it would have been for the guy driving the truck to do 4 miles per hour between houses, or to drive quickly and then park and wait for the gunslinger to mosey on up.

So, I ran to the next group of barrels, the truck driver soon adjusted, and we had knocked out the whole route for which 8 hours had been allotted in 3 and a half hours.

The driver was overjoyed. He was periodically leaning out of his window and telling me things like: "You don't have to take that!" as, in one case when a resident had apparently pruned his lemon tree and left a sinister pile of unruly branches that had thorns like hypodermic needles, in a pile by his trash cans. I had started to try to throw them in the hopper and it was like the tree was pissed off for having been pruned and was telegraphing messages to its estranged branches to "get him!"

"No, that's alright; that's what these gloves are for, I guess."

By the time lunch time came, we were done the entire route. That meant that he, the driver, could goof off for the rest of the day; which meant us parking by the beach, where he talked on his phone, and I consumed my lunch, in the form of a bottle of Nitro Fuel, a Twin Labs product that was later taken off the market.

So, to bring this full circle; Victor, the manager at Workforce (Quality Temporary Staffing) was astounded when I came back in, having been written in for 10 hours of work, though I was only gone for 8, and in the comment section of the work ticket was written: "Please send Daniel back!"

"Wow, Waste Services loves Daniel!" he said to the other guy.

One of the issues they had been having with sending their people out on gunslinging tickets was that a majority of them would "hurt their back" not long into their shifts; and would apply for Workman's Compensation, or whatever they call that thing.

Not 2 hours into their shift, they would strain their neck or whatever and, I guess they already had certain doctors they knew, ready to be unable to prove that the stabbing pain in their backs didn't exist; and to push the paperwork on to the Workman's Comp insurance people. The nervous system is a mysterious thing.

I returned with a few scratches from lemon tree thorns, but no strained back. (Not long afterwards, workers had to sign a paper affirming that they had never filed before for Workerman's Comp, or whatever they call it; before they would send them out on a gunslinging ticket).

So, to bring it full circle, I was sent on the most grueling jobs that the labor pool filled; all 143 pounds of me; and I generally worked circles around those that ate their breakfasts of eggs and hash browns and bacon at Famous Amos, and then their lunches out of (insert chain restaurant here).

But, I was still in awe of the "Mexicans" that I often encountered at the job site. They would be pushing wheel barrow after wheel barrow, laden with molten stuff that gets sprayed on the sides of houses, non stop, for however many hours it took to finish the job. They would start just after sunup and finish perhaps at 8 p.m. -a 15 hour workday of non stop back breaking work. Carrying 40 pound bundles of roofing tile up a wobbly ladder to a height of 45 feet; and then nailing it down under direct sunlight on a 98 degree day; and doing it for 10 hours, with only Red Bull and a Tupperware full of something their (typically beautiful) wives had prepared for their lunches, at a cost of just a few dollars worth of rice and beans and chicken.

Those were the hardest working people I've ever seen.

One time I asked a group of them if I could push one of the wheel barrows full of that Spackle stuff, along the thin path of boards laid end to end along the muddy ground, just to get an idea of how hard it was. It was hard enough just to balance the thing and keep it on the boards and out of the mud, while straining with the weight of it. I was kind of winded by the time I got the thing to the house; and I had only done one 50th of each of their day's work...

Tuesday, I rode my bike down the street that pops out by The Ideal Market; thinking about how I only had a dollar on me; and wouldn't even be able to get one beer to drink before busking. I decided that I would be happy just to get Harold a can of food.

I decided to go down the street that Patrick lives on; just in case he happened to be sitting on his porch and would smoke some weed with me and/or give me one of his beers.

In the parking lot of Ideal, I saw a quarter, and then another one and then another, next to a dime and a few pennies. It was a total of $1.22 just strewn about a parking space. Why did this not surprise me?

Having enough to feed Harold, and it being a Tuesday when I hardly saw anyone on the webcam, I had the notion to get Harold some food and go home. It would be about 10:45 before I played my first note.

I decided to go play, and to gamble upon spending Harold's food money on a large can of beer.

I played my first 4 songs without getting a tip. It was just when I might have started thinking that I was being punished for spending Harold's food money on beer that I caught myself about to have that negative thought and I made myself become grateful and happy for what I had.

Then, after playing with my head down, I looked up to see 2 one dollar bills in my basket that I had no idea where they came from. I looked up and down the street and didn't see anyone.

And then a couple guys came along and asked me if I had a Venmo account. They told me that they never carried cash but, if I had a Venmo, they would tip me.

I pulled out my new smartphone and one of them was able to install Venmo on it, and passing me the phone so I could create a password, and choose a user name; they both demonstrated how easy and beneficial it is going to be for me to have a Venmo account by each putting 50 dollars on my new account.

They told me I could get some kind of thing like Tanya Huang has a half dozen of, so that people without cash could tip me just by scanning the code, etc.

Tanya has it set up so that people can purchase her music and have it downloaded to their phones right there at the spot where she plays.

Asians are smart and hard working, also.

I left the spot having made only 4 dollars (not counting the Venmo money that I have ordered a debit card for, since I don't have a bank account. It seems like Venmo wants to get their tentacles into people's bank accounts, or that certain institutions just want everyone to have a bank account as an additional tool for controlling the population; something to freeze the assets on, should the person not be able to show proof of all 7 vaccinations, type of thing...

But, instead of going home, I became kind of nostalgic and wanted to take a slow ride through some of the old haunts. I rode through the Frenchmen Street area, noticing that there was smooth asphalt where there used to be a mine field of potholes. "This is the smoothest asphalt in the whole city," I said, to a random guy I saw.

Then, I went by Checkpoint Charlie Bar, where I had played at their open mic night, back when I saw a path forward by garnering a following in that venue and waiting for some patron or other musician to play match-maker and pair me with the McCartney to my Lennon, type of thing; "Man, your music is a lot like this guy we know in Slidell; do you have any recordings of your stuff that we can play for him? He knows Greg Kiln..." type of thing.

"Wow, they moved the stage back and added more seating," I said to a couple random ladies who didn't respond...

Then, I rode up Decatur, past the spot where I used to play, and I realized that the memories had crossed the bridge into the land of nostalgia, where it seemed like I could break out an play my guitar right then, but it wouldn't be the same. There would be no Sue, my Colombian lady friend, nor would there be that heightened instinctual sense that comes from having a fear of not surviving; of thinking that at some point, New Orleans would have chewed me up and spat me back to wherever I came from, like so many before me. That is what drove me to sleep under the wharf, rather than to have to be at the mercy of the competitive music business here, just to pay rent somewhere; or to have to compromise myself artistically (i.e. play Eagles songs for 3 hours once a week in Finnigan's Irish Pub).

I then rode by Rouses Market, where I was shocked to see that they are, once again putting their trash outside at the end of the night.

It used to be that the multitudes of homeless people would dig into their dumpster and leave a mess all around it; and would fight over "the chicken bag" which, as the name implies was what chicken was left over on the warming rack; chicken fully cooked and ready to eat after fighting over.

Now, the homeless people are few and far between. All of them have been put up in various places, ostensibly to keep them safe from the Covid (the abominable snowman, I call it) and now all the benches in Jackson Square are empty and there is hardly a doorway to a business with a cardboard fortress around it; it is a pretty empty city at night when there used to be up to 30 people vying for the chicken bag.

And so, Rouses is once again putting their trash outside. At first I though they might be doing it in the name of social justice -so that the unemployed homeless aren't being disadvantaged for lack of money- but, after 2 days, I realize that there is just nobody interested in the food. Everyone is getting an extra $150 added to their food stamps, because of the "pandemic emergency" or whatever they are calling The Abominable Snowman.

And, being curious, and only having made 4 dollars playing; I looked in the dumpster; and it was just like old times.

