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We went out and played for something like 2 hours and 27 minutes I think it was, Saturday night into Sunday morning.

The very first song we did earned us a ten dollar bill; but after that, the bucket kept coming up from the well empty.
It's hard to complain when the most important thing -how we played- fell into the favorable category.
It's just going to take going out there more; maybe during the daytime one of these days; to turn the tide of the numbers game that busking is, around.

Jacob said that the stereo recording he made using 2 phones came out sounding good. I could post a song or 2 to Soundcloud and then link it to tomorrow's post...
Or I could play around with my audio editor program and add an orchestral instrument or 3.

Having the vocals loud and clear leaves a lot of sonic room for adding other things. At least a timpani thumping out an accent here and there might be tasteful...
The Hamlin Injury

I think it was the right decision to suspend the Bills/Bengals game after that Hamlin guy's heart stopped and he collapsed on the field.

Sure, players die in car crashes and other accidents off field and the games still go on. The players might wear arm bands with their fallen teammate's number on them; but the game still goes on.

Brought to you by Fye-Zur

In this case, though, it would have been awkward.

The Bengals would have been in a position to take advantage of the understandably distracted Bills. And if they ran offensive plays designed to target the 3rd string guy who would have been replacing Hamlin; that would have been uncouth to say the least, and probably downright cold-blooded. At least give the Bills a week or two to fill in the void left behind by Hamlin...
As for the "experts" who immediately declared that there is no way that the injury could in any way be related to any pharmaceutical product that the players were mandated to take; what part of "nobody knows for sure," are they having trouble wrapping their minds around?

There are perhaps ways, barring the performance of an autopsy, to investigate that potential link; but I don't doubt that the whole matter will be swept under the Astro Turf, so to speak...

They Wouldn't Print It If It Wasn't True

Myself, I have been steering clear of as many political discussions as possible; taking Russell Brand's "Stay Free" podcast as my sole daily dose of news.

I believe that U.S. politics is like a theater production that's purpose is to distract the masses, by dividing them and pitting one tribe against the other; so that nobody is asking any questions about the elephant in the room. I wouldn't be surprised if the politicians meet behind closed doors and rehearse their antics; the way that professional wrestlers will get together and run through the program a few times ...I'll clothesline you; and you fall right about here; and then my partner will get up on the top rope and leap down, making it look like he landed right on your chest, and then...type of thing. Once the bell rings they become "mortal enemies," with their hatred of each other on full display for the audience -they who were sipping coffee together that same morning while choreographing the "mayhem."

As long as Americans continue to believe that "they wouldn't print it if it wasn't true," then, oh well, the liars will be effective and that "big club that you and I aren't in" will prosper, and I guess the common folk will get what they deserve.

This Biden guy has been caught in lies red-handed; but anyone who points that out; well, that person is lying...see where we are at?

Instead of shaking my head; I'm trying to go back to a life like I had when I lived in the woods and wouldn't even have known about "911" had I not a little transistor radio that ran a very long time on just 2 AA batteries. What I didn't know never seemed to hurt me. Simply by tuning that radio to the all-sports-all-the-time station and ignoring the newspapers at the beer and cigarette store, I wasn't burdened with a point of view; and that was quite liberating. There were dumpsters to dive into and fires to cook over, and songs to sing for tip money. There were hardly any divisions in society because the machine had succeeded in making 98% of the people of one mind; one narrative.

Now the cellphone is both a blessing and a curse. I might get randomly attacked while making a run to the corner store by someone whose phone has convinced them that I am the white oppressor; and probably voted for Trump, the worst president ever and the biggest white oppressor of all.

Joe Biden is the best president ever. It's all right there on PBS and NPR and CNN; all one has to do is open their eyes and see the screen! Everything on Fox News is a lie; as CNN has been diligent in pointing out...