So much yogurt, still cold and with condensation on it; so much sushi, and hummus, lots of hummus. I knew which bags would have what in them, just from memory of 5 years ago.

I was glad I hadn't brought my amplifier because I grabbed a half dozen yogurts in my favorite flavors; especially the 3 dollar kind that is imported from Greece or whatever; and I took 4 things of hummus. I did all that without getting off my bike. I had the notion to break out my flashlight and really dig for gold (wine bottles that had their label torn and, thus, couldn't be sold) but I actually felt kind of self conscious. I didn't want anyone to worry that I wasn't being taken care of by the Biden socialist regime.

"I've got plenty; in fact I have more than enough; that's the way The Law of Attraction works...to those that have, more is given; and to those that have not; even what little they might have will be taken...I think that is even "biblical."

"I have a refrigerator full of yogurt, but I just didn't have any in this "Strawberry Shortcake" flavor, er, actually I did have some; and it's right here!" is what I was prepared to say to anyone who might have been concerned.

Then, it was off to the Unique Store to spend a couple of the 4 dollars on a beer, before going to CVS for a can of food for Harold.

As soon as I pulled up, a young black guy asked me if I had a light. I did.

"I'm just trying to light my weed," he said and then proceeded to light a blunt as thick around as a cigar, but only an inch long.

"You can have the rest of this," he said, handing it to me after he had taken a couple hits "You're only gonna need one hit, trust me, this is the fire!" he said.

I took one hit and then saved the rest to smoke 3 more times off of.

Then, I went to CVS, where I discovered that I had become something of a celebrity, with the tale of me whacking the skeezer over the head who was letting the air out of my tire having grown taller over the course of a couple days.

"That's him," I heard one of a group of guys wearing business attire say to the others. I glanced towards them to see them all smiling but not looking directly at me. I'm figuring that they frequently gather in the block at the same time; maybe they all work the night shift and take their break at the same time; maybe that exact skeezer has tried to skeeze them and then turned violent upon being repelled. I guess whacking a guy in the head with a can of cat food is just a slice of Americana or something. I wished they could have seen the shape the can was in when I took it out of the bag. I definitely caught the skeezer with the can on edge...

I got home and ate way too much yogurt and hummus. That was Wednesday morning.

Wednesday evening, I went out to busk and made 22 bucks in about 80 minutes (80 minutes being the duration after which I typically feel like I've had enough and want to go home; I would have to force myself to go longer, maybe for financial reasons; or because a group is standing around requesting songs and passing the time by tipping).

My lighter died right before I left home, but I found two (2) of them on the ground -one of them brand new (you can tell by the stiffness of the flint wheel). 

I bought a Twisted Tea for 3 bucks and then took another lazy ride through different parts of the Quarter; each one with its stories; I feel like I could give a tour of the place "...and here is where Leslie Thompson and I had a fist fight -the first one..." type of thing.

I got Harold 2 cans of food and returned home a hero. Only I did get another large can of beer, which brought the total spent on alcohol to 5 bucks, out of 22 made.

I went out to play without drinking first and it didn't bother me; so I should probably not make a habit of drinking.

I noticed the employees of CVS pointing me out to one another and smiling. 

There was a group of young black guys out front, who seemed to be skeezing.

After I grabbed the 2 cans for Harold and a beer for myself, I felt it incumbent upon myself to complaint to one of the cashiers: "You know, I'm taking care of a cat and getting one beer for myself and that's about all I can afford. I really don't appreciate it when the bums out front give me dirty looks, like they think I'm made of money but am just stingy; let them go out and play a guitar for a few hours every night, instead of just asking for free money at everyone else's expense. There's no way in hell I'm gonna go without this beer, just so I can "bless" them (making air quotes sign) with a couple bucks. They probably make more than I do just from begging everything on 2 legs they see!

I took my guitar and backpack off at my bike, so I could put the cat food in the latter. I locked the two ends of the cable together, thinking, you never know when a weapon like it can come in handy; one that I kind of discovered by accident.

After I had locked the cable together, I noticed the skeezers leaving the vicinity in kind of a hurry, and disappearing around the corner, while glancing back at me.

I can only wonder, given the way the gossip mill works, if it had gotten back to them that I randomly attacked beggars with my bike lock; and after I had put my stuff down and locked both ends of the cable together, it looked to them like I was getting ready to attack.

Buy Me Out?

A what?! In Front of our tavern?!! You've got to be shitting us!!

A Twenty, And A One...On A Friday Night

For the second Friday night in a row, there was a heavyset black man, dressed in hip hop "fake gold" style; sitting at one of the outdoor tables at the Lafitt's bar cranking some kind of speaker to the max, alongside a black lady in a dress.

Last weekend, I assumed it had something to do with the Bayou Classic football game which floods the city with thousands of college kids of color from the two schools of Grambling and Southern University when I heard the sound of hip hop coming from the direction of the bar.

Those schools, by the way, have been designated as "historically black" colleges; in a nation where any college dubbed "historically white" would be protested in front of, as an affront to social equality; windows would be smashed and sneakers taken, if such a college were to be. But I digress...

It made sense that, on that particular weekend, foregoing just shuttering up the place and waiting for better weather, the bar might have been catering to those students of color by giving the piano man the night off, and setting some kind of ghetto blaster out front, cranked up enough to get a "Dollar Store speaker" musical quality; as if to remind them of home.

This wouldn't have tarnished the reputation of the "oldest bar in the nation" with its candle-lit environment in the eyes of it's patronage. Those are typically wealthy white's who understand and appreciate the history of the place, which was founded in 1772 by Jean Lafitt, the pirate and his brother, Pierre. None of them would have been around to see the candle flames flickering in the heavy bass.

Consecutive String of Annual Shootings Interrupted By Deadly Virus

White people leave town in droves for the Bayou Classic weekend, and no outside whites book trips here at that time which leaves more hotel space, and at discounted rates, for the collegiate crowd, with their handguns and their random acts of alcohol fueled violence. After a year off for the pandemic, the shootings resumed this year with something like 12 of them, including the murder of one of the bartenders at Pat O' Brien's bar, who had merely gotten out of his car to tell the driver of a car in front of him that had just stopped in the middle of the street to move it. Apparently the bartender tried to run over the guy as he was shooting at him; but I digress.

Last night, the same crappy music was blaring away, and, after I walked up the sidewalk to investigate, and I encountered the couple, who seemed to be all about providing free music to the public, I asked the heavyset guy with the gold front teeth if the bar was "paying him to DJ, or something."

"No," he said.

I then asked him if he was going to be there all night. "No, not all night.."

I went to the Lilly spot and decided I would amplify my voice and the harmonica as much as the Yamaha would do, and I would just play along in whatever keys his hip hop songs were in and would try to "free style" lyrics to them, and would have fun doing so. 

I had a half pint of brandy, and had gotten a free bud from Patrick, who is another ex-friend of Bobby, whom I had dropped in on before going out to play. It was kind of a test to see if the Law of Attraction still worked when the practitioner had a buzz.

The free styling devolved in me singing things like "Wow, it's some guy with a ghetto blaster drowning me out for no apparent reason; wow!" and I wasn't comfortable with the dynamic of that, so I walked up the sidewalk a second time, after what seemed like a reasonable amount of time for a guy and his girlfriend to polish off a couple drinks and then move on, taking their personal 100 watt stereo with them, to go provide entertainment over some other 2 block radius.

"I don't understand why you're doing this, you don't seem to be promoting your own music, and I guess the piano man isn't here tonight or he would be complaining; because, when people step outside for a cigarette they can normally still hear him and he could draw them back inside with a certain song he plays, or get other people to come in if they hear the piano..."

"I'm not worried about the piano man," he said.

"Well, I know the residents in the block wouldn't put up with me bringing an amp like this; this is zoned for residential."

"I'm not worried about the residents," he said.

"Well, you're still misrepresenting the bar with your music; I've seen people turn around and head back up Bourbon because they think it's a hip hop club ahead, instead of a quiet piano bar; nothing against hip hop, but they kind of cater to a different crowd in there; I'm sure the manager wouldn't be happy about the people that are discouraged from coming in because they think it's another Bourbon Heat type place..."

Just the way the Lafitt's liked to party! (photo: Bourbon Heat)

"I'm not worried about the manager," he said. He then went on to say that he knew "Joe," the owner and that Joe allowed him to sit at a table and apparently just offer free music to the public, at his own expense of time and battery power, without having a tip jar visible and just as a public service.

The lady then spoke up and asked me: "What are you doing out here?" implying that I was only doing the exact same thing as they were.

"I play low volume music, and I do a lot of talking to people, at a conversational level; telling them stories and stuff..." I yelled to them over the rumble of their system. "That's why I've been playing at this spot for the past 12 years, because it's always been a quiet enough neighborhood."

The guy said that he had been "doing this" for 20 years. If that is true then he has only been showing up sporadically and must be what I thought was the bar cranking hip hop every once in a while over the past couple years. I figured that Lafitt's perhaps trying to "modernize" the place, to go with the neon lit slurpie type machines behind the bar, that are anachronistic to the candles on every table and the dozen or so on top of the piano. 

There has always been electric light in the restrooms and the cash registers were electric, along with the coolers, but the emphasis had always been on presenting a 18th century tavern experience.

But, it hasn't been the bar attempting to modernize, it has apparently been the guy with the gold teeth taking it upon himself to, I guess, ignore the history of the bar, and try to over-ride its appeal to wealthy white people who have an appreciation of that history and to make the place more "inclusive" by pushing the white people away.

So, today it is Saturday. 

One guy did come along and give me 20 bucks after asking: "Where's your tip jar?" I had moved down 50 feet to under the "forbidden" lamp post. 

"I had kind of given up on getting any tip money because of that guy up there cranking his personal stereo for no apparent reason I can see other than him trying to impose his culture upon the place. Good answer, here's 20 bucks; was the feeling I got.

In the shotgun house directly behind the lamp post used to sleep a guy who was a lawyer, who used to ask me, very politely, if I would knock off by 10 p.m. each night. My failure to do so that on a few occasions when I was drunk and oblivious to time, was what prompted him to reluctantly ask me to not play there anymore. That was when Lilly made arrangements for me to move to where I play now. 

She even moved her family's bedrooms around, so that her ex-husband, who still lived there, would be on the other end from me, closest to the lamp post, and the room right behind me would be occupied by Angelique, who said that my sound helped her go to sleep; unlike her ex-father. Something about the constant sound of me playing assured her that nobody was about to try to enter her room by prying open the 18th Century replica windows. Something about installing locks on them would invalidate their historical authenticity, so people can just push them open and enter off the street; something that had happened in the past -one of them waking up to find a drunk skeezer in their bedrooms, looking for a place to squat. They now have heavy pieces of furniture pushed up against them.

Angelique has, in the past, opened the window, and gotten skeezers who were refusing to move off the step that I play next to ("This is a public street, I can sit anywhere I want; I was here first!" type of thing) to do so, with just a few words: "Excuse me, I'm trying to sleep and your voices are keeping me awake, could you please move?" type of thing.

That was after I had called Lilly to report them to her. "Yes ma'am, sorry ma'am were moving right now, sorry to bother you..." became their new attitude. It always amazed me, the power the residents have over skeezers; I guess it's because of the legendarily high rents charged for places right on Bourbon Street and so the skeezers think: "wealth" and immediately prostrate themselves. This is in stark contrast to how I have been received by some of them: "You don't know nobody who lives here! I've seen you picking through the trash cans outside Rouses with a flashlight before; you're not friends with any of these people; don't try to fool me!" type of thing.

I texted Lilly about the ghetto blaster guy, who claimed to know "Joe," the owner, as I am pretty sure that Lilly knows the real Joe, if that's even the owner's name. Though, I'm about to call her as soon as I said I would in my text.

Ideological Undercurrents?

Perhaps Joe and company have been shunted by ideological undercurrents, and are themselves pushing some social reform agenda. Maybe Joe has become "woke" and now seeks to dismantle his own business, and rewrite its history; seeing his "pirate bar" now as something like a flagship of White Supremacy, and maybe he now wants to foster inclusive environment (i.e. run all the rich white people with an understanding of history away). Perhaps Joe has "learned" and has woken up to the awareness of his white privilege; and realizes that he has been inflicting harm upon the marginalized members of society by running a place that white people seemed to like so much. 

Perhaps it's time for the Jolly Roger to come down, the pride flag to be hoisted, and Street Musician Daniel to be drowned out...

Lilly and I will have a lot to talk about; since she falls to the far left politically and has even made me promise her that I would never watch NewsMax and had to show her that my phone didn't even have their app on it. "All they do is lie on that channel in order to push their politics.."

And her hatred for Donald Trump goes back to the late 1970's when she lived in Manhattan and hated him locally. "Everywhere you went you saw his name; on buildings, and on the side of trucks, on billboards everywhere, and even on the golf course..it was all Trump, Trump, Trump, and I hated it; I spat on his name wherever I saw it..." type of thing. She was most upset over "the way he treated his first wife," and "the way he treated his employees," etc.

But, thank God, she still sees me as being some kind of "victim," and has been unwavering in her protection of me. 

So, after 2 hours of ghetto blaster man, I moved down to under the lamp post, and hoped to show the lawyer guy that I had improved in the last 8 years, especially on the harmonica, about which his neighbor in the other half of the "shotgun" style house once said "You need to kill that thing," as he was walking past me on the way to the store or something.

When he said that, I saw multiple meanings in my own mind even though I'm pretty sure he meant it the first way.

To kill it as in put it out of its misery; because it sounded like a wounded animal; or to really get on it; because I was playing it too gingerly. But I was also preoccupied with my throat at the time he said it.

That was the one time in my life when I had quinsy (sp?) in my throat. That is basically like a sac of puss that develops somewhere in the throat probably due, in my case, to having smoked a bad snipe off the sidewalk. 

It seemed to be an infection of the saliva glands, the ones activated by putting a Sour Tart candy in your mouth or even thinking of doing so. If you are not hydrated enough, I found, and prepared for that, it can be painful when the glands try to produce copious amounts of saliva which isn't there. Maybe you aren't the kind of person who spits on the ground all day (like Lilly walking around Manhattan and seeing Trump's name, perhaps) or one who regularly eats Sweet Tarts or Lemonheads.

A week before developing quincy, I had put a barbecued pork rib in my mouth that had some kind of sauce on it (at a party being hosted by Austin, Texas musician Brian Hudson who was staying in an apartment with his then girlfriend, Amanda Zapp, just off Frenchmen Street.

That area is the counter culture to the Bourbon Street one, and where people go to hear the most creative, inspired, avant garde and up and coming musicians, as opposed to the canned jazz played on Bourbon Street by musicians who can play the standards in their sleep and are not pushing any envelopes at all, except for maybe demonstrating the skill of being able to keep a beat going on a drum kit and text at the same time with one hand, type of thing...

Brian and Christina Friis, who was also in attendance

But, it had been at that barbecue, which was in the late morning and mid day that I had bitten into the rib which made my mouth pucker causing the saliva producing glands to strain,almost as if cramping up, like there just wasn't enough saliva in me because I never ate that kind of stuff and certainly not first thing in the morning; that left a soreness in my throat which, irritated by probably the wrong snipe off the sidewalk just off Frenchmen Street, led to the quincy (sp?) in my throat.

It was just a sensation of having something in my throat that I could feel every time I swallowed, as if my Adam's apple was rubbing against it.