A Comedy Of Errors

I set my alarm about 8 hours ahead, hoping to leave for the plasma donation place shortly after it went off; but then lay there, unable to go to sleep until it was almost noon and the alarm was set to ring in just 3 and a half more hours....

"Maybe I'll just stay here and get a fresh start in the morning," thought my sleep deprived brain...before it decided that I should just go there, after being up around 12 hours.

It wasn't until I was all the way over to East New Orleans and in a half intoxicated dreamlike state that I realized: "Wait a second; I've been up 24 straight hours, not 12..."

An energy drink only had me on nervous energy when I went into the plasma place, where I found out that I couldn't donate because I had been there the Thursday before, and then Monday. The holiday had confused me.

It was one of those times when I had gambled by using the last of my cash to ride the bus out there; and when none of my plastic cards had the minimum amount of cash on them to get cash back; not after making the requisite purchase of "something," in order to get cash back. Where is Walgreen's, with their .39 cent caramels when you need them?

I was so tired, and it being 76 degrees out according to my phone, I went into Homeless Mode, and scanned the horizon for some place where I could just lay down and sleep since, even if I were to bum $1.25 off someone, I would have to do the same the next day at the other end of the line, in order to return..

There was a strip mall with most of the businesses shuttered within sight of the plasma place, where I found a dry grassy patch in the sun, right behind a concrete slab which looked like it had been an outdoor eating patio for the defunct restaurant of some kind that it was attached to. It had a roof overhanging it, propped up by a few wooden supports, where ceiling fans hung, but no visible cameras. The fans had been out of use long enough for bees or wasps to have attached hives to several of the blades. Turning on the electricity and switching them all on would have been "kicking the hornet's nest," indeed, I thought...

As tired as I was, the small adrenaline rush that I'd gotten from having sneaked onto someone's property had me awake enough so that I sat down on the patio to read "Bel Canto," the Ann Patchett novel that I had brought with me to pass the plasma donation time. I noticed a spent rifle casing on the concrete not far from me, and briefly wondered if someone had been brought back there to be executed and then their body dragged into the scrubby woods that was behind the whole row of buildings.

After reading for a while, I decided to lay in the grass to see if I could drift off to sleep, hoping that I would wake up with only a few hours to wait before the plasma place opened. had only my hat on top of the book for a pillow, so I scanned the trash and debris that seems to be scattered throughout every wooded area of New Orleans, as if the receding waters from hurricane Katrina had deposited it all there.

I saw one potential pillow in the form of what looked like a wicker chair, half buried in the dirt. I though that I might be able to break off a piece of it to use; but my attempt to do so only produced an explosion of motion as a rabbit took off from underneath the thing as if shot out of a cannon. That gave the spent rifle shell another possible meaning.
Thinking that, If I was indeed tired enough, a book with a hat on top of it would make an adequate pillow, I laid down and was just starting to drift off while my mind started coming up with other options to sleeping there.

I could wait at the bus stop and see if any of the drivers would give me a "complimentary" ride after I explained about the plasma donation miscalculation. Or that failing, could go into the Wal-Mart to see if I could find someone that I could trade a food item off my EBT card to, in exchange for $1.25 -an item worth twice that, or so...

It was a few ants that kind of made the decision for me. What ants were doing back there, and what they lived off of was a mystery. Surely it wasn't biting the homeless guy who laid down there every few years, or so, that nourished them...

It was while walking the quarter mile to the nearest bus stop -the one across from the WalMart- that I noticed a text message from Jacob, about some music files he was planning to delete off his Google Drive to make room for the latest recordings of us busking on December 10th.

He wanted to know if I had downloaded them to my computer yet. I told him that I couldn't remember for sure, but thought that I had. Weren't those from the night when we had done a really slow version of a certain Grateful Dead song? I told him that I couldn't check my computer because I was currently stranded in East New Orleans and might have to sleep on the ground somewhere that night, waiting for the plasma place to open in the morning.