Amanda Zapp

"You Need To Kill That Thing!"

Well, to bring this diversion full circle, it was after the neighbor of the lawyer had walked past and said: "You need to kill that thing," that my rebellious nature prompted me to play as loud a note as I could and to bend it as much as possible; as a response to him, sort of.

The swelling in my throat had been interfering with my playing, especially on the draw notes, by effecting the way I was able to change the embouchure of my mouth cavity.

As a response to what the guy had said, I struck a chord on the guitar and then played the extreme note, trying to "kill that thing" -the note, the song, the harmonica and...in the process, I felt a pop in my throat, after which I seemed to have the option of coughing up or swallowing what turned out, after I did the former, to be a nasty, thick white puss of some kind. I did swallow some of it, which gave me a kind of queasy stomach for a while, but it was evident that I had killed that thing; swallowing was once again easy, as was playing the harmonica. A cure for quincy was discovered for the price of a ten dollar Hohner "Old Standby" harmonica!

The lawyer's neighbor may have, in an unconscious state of mind, been trying to say that the harmonica, which was a cheap one that was going out of tune, needed to be put out of it's misery, perhaps shot or hung from a gallows, type of thing.

But, I saw in him a cosmic messenger, telling me that the abscess in my throat needed to be killed, which was something that he couldn't have known about consciously, only that my harmonica playing prompted him to say that, for whatever reason.

So, last night, I played under the lamp post, in front of the bedroom of a guy who had once asked me to stop playing at 10 p.m. It was probably about midnight. I didn't even put my tip basket out, as I was happy just to be under the light of the lamp, which was nice and bright; even brighter than it had been when I used to play there 8 years ago. Some vehicle had knocked it down about 3 years ago and it took them a full 2 years to fix it. It had to be the exact materials used in the 18th Century to construct lamp posts, due to rules established by the historical society that governs the whole French Quarter, but it's former gas flame is now a bright LED light; probably after some amendment to the rules were voted in.

First; the gas flames disappearing; and not long afterwards, a heavyset black man with a ghetto blaster appears, more signs of the Apocalypse, if you ask me. 

"The times, they are a changin..."

Attempted Buyout of Street Musician Daniel

But, the hip hop guy kept asking me if I had a "cash out," or some other app on my phone through which he could transfer money to buy me out. "I want to give you a hundred bucks, just to get you out of my area," he had said. That made me wonder if they were sitting there hacking customer's phones over Lafitt's wi-fi and were stealing so much money -all digital- that buying me out would be academic to them...

That kind of made sense out of a young brown skinned guy who had come by me, as I was struggling to play in the same key as the hip hop and to make up my own lyrics to go with the repetitions of one phrase maybe 40 times...Something like: "Hit that thang, hit that thang, hit that thang!...etc."

Became: "Yeah, hit that thang, that 'stop' button thang. Hit that thang; that 'stop' button thang, yeah hit that thang, that 'stop' button thang!..hit that stop button, hit it hit it; time to quit it!" type of stuff.

The young guy had listened for a minute and then plainly asked me if I did what I was doing "on the side," or if it was my only source of income.

After I told him that all my money came from "this," he turned and walked back towards the guy with the ghetto blaster. It crossed my mind that maybe he was going to go and try to persuade the guy to shut it down, telling him that he was putting someone out of business (just so everyone would know that he owns a loud electronic device? So he could over-ride any "white" music that might be coming from the bar or from me? So he could signal to people of color that Lafitt's has been pirated and is now being occupied by an inclusive crowd, whites need not apply?). But now I think gold teeth man had sent him to ask that; perhaps already having come up with the idea of buying me out and trying to estimate a reasonable price.

A Vaccine Apartheid

Lilly and I have a lot to talk about. 

At least she has the rectitude to not label me an "anti-vaxxer" like some ignoramuses who are probably just looking for yet another way to divide society, label people, and then hate them, like the unconscious types they are, creating a vaccine apartheid, as part of their utopian vision for the planet.

People who think that their neighbor's not getting vaxxed is a threat to them who are vaxxed themselves, are about the most selfish individuals imaginable. 

They know that they can still get Covid even though they are vaxxed; an event that might have left them feeling so shitty that they had to lie in bed for 3 days, taking flu medication the same as if they had gotten the damned virus in question. 

And yet, this tiny chance that they are going to die from the thing, after getting it from an unvaxed neighbor who wouldn't know that he was carrying it because of the added small probability that he has it, but is "asymptomatic" as grounds for these ignoramuses to literally "hate thy neighbor," is astounding. 

How long before the "anti-vaxxers" are required to wear stars on their sleeves, alongside the "Trumpers."

And, who are the supposed authoritarian fascists in our society, now? 

A Cakewalk For The CCP

I'm starting to think that the reason California people seem to complain about "spotty" Internet connections, when I can hardly recall my connection ever even being a little slow (these posts typically publish in under 5 seconds, for example) is because, I think, their data is being throttled, due to censorship. There is a difference between stupidity and ignorance. The latter is more excusable.

If you're in California, you probably aren't even allowed to see this blog, type of thing. And that would be because I'm not a gung ho, full speed ahead, everybody be forced to get the jab, Fauci lemming. So, if you're Google and in cahoots with Big Pharma; don't even allow this over the "spotty connection" out there. 

Yup, that's what I think...that's my conspiracy theory

And I think when the Communists do attack, shortly after Trump is elected again, so it can be blamed on him for posterity's sake; their first nuclear warhead will target Mountain View, California, or SunyVale, or wherever the Google's servers are.

As soon as they are confident that we are a society that will be both literally and figuratively lost without our smartphones, then...bombs away! It will be a cakewalk for the CCP; like taking candy from a baby. Then we will all be both literally and figuratively f***ed by the Chinese, with their 3 inch penises...

But, that's just my opinion; tell me what you think in the comment section below; and be sure to "like" and subscribe to my channel....

I Whack A Skeezer Over The Head With A Can Of Cat Food Inside A Plastic Bag...

I had to laugh when I got home and Harold was meowing to be fed and I remembered that I had gotten him a can of food at the CVS on Canal Street.

It wasn't until I saw the deformed can that I remembered that I had indeed hit the skeezer first.

I guess I'm glad I didn't finish him off after I had joined my bike chain with the padlock, turning it into a skull cracking weapon. I always am glad whenever I catch myself going berserk and stop myself..

It's 5 a.m. and I'm not having cops knock at my door; as I probably would be having if I had cracked the skeezer's skull with the padlock at the end of the bike chain.

Although, I keep running the movie in my head of doing just that. 

But, every inch of the Quarter is under camera surveillance and they might have investigated the bludgeoning of a skeezer, who was carrying a tarp and just a homeless drug addict.

But, that is not why I whacked this skeezer over the head. I did that because he was letting the air out of the front tire of my bike, as it was locked to the rack in front of CVS.

I had just finished busking for about an hour and a half, starting at 11:20 and making 13 bucks off a light crowd.

The guy had approached me as I was standing by my bike which was locked to the rack near CVS, asking me if I needed a tarp. He was holding a rolled up tarp of some kind.

I was drinking a 24 ounce can of PBR which I had just bought in CVS, along with a can of food for Harold. I had double bagged the stuff, anticipating having to swing it like a weapon, based upon another really washed out looking red haired guy who had been kind of making a scene inside CVS, but being ignored by everyone except me, who merely turned and looked at him.

I was following the instructions that the self check out thing was giving me, scanning the PBR and the cat food and placing them in the bagging area. But the guy was yelling something unintelligible at nobody in particular, and I glanced at him just quickly enough to assess him to be one of those white people who are too white, so as to be almost pink, which he was, and his orange hair just screamed mentally unstable. Some people can just be summed up and judgement passed upon them, based upon appearance alone; that is just a fact of life.

When I heard him say something like: "What are you staring at?" presumably directed at me, I was concentrating upon pressing the right buttons and inserting the coins first and bills second. It crossed my mind that, upon seeing the whole 13 dollars that I intentionally pulled out in order to flash in front of him, for that very purpose, he was going to ask me for money. Even after having made the "What are you staring at?" comment.

I decided to mess with him some more after he hadn't tried to skeeze me but kept talking gibberish. 

My machine started repeating something in its lady's voice, like "Please place the item in the bag," over and over. I purposely kept the item out of the bag to make it repeat, so I could say (to the machine, right?): "Will you shut the f*** up?!"

Which caused the albino looking guy who, because of that appearance must also have had some kind of brain deformity, to start directing threats at me, who, for my part just kept my attention on the machine, which was then telling me that I had an age restricted item and that help was on the way.

The pale skinned orange haired guy had been urged towards the exit and told to leave by the black ladies who work there, with no help at all from a guy in a security uniform who sat in a chair by the entrance and never seemed to look away from his phone.

So, I took two bags, getting a smile from a very tall young black girl, which probably because she too has noticed that plastic bags have gotten thinner and weaker starting a few years ago. How amused would she have been had she known that I had double bagged my stuff in anticipation of having to swing the bag like a pitcher throwing a baseball and clock retarded boy over the head with the items.

But, I would wind up doing that to an entirely different person, as orange boy was nowhere to be seen after I stepped outside.

So, I cracked the PBR open and was sipping it. Along came the young guy carrying the rolled up tarp. He was a little shorter than me and probably about the same weight, but was about 35 years younger than me. That should have been substantial in a combat situation, but it is amazing how much decay and atrophy can befall a kid even as young as 20.

He asked me if I needed a tarp. I told him no, in fact I had a tarp that I was getting ready to throw out (having begun reading the Japanese art of de-cluttering book).

Then he asked me if, well, could I just give him some money instead of buying the tarp.

I then decided to mess with him.

"I'm gonna need all the money I got just to get my dope; in fact I'm probably gonna have to cop short a couple bucks if he'll let me slide..."

The sarcasm in this was lost upon him, because his attitude wasn't one of: "F** you; you're making fun of me because you know I'm trying to sell the tarp to get drug money" but rather he became wily and cunning and some kind of plot seemed to have hatched in his mind. 

He then became pseudo charming and with an upbeat half smile, told me enthusiastically that he was looking for some dope "too" and added that he had money (even though he had been a minute ago totally broke and just trying to get "enough for a hamburger") and he could cover whatever I might be short.

"Where's the dope?" he implored me to tell him; as in, come on, let's go; you push your bike, I'll walk alongside of you and, the skeeze will be on.

"Up on Treme Street," I said offhandedly, as if to say happy trails, you can spend your money there "Just walk down that street where the Asian massage place is.."

But, that somehow wasn't good enough for him. I suppose I was underestimating how much an addict's whole universe revolves around his fix and so, in his mind, why would I have anything better to do than to escort him to wherever they sold dope; I would be bringing them more business and might get a kick-back myself.

Then perhaps seeing the guitar around my neck and my backpack as a liability threatened to kick my ass, or something if I didn't show him where the dope was.

"Really, you're threatening me because I won't show you where the dope is?!'

I then walked away from him and the bike rack and started to sip on the Pabst where I was only a few feet away from the uniformed security guy, a fat black guy whose only usefulness seemed to be in sitting there poking at his phone and not getting involved in any sort of disputes. I still had Harold's can of food in the doubled bag.

A few sips into the beer, I looked over to see the skeezer letting air out of the front tire of my bike, whereupon I snapped in a way that only tequila has ever made me do in the past and I ran over to him and swung the bag as hard as I could, aiming the can for the crown of his head, which was still turned down and facing the valve stem of the tire.

It was a direct hit and he fell backwards, as if surprised that I would have resorted to violence against his non violent act of deflating a tire. It crossed my mind that he was trying to make it so I would have to walk the bike to wherever the dope was, allowing him to follow along and take advantage of whatever weakness he could uncover in me.

He then said: "You're going to jail!" and looked like he was considering running from me, should I continue to attack.

But then, perhaps seeing that I was encumbered by still having all my gear around my neck, he advanced upon me throwing punches which I was able to block all of so that my glasses and my hat were still on my head.

This had backed us to right in front of the fat black guy in the security uniform who sat on his stool, obliviously staring at his phone. I wondered what he would have done had I turned and punched him in the face.

I thought about taking my guitar and backpack off and my glasses so as to be in a more proper condition to fight; and probably should have, because instead of walking off after failing to land a punch, the skeezer grabbed my milk crate from where it sat near my bike with some air out of its front tire. He dumped a book that I had found and was carrying in the crate, out onto the sidewalk, and then came at me; right in front of security guy who barely moved; swinging the crate at me, and managing to cut my arm as I blocked it.

He then walked off, leaving the crate on the sidewalk.

I finished the beer out of a can that was partially crushed as I had held onto it while fending off blows, such was my desire to not have to interrupt what I was doing by putting everything down, the beer, the guitar etc. that I had just held onto it.

After I finished it, and when I was unlocking the bike, I squeezed the front tire, and finding it a little soft, I resolved to lock the two ends of my bike cable together and then go after the skeezer, who was still in sight a few blocks up canal. I would use the cable to generate deadly velocity on the padlock and crack his skull.

The one thing I did get out of the security guy was that he would be willing to let me set my gear down by him so I could go off in pursuit on my bike; he seemed to be encouraging of it. I guess that's what a certain political faction wants in this country; violence and chaos on every street everywhere.

I wondered if it was the tequila motivating me; knowing that it was as I closed in on the skeezer, mentally swinging the lock; making sure that I chocked up on the cable to curtail its arc to make it less likely that the skeezer could grab it; he surely wouldn't be trying to stop the padlock with a hand, but you never know what a person is going to do when in fear of their life..

I had a chance to think of the irony of my having watched the video of the Tibetan Yogis the night before; and I was pretty sure that this was the kind of challenge that life always throws at people who make some endeavor at becoming more spiritual; here I had been meditating the night before and, shortly after wa ready to hear the dull thud of a padlock hitting bone..

I knew that it was the tequila doing its thing again, at the intellectual level.

When I encountered him, I threw my bike down by the trolley tracks which attracted his attention. He saw that I had gotten rid of all my baggage and was holding the bike cable with about a foot of length to the padlock, and I think it was the fear that he showed, as he began to hurry back towards the light of Canal Street instead of continuing into the darkness of Toulouse Street, where a lot of skeezers sleep on the sidewalk, that made me decide not to attack him.

I rode home, playing a movie of me beating him to near death in my mind over and over again. I didn't settle down until I got into my apartment and heard Harold meowing for food.

Remembering that I indeed had gotten him a can of turkey flavored Friskies, I retrieved the plastic bags from my guitar case and had to laugh at how the can was caved in so much that it looked like a half a can.

It was only then that I remembered that I had indeed hit him first as he had claimed. I had totally forgotten that part until seeing the can of cat food.

I still was wishing I had bought something a lot more solid in CVS, which would have been in the bag...like one of those glass candles with Jesus on them that weigh about a pound and a half and are made of heavy glass full of solid wax...

But, this whole post should have been about the busking and making the 13 bucks in about 80 minutes of playing. But it wound up being about the evil spirits that seemed to be everywhere that night...

Even the young black kid who looked like that Smolett guy who faked the hate crime, who gave me the second shot of tequila may have been one of them...

When I got back to Sacred Heart there was a guy who resembled the skeezer a lot whom I knew couldn't have been him unless he had flown there. The guy kind of challenged me with a "what the hell are you looking at?" attitude...