He responded that he was going to be borrowing a car later on and might be able to come get me, but that it wouldn't be for a few hours.

I told him that I would first try to see if one of the drivers would let me ride for free, given my circumstances. I was hopeful that if the lady driver pulled up who had picked me up that night a couple weeks ago when it was about 20 degrees out and I had my winter coat wrapped around a little old black lady when she arrived; she might let me ride. It turns out that little old lady rides a lot and is well known to the drivers and that the story of her having found a coat to crawl into on that frigid night, when the bus had been an hour late, had circulated. That driver, a black lady herself, inexplicably smiled at me the next time I got on her bus; rather than stare straight ahead and not even respond to any kind of greeting from me; like the rest of the all African American drivers do on that, and other routes. It's as if they believe I must own a car (because all a white man has to do is sign up at a dealership to get one) and that I'm only riding a bus to "deride" all the mostly black passengers -to let them know that I know that they "don't own no car," and probably never will, type of thing.

The first driver that pulled up, a heavyset black man, fell into the later category; barking "No," at me before I had finished explaining about my transfer having expired, and....

The second bus about 45 minutes later was piloted by a heavyset black lady, who likewise cut me off with: "That ain't got nothin' to do with me!" as I started to explain. So I started to walk towards WalMart, thinking that trading food for bus fare might be more successful; less like begging at least... How much more fuel would the bus have to burn to lug my 144 pounds the 13 miles to Canal Street? I wondered. But then I kind of forgave the drivers because I don't know how many people try to ride for free every day and how much of a problem their habits may have become and if the bus company itself hadn't had to "put their foot down" on the matter. I could have been an agent of the corporation, testing the drivers to see if they were adhering to the policy; especially in the often conspiratorial thinking that surrounds white people in the thoughts of a lot of African Americans.

No sooner had I decided to shift my attitude towards one of gratitude for all the things that I did have and take upon myself the onus of blame for not having paid enough attention to the calendar, causing me to show up a day too early at the plasma place...my phone chimed.

It was Jacob messaging me that he would be able to get the car sooner than he previously thought and that I should make sure I save the battery on my phone, so I can keep him updated on my whereabouts. I was in the middle of responding to that message when my phones screen went black, except for a spinning graphic telling me that it was "shutting down." It had gone from 72% battery charge to 1% all in the space of one text message. I don't know if this is because I was way out in East New Orleans and not close to a tower, or what...

The second person inside WalMart that I offered to buy food for in exchange of $1.25 was a Latina lady, who told me; "I can just give you a couple dollars," which she produced from a little purse that looked like it was stuffed with large bills.

Since I then had to wait about another 45 minutes for the next bus, I decided to take my time and shop for some food myself while waiting. I found that I wasn't hungry at all because I had gotten a nervous stomach from the ordeal of having had to ask strangers for help. Nothing looked appealing, so I just grabbed 3 cans of energy drinks and a couple pounds of tilapia fish that was almost $16. My biggest concern was getting back home where I could put a quick charge on my phone in order to alert Jacob not to start heading towards East New Orleans, thinking he would then be nearby when I turned it on to tell him exactly where I was...

I got back to the bus stop, carrying my bags from Wal Mart, a few minutes before the next #62 arrived, being driven by the first heavyset black man who had refused me. This time, he was just waving passengers past the turnstile thing, which had a little plastic "out of order" thing draped over it. Just enough of a frown appeared on his face when it came time for him to wave me past the thing that I wondered if he thought that I had phoned someone of my white friends along the route and asked him to do me the favor of getting on the bus and jamming a Canadian quarter or something into the machine, so as to render it out of order.

Or if I might not have called Donald J. Trump directly and explained my dilemma. "Don't worry, Daniel McKenna, I've got some amazing, loyal friends there in East New Orleans who will jam a Canadian or Mexican or some other foreign coin -they're all the same to me, but it won't be American; that's for sure- into that machine that will jam it like it's never been jammed before! It will be SO jammed...Let me make a couple calls; you won't have to pay a cent, there are some amazing, incredible people there in Louisiana, as you know because you're one of them; I'm looking at your name on a list right in front of me. You won't have to pay a cent, I guarantee it!" That's kind of the vibe I got from the frown he gave me...