Then, when I was going out to get another beer because my mind was still racing with wishing I had bought something heavier in CVS and would the police be knocking at my door that morning charging me as being some kind of aggressor; there was yet another rather tall and skinny black guy, swinging his fists at some invisible opponent and saying something like: "Nobody threatens me!" and I had to show him the cut on my arm which was oozing blood in order to calm him down, saying: "Yeah, I had the same problem with someone tonight..."

The sight of fresh blood seemed to give him a reality check upon the difference of talk and action. Instead of throwing punches at the air, why don't you go get yourself some of this actual blood? type of thing. When I got home with the beer he was gone, as was the other guy who resembled the skeezer...

I laid down and went to sleep, forgetting to wrap my wound and woke up worrying about infection as the cut was rubbing on my mattress; so I used some Neosporatin (sp?) type stuff that I had just happened to have found right before going out to busk. Bobby had once given it to me and it had fallen out of a sock that I pulled out of my drawer while getting ready to go. I had set it somewhere, not knowing that I would be needing it a few hours later...

Instead of seeing failure in that I watched the Tibetan Yogi video and then went out and did something counter to its teachings; I am seeing success in that, had I not watched the video I might have to be in fear of police knocking on my door any time now, had they found a bludgeoned skeezer on Toulouse Street.

A Time To De-Clutter

 

I spent a lot of time and unlimited data, through the government phone which is allotting that amount to all of us homeless food stamp recipients; apparently to keep us glued to our phones in order for Big Brother to keep us informed, while keeping tabs on our locations. 

There are no doubt scripts that monitor the gathering of those that have been labelled by the algorithm as "domestic terrorists" for the gathering of them in numbers greater than 50 or so -one of the costs of "free unlimited data," due to the pandemic, of course...

Meanwhile, I sit at home and have watched a whole hour and forty minute interview of Eckhart Tolle, by Russell Brand, and then watched the above documentary which itself was about and hour and a half in length.

Hearing the Tibetans talk about their own holocaust, at the hands of the Chinese -one that didn't get the press that the Hitler one did, for reasons that still seem to be at play today; and how the Yogis have no animosity towards the Chinese people (they were just doing as instructed by the Communist system) nor the Chinese government (the people who were brutalized in every way imaginable were just paying for the negative karma they had accrued in this, or previous, lives) was a great testament to their authenticity.

Earlier, I had watched a Listography.com video where four guys ranked The Smith's top ten songs, in each of their opinions.

And, I wound up falling asleep to a video about the Gnostic Gospels, which resonated with me, as I drifted off to sleep. Good thing for unlimited data, as I got up a few hours later and stopped the laptop from consuming more than the half a gigabyte that was wasted, as I slept, or maybe not, if it sunk into my mind subconsciously.

Upon waking and invoking the Law of Attraction by coming up with 3 things to be positive about (something that a young girl, interviewed at one of the outcrops of the Buddhist exodus from the genocidal Chinese, in or around San Diego, California, said something very similar to, in that every night before she went to sleep she would think of 2 things that she "did bad" that day, and two things that she "did good" and would wake up with the resolve to not repeat the one, but rather the other).

It was as soon as I felt happy and grateful for what I had that I looked at my bookshelf and noticed a book that I didn't remember ever seeing before, and wondered how it had even gotten on my shelf -I had probably grabbed it along with others that had drawn my attention away from it.

It was "the life changing magic of tidying up (the Japanese art of de-cluttering and organizing). Ironic that it had been hidden in the clutter of my room from me, until then.

I might write more about it, and other things but, it is 10 p.m., and 73 degrees on this December 9th evening -the Thursday Night Football game is a slaughter, as if the Pittsburg Steelers were the Tibetan's and The Minnesota Vikings the Chinese Communists, and so there is every reason for me to go out and busk, even though I continue to struggle with motivating myself to do so.

I'm starting to think that I am being called to fast for a long period of time without any kratom or coffee or tobacco or weed or sugar; kind of like the Yogis.

Found in a messy pile of books in my room...

I will be happy to make enough for an ounce of kratom and a can of food for Harold.

I also fear that I might be addicted to the Internet, which was a common thread between the Eckhart Tolle video and the Yogi one. Both of them mentioned the danger of ego driven websites that foment anger and resentment and jealousy and the rest of the 5 things that the Yogis struggle to subdue through meditation.

I might have to either de-clutter this blog by going back and deleting out such negativity from past posts; or just shut the laptop down and only use it to check the weather from now on and message a few people..

2 Solid Hours

• $97.50 Friday
• $25 Saturday
  

There didn't seem to be any lack of people in the Quarter, and it kind of amazes me; as someone who used to see tourists come here and act pretty much the same as they did tonight; but, after the Big Reset has gone into play; and given the divisive influence of social media that is owned by the likes of Bill Gates..

I worried that the tourists might have morphed into divisions of highly charged citizens on the lookout for, basically, something to hate someone else for.

But, these tourists are perhaps haunted by the exact same spirits as those that were here 2 years ago, before the flu, and they are hungry like fleas in the rug of a house that's residents have been away from, on a 2 week vacation; and they took the dog with them.

Picture spirits in the empty quarter, with no souls to torment; and then, the gates are open and the tourists flood in. They would jump at their first chances to become embodied and walk Bourbon Street.

Imbibing in many cases plainly too much, under the disillusionment that might fall under the head of: "This is New Orleans, we gotta party!" giving the spirits that much more free reign, and that is one explanation.

I just realized yesterday that, on many days that I had marked as "didn't practice today," because I hadn't done any exercises out of Mel Bay or Chet Atkins nor even the Charlie Byrd, books, but...on that day, I might have spent 45 minutes playing solo ideas over a recording I might have lying around, and maybe another half hour playing a rhythm part; and, while it can be argued that that isn't technically practice -because you are not forcing yourself to play anything that involves a radical stretch or something that works the weakest muscles in the hand, type of thing; just for the sake of it, as you would be, if doing exercises in a method book. They make sure that the exercise, whatever it is, spans all 6 strings, and there are always the notes that have to be reached for...

Improvising The Best Practice of All?

Except when improvising. When doing that, it is quite possible to come up with a device that will lead you to have to make some severe stretches. Like, if you start a certain melodic pattern, it will fall a certain way on the upper strings because of the way a guitar is tuned, and then you might find as you attempt to repeat the melody in a descending way, that when you get to the bottom strings you have had to rotate your whole hand and change the whole angle of the fingers; just like Mel Bay would have you do; but when you are driven by hearing a melodic pattern that you think, in the spur of the moment, would sound really cool repeated an octave lower, you don't have any time to think: "yeah, but that's going to be a hellacious stretch down there at the second fret." You just contort your hand in service of the melody. 

That probably develops nerve synapses at an accelerated rate, over doing the same stretches as part of an etude -the fact that the stretch was made out of a passion to hit the notes to make cool sounding music. 

The Law of Attraction comes into play in music, in a way I discovered way back when I first picked up an electric guitar and had learned basically one scale. I would kind of in my mind make a burlesque of myself as a guy playing the electric guitar; and I would be faking that I was really great. I might just hold one note, but then try to put as much feeling into it as possible; using heavy vibrato; or biting into the strings with the pick; anything to illustrate: this is what the greatest guitarist in the world would play. That way, you are just giving the general idea.

In the movies, they usually get a guy like Steve Vai to play, say the devil's guitar part, and he is able to act the part of the guitarist so good he outplayed the devil, or whatever the plot of that "Crossroads" movie was..

But, a kid coming home from a Steve Vai concert who plays guitar, upon being asked by someone if he enjoyed the concert and if the guy was that good, etc...

That kid could pick up his guitar and try to give his friend the general idea; "He was doing all this crazy kind of stuff, like..." and, even if the kid was nowhere near as good as Steve when he woke up in the morning, The Law of Attraction kind of premises that to the degree that the kid could "fake" Steve Vai, most importantly to grasp how he must feel and what kind of feeling he is trying to get across when he plays; he would have improved his playing to that same degree.

So, the feeling comes before the actual notes are played, and that fulfills the Law.

That kind of reminds me of how Joe Satriani often refers to himself as "the guy," in the context of, the way he explains it, him thinking to himself: "What kind of really freaky solo would the guy play here, in order to make it sound like literally surfing with a literal alien, type of thing. That is a clue into the thinking of a guy who plays guitar "at the speed of thought," Dorise Blackmon once assessed.

So, I guess my point is that the tourists haven't changed much.

I have noticed a little bit of what might be the "woke" culture having, by osmosis from cellphones probably, seeped into the consciousnesses of a few of the people milling about the Quarter; that has kind of reared its head in me having a couple of them asking me if they could have some of the money in my basket. It seems to be motivated according so some dictate that they might cling to in the area of "equality," or some other socialist or woke thing, whereby, my wealth should be "redistributed" amongst my brothers; even if they have just trekked across Mexico and tunneled under Trump's wall, entering illegally or something.

The same shoplifters seen pillaging stores in San Francisco, when on vacation in the French Quarter, might ask me if they can have a couple of the dollars in my basket, behind a similar philosophy which motivates that. I don't think I'm reading too much into it; it just seems like someone who is an advocate of "critical race theory" might just ask me for a couple dollars out of my basket. It would create more "equality" all the way around, type of thing. Other than that, the tourists are acting uncannily not much different from 2 years ago, hence the spirit theory.

It may be that 90% of tourists that come here are white supremacists, this might just be a hot spot for them, and they are conservative, as in no, they aren't going to change; they are going to resist change, and throw me a large bill (instead of change) for playing "Imagine," the same as they would have 2 years ago. 

And, sprinkled in among them might be genuine BLM and Antifa members; ones who protested and burned businesses chiefly in areas where businesses were being subsidized by the government, that the government is going to buy back the smouldering remnants of for pennies on the dollar, so they can construct Chinese style apartment buildings, to house the citizens of a green new world, but I'm getting ahead of myself...

Friday night, Jacob and I went out to busk; arriving at pretty much 11:45 and then playing until around 2:40 in the morning.

The money came to $97.50, counted behind a stack of boxes at the Unique Grocery Store. $32.50/hr. if you're calculating...

So, some of that was, I'm pretty sure because the combination of Jacob and I was more valuable than whatever I could have mustered by myself; the bass and guitar are becoming more synchronized. I'm still playing at about 70% with stretches of near virtuosity sprinkled in...

So, I came up with the system of splitting the money 70/30 between Jacob and I.

My theory can be broken into 2 points. Using Tanya Huang as the example; she no longer has her playing partner, Dorise Blackmon accompanying her. Her income has dropped due to the absence; but it hasn't dropped to half of what the two were making, more like 70% of what the pair averaged, from what I've been able to intuit, based upon peaking into her tip basket on the sly a few times...

Another way to look at it is; if I walked up on her one night and said: "Hey, I have my guitar and my little amp, let's do a few songs," her first thought, from a business perspective would be to note that it would be really hard for the combination of us two to double the amount going into the tip jar. We wouldn't have worked out songs through rehearsal, and her violin already sounds very good, and any accompanist would risk sinking into the background and making her sound better, but not worth double what people would have tipped just her and her pre-recorded background music.

So, she would balk at us teaming up from the perspective of it resulting in a pay cut.

So, if I ever did that, I would append: "We can split 70/30" which she might go for, as she would be gaining company at pretty much no expense to her. It might make her night go by "faster," I might contribute a certain amount of patter and joke making with the audience; the songs would have the ability to breath, as in slow down or speed up or be extended if a group are dancing, type of thing; and those benefits would wind up with her making about the same amount of money. A lot of people throw a little extra when they know it is going to be split between more than one musician; they just don't exactly throw double the amount (that is most likely if they were going to throw a dollar but throw two because there are two musicians, but if they were going to throw a 50 because they were so entertained, it would be a hard sell to get them to tip a hundred bucks).

My experience has shown that if you add another musician, you are ticking your income up about 33%, maybe...give or take a percentage..

When I was in St. Augustine, I had a friend who played what turned out to be an authentic Native American drum. I really enjoyed his company, it was fun just hanging out and playing music; but, I had developed a pretty good sense of what I could expect to make on a given night and I found that when I usually made, say, 58 bucks on a crazy, packed with tourists, Saturday night; it would be more like 75 bucks with Doug (as that was his name) playing his drum beside me.

So, Doug agreed, after initially being offended, to split our tips 60/40. That was giving him the benefit of a little bit of doubt that the addition of him was boosting my revenue by 40% but Doug was as homeless as me; and his needs, gauged using whiskey and tobacco as the measure, were adequately covered out of his 40% and he was happy.

In the beginning, I was able to mollify him by pointing out that I both sang and played the guitar (but not the harmonica yet) and that, if we had a guy that played guitar, and another one who sang, then we would be splitting the money 3 ways and his 40% would drop to 33⅓%.

What was the clincher was that, when he played his authentic Native American drum, which he had to regularly tighten the rawhide bindings of and which wasn't really very loud, he would struggle to break 10 dollars on any given night; and it was usually a nail biter on his part, the prospect of him making his whiskey and tobacco for the night. That was just because one guy tapping out a beat on a drum made out of buffalo butts, well; people are modest in their appreciation of such a character.

*Doug did have kind of a side gig which was in pulling behind a bike that he had fitted for the task, a huge trailer, loaded up with enough stuff to furnish a small apartment. I don't know if he distrusted other homeless people too much to leave his stuff at a campsite while he was away, or what. But people would marvel over the evidence that, even a homeless guy could be an inveterate hoarder. He was easily toting 25 times as much stuff as an average homeless person might carry around.

Doug's trailer (which he might have fashioned out of a rickshaw or something) was also the apple of photographer's eyes; making them feel like they were working for National Geographic and taking a "Look at how some people live!" Pulitzer Prize contending picture. Imagine having so much stuff, and pulling it around everywhere!

I had seen people walk past him, maybe giving him the same cursory glance that an Indian puffing on a peace pipe and tapping the peace drum might get from them, but then, seeing his bike and trailer, exclaim: "Wow, look at that," followed by asking Doug if they could take a picture of it, and dropping a 5 spot in his Native American tip receptacle.

Jacob and I might be getting to the point where the sum is greater than the parts, but Jacob is kind of in a similar boat with Doug, as in, it might be a challenge to make the same 28 bucks that he wound up with, as his 30%, if he was playing solo bass on the sidewalk somewhere. I have seen a young guy busking on solo tuba a while back, and he was pulling in decent tips; but tuba is loud enough to carry 12 blocks, and the v=$ (where v stands for volume) formula was in effect with tuba boy.

I remember asking him who the Eddie Van Halen of the tuba is: "Like, are there any tuba players that blow you away so much that they inspire you?"

He actually gave me the name of some guy, which I might be able to dig up (probably just by typing "tuba" into the YouTube search box, and letting it auto-fill "

Van Halen of Tuba" in the suggestion box, or certainly there will only be one tuba player in my viewing history and it would be that guy.

I think the tuba guy on Royal Street was impressed by how it was a really skinny kid (kind of tall, with curly reddish hair, I recall) and I guess the amount of sound the guy could put out in units of pounds per decibel (P/D). And he played really fast little arpeggios in the highest register of that brass life vest-like instrument.

I think the 70/30 split is fair, is my conclusion. Besides, the tips that I have gotten of over 100 bucks have all come from solitary guys who had sat down on the step next to me and asked something like "So, where were you born, and how did you get into doing this?" which had led to conversation, and optimally, songs that go with parts of my life story..."Yeah, we used to scale this gate and sneak into a church, that's the kind of stuff that floated her boat...I, um, actually wrote a song about her (that goes a little something like...)"