I pocketed the 2 dollars from the Latina lady, glad that I wouldn't have to figure out a way to get back to the plasma place the next day.

If You Don't Have Anything Nice To Say...

The Japanese art of decluttering and organizing...

"'Ya ready?!! Come on, E to A minor!!"

I had woken up at about 4 in the afternoon, and decided that I wouldn't try to make a dash for the plasma donation center, as that would have involved leaving immediately.

Instead, I decided that I would spend a sober Wednesday evening doing housework.

So, I threw my most often worn clothes in a tub full of soapy water, then lied down to do 6 rounds of the Wim Hof deep breathing exercises.

I was on the final round and right at the stage where total relaxation and being "in this moment" is called for, when the now familiar knock of Jr sounded on my door.

As he had knocked right in the middle of my final breath hold, he was no longer at the door about 30 seconds later when I opened it. I went up to his place, partly out of courtesy, so he wouldn't think that I had shunned him if he found out that I had been home when he knocked, but hadn't answered.

"I was right in the middle of my deep breathing exercises when you knocked; I couldn't go to the door..."

He was drunk and high, having returned from his own trip to the plasma donation place with some of the $125 that he would have gotten there already exchanged for a half gallon of vodka and a sack of weed.

"Your what?!" he asked, just as he has every time I have mentioned to him the Wim Hof exercises that I do.

I have accepted the fact that Jr has some kind of mental tic whereby he seems to have no memory of certain things; while at the same time having vivid recollections of other things, and obsessing on them to prove that. 

For example, he has thanked me at least a dozen times for having gone to the front desk to request that they call an ambulance for him the time I found him splayed out at the bottom of the staircase by the parking lot entrance, with what turned out to be a broken arm. I didn't know him that well then, and initially tried to slip past him without him noticing me. For all I knew him falling down might have been a nightly thing. I was afraid he was going to ask me to prop him on my shoulder and half carry him up to his place; something that I suspected might have been asked of me as a cry for attention, and that he might have been feigning being injured, so that I would do so out of sympathy. Then, I feared that he would want me to help him take his boots off, help him to bed, fetch a drink out of his refrigerator and bring it to him; and that it was possible that he would keep ranting; perhaps heaping gratitude upon me, and that it would go on and on, in such a heartfelt and garbled by alcohol way that I would find it hard to find an appropriate time to break away.
"Listen, before you leave, I just want to tell you that, when I was about 10 years old; and this has a lot to do with what I've been going through lately, and I'm going to get to that..." type of thing.

Though that incident has seemed to have stuck in his memory; he seems to have no recollection of having thanked me for it a dozen or so times. "I'll always owe you a debt of gratitude for calling the ambulance for me that time I fell down the stairs" takes its place amongst countless other phrases that he repeats ad infinitum.

I thought it was a matter of my own personal growth that I recognized the anger that welled up in me and my urge to snap back at him: "I KNOW, you've told me that two dozen times!" and then maybe recap the rest of the story; so he wouldn't have to. I decided to not get mad at him over memory issues that are beyond his control and to just accept him as being kind of a human parrot.

Then I became aware of my tendency to anger over him showing up at my door at random times, very drunk and high, insisting that drop whatever I might be doing, such as maybe sleeping, grab my electric guitar and amp and follow him to his place, where he would play basically the same notes and patterns over the E to A minor chords that he would insist that I play, apparently assuming that I was just as baked as him. "Come on, let's go; E to A minor!!"

As he quaffs more and more vodka he invariably falls into the habit of sitting right next to me on the couch and accompanying every other note he plays with a bump from his shoulder against mine; as if he is trying to make me "feel" the music or something. And, this can be annoying when I am stone cold sober, and he is in intoxicated euphoria and baying the lyrics to whatever song he is doing out of the meager collection that he knows, right into my ear, from just bumping distance away.

I find myself wanting to say: "It must be nice to be as high as you are right now," but the truthfulness of that is something that I have an internal debate over, and that might just make him pass me the half gallon bottle of cheap vodka.

So my anger over that particular has more to do with me projecting my own failings upon him. If I go to his place because I basically want to drink vodka and smoke weed, then I need to take responsibility for that, and not blame him for "getting me" wasted.

And a third aspect of it, which is a realization I came to as I was riding my bike to the Winn Dixie earlier, is the anger I feel over his apparent assumption that I have nothing better to do than to hang out and jam with him, which is more self loathing over my not going out to busk, lately, as much as I used to. I could politely tell him: "Sorry, I can't hang out because I'm going down to the Quarter to play for a few hours," if that were the case. Then I wouldn't have to suppress an urge to lash out at him with something like: "Hey, I'm not your servant; you don't own me, and I don't owe you anything; where do you get off thinking I should be at your beck and call every time you are loaded and feel like making noise with your guitar!!"

So, again, that is a case of self loathing and guilt over my not busking enough. I find that almost everything I get mad at another person for is either something that I do myself; or something that I'm mad at myself for in connection to, but am projecting on the other person.

Right: The milk crate in the upper right, I just added an hour ago. This is progress.

A Tale Of Two Syncronicities

In order to add another milk crate to the bookcase shown, I had to look for my bag of plastic ties. So, I went into a closet that I use as a vocal booth, as I have stuffed as many pillows and winter jackets and clothes I don't wear onto its shelves, and to throw other random items that I might have a use for some day, into.

I couldn't find the bag of plastic ties, but I did notice a really nice black "Adidas" winter jacket that I had forgotten I own. It probably goes back to the heavy drinking days.

It turned out to be a "closet full of synchronicities." There was a neatly packed emergency blanket, the size of a wallet, which could have come in handy last week when I was freezing while waiting an hour for a bus...(see the blog post: "Hey, Stranger!")

On the floor of it was a milk crate that had a red fabric of some sort draped over it, which hid the fact that it contained about 15 music CD's. I have a vague recollection of finding it somewhere and must have stashed it in the closet, planning on going through them, then forgot all about it.

A few months ago, I found a song on one of my data sticks that I liked, but which was unlabelled. It was sung in French.

I didn't understand the lyrics but guessed (pretty incorrectly, as it turned out) that it was an uplifting, encouraging song about an ant moving a rubber tree plant or something. I decided to queue it up on my laptop's desktop folder, where it would be available as a "morning wake up song," so upbeat it sounded.

My friend, Jacob Scardino, was able to use some app to identify the song, which had lyrics that translated into something like: "I don't want to work, I want to lay in bed and smoke cigarettes." Some morning wake up song...

It was by a group called Pink Martini.

The first CD in the box that I only vaguely remember finding somewhere and taking home, was by Pink Martini. It didn't have the morning lay around song on it. That is kind of a synchronicity.

This morning, when I was thinking about busking I decided that I was going to Google "Neil Young's most popular songs," so that I can learn a few and put to rest the uneasiness that I have been living with, spawned by the number of times people see me at the Lilly Pad, see the acoustic guitar and harmonica, and see an opportunity to request: "Any Neil Young?" I would put in a couple hours and have a few of Neil's songs ready to go, I thought to myself.

Next in the stack of CD's in the box I had forgotten about was called "Neil Young's Greatest Hits."

All the rest of them were artists I had recently checked out, for one reason or another. The "Tastes Like Music" website is always ranking the Top 10 albums by one band after another and not long ago they ranked all the Blondie albums, barely able to scratch up ten of them, but one of the three guy's that rank