And, those were my biggest tips. The $270 one, came from a guy who said "I'm the millionaire in that song, and my daughter is Britiny.." referring to the "Crazy About a Crazy Girl," song, which I might just shorten the title of to "Colonapin" and saying that the song had encapsulated his family in a nutshell, everything about the Britiny in the song was applicable to the guy's daughter.

That is because the environment that went into the creation of Britiny of St. Augustine, Florida, is prevalent just about everywhere. In this homogeneous country, you could fall from space and land in any urban area and there would be a McDonald's down there, past the Walgreen's and a Burger King the other way, past the Boost Mobile store and the Family Dollar. The houses would all have been built using cookie cutter type construction.

I like New Orleans, because just about the whole place, especially the French Quarter, looks like it was made by hand. There are actually a lot of places where it's hard to tell if the telephone pole is leaning a little or the house behind it. Maybe that is the appeal that still seems to be drawing swarms of tourists, being in a place that is actually different than 90% of the rest of the country. If you get to Waffle House, you went too far...

Last (Saturday) night I didn't leave to go out until 11:20 PM, and brought my own milk crate, so I could make a beeline for the Lilly Pad and not have to waste time looking for a crate. Those have been harder to find, post pandemic (or mid pandemic, depending upon whether or not you're talking to someone with interests in Big Pharma).

I made just about 25 bucks, with all of them being one's. So, I could look at it like, people aren't really rich, they've broken all of their big bills already, down to a few singles; but even though money is tight, that song really rocked! type of thing..

There weren't as many people as yesterday, but they were steady; every 2 minutes another group of 4 or 5, type of thing...

Well, I'm going to try to put up some music here from live recordings done at the Lilly Pad. And that can be expected in about 12 hours from now...

Press "Lilly"

 My new phone came to life after being activated; and, although it required me to install Facebook and then the messenger appendage to it; in order to see all my familiar contacts (after giving the phone permission to fetch them) and it just seems like the free government phones are inextricably linked to Google.

Even using something other than the Chrome browser causes the phone to protest that I really should use Chrome; so they can sync everything together so that my location can be used to locate me and ultimately I can be made to vote for whatever candidate my phone wants me to, come election season.

I can already see the painting of Trump as being the enemy of the planet with his affinity for the fossil fuels that our country has a wealth of.

If I was a citizen of the world and didn't bleed red white and blue, type of thing, I would probably really resent the United States. But, I would probably hate the most how the whole world looks to this country for validation. You can be the best golfer in Japan, but you won't get a ticker tape parade in your honor until you come to America and beat the best of the best. Same thing for baseball players who might have rewritten the record books in Costa Rica; they haven't done a thing until they have come here and pitched a no hitter in the World Series, type of thing.

Why doesn't every country have their own industries, make their own movies and music and have their own sports leagues? Oh, they do; but those are all just a dress rehearsal for coming to the Land of Dreams and realizing them here.

That is probably what I would resent this country the most over, had I been born in Argentina, or The United Arab Emirates...

How did that come to be? It seems obvious that our way of life here was fertile ground for all these achievements. Are people are just a melting pot of everything; so there is nothing to distinguish an American baseball player who came up through Little League all the way to the big leagues...

Except maybe for good nutrition and vitamins; a lot of cow's milk and meat, meat, meat!

Lilly answered less than 3 seconds after I pressed the big tab with "Lilly" on it in my contacts.

I told her about my stage fright of late, which has become like a writer's block type of thing; whereby I talk myself out of going out to play, out of fear of maybe not making any money; while I wipe my ass with old socks that have holes in them and then just throw them away afterwards. I have a few cans of food for Harold, am out of kratom and tobacco. I wonder if the kratom that I buy when I make money is in conflict with my inner values; a part of me that want's to become totally sober and just live off spring water and deep breathing exercises for a maybe 3 weeks; to reinvent myself (some more).

I am worried about the guy who I found playing in front of Lilly's house last Friday, who informed me right away that he would be leaving in a minute and that "you can have your spot." He must have seen me playing there every night when I used to.

I couldn't see him as having made much money sitting in the dark like he was. As soon as I hung my spotlight overhead and started playing I got a tip from the very next group that came along. I guess I'm worried that the guy is going to figure out the "moths to a flame" effect of bringing a spotlight and will be making the 30 bucks an hour that I typically do on a Friday night and will become territorial.

Lilly told me that she was tired from cleaning the pool and wouldn't be coming out to say hello to me; that was also a low key way of saying don't call me to come out and run off a guy who might be playing under a spotlight when I arrive...

I almost feel like seeing if Jacob wants to come by with some kratom and to go out and make it easier to coax the guy off the spot by outnumbering him 2 to 1.

I need to do some kind of meditating and centering and reclaiming the enthusiasm that had me going out rain or cold, every night except an occasional Monday night off to watch football.

If I was in jail doing a 6 month sentence and they told me I could leave every night but I had to busk for 3 hours as part of the deal; I think I would have the mindset that I will be trying to put myself into; when I meditate and center myself; after watching Jeopardy which comes on in 11 minutes...

10 People Get Shot

At Least One Booster Shot

Right: A tragic ending to the Bayou Classic weekend for two overweight white girls, who apparently failed to score boyfriends of color, out of the 200,000 football fans and boosters, who encroached upon the city for the annual rivalry game; despite one of them having gone as far as dying her hair red, to create a "Jen Psaki" look. An officer of color, fresh from posting a perfect score on the NOPD physical fitness test, struggles to conceal her amusement.

It's time for me to call Lilly to try to get idea of how things are going there, in her neighborhood, since I didn't go out last night to see for myself.

All my needs kept getting met, for example, I found out that the box of 24 cans of food that I believed Harold hated, was actually a variety pack, and Harold only hated the flavor of 8 of the cans, leaving 16 that he happily and gratefully scarfed down.

Then, I was called by a friend of Bobby's who invited me over where he gave me tobacco and one beer and some weed.

...of all people to inspire little old me...

It was the weed, however, that I blame for the lack of ambition that kept me in last night; and I, as has often been the case, didn't fully respect the music that I had recorded the night before, upon waking up this morning and playing it back.

But, remaining grateful and happy about what I have, I stumbled upon a video about, of all people, Ozzy Osbourne called "The Nine Lives of Ozzy Osbourne," which I wound up watching all the way through and it was inspiring, both as a motivator to go completely sober, and as an example of a magical life where a guy's "contributions outweighed his faults."

The Time Is Now

 It is exactly 9:12 in the evening, and the 9:12 street car is due to go by any minute now. I used to get on that thing every night; and would arrive at the Lilly Pad at just about the same time. That helped the other street people in the block kind of regulate around me a bit.

If there was anyone else playing at the spot, they would have started early enough to get in x amount of time before I showed up.

It was pretty much understood that to be able to play in a residential area, you are subject to the residents running you off or the cops doing their bidding.

So, there was never a problem with Lilly running anyone off, but maybe just telling them that her friend usually showed up at about 9:40 p.m. and that she had told him that he could have the spot; whereupon the people might assure her that they would be done by then, and so the spot kind of got shared that way. Lilly being the key to it all.

But, now, as I sit here and am so reluctant to go out, I wonder if it is some kind of psychological aversion to going out. I can remember feeling this way before, and then, after getting out there and playing for just a little while, wondering why I hadn't gone out earlier, type of thing.

I suppose it is the bagging up of the gear and the ride on the bike through the chilly air; and then the setting up of all the stuff, which includes the little amp now.

That amp might become a sign to other musicians to bring amps, which might draw the ire of Lilly. So maybe all things work to the good.

I am going to be out of everything if I don't go, so I guess I'll stop using this blog as an excuse to stay in any longer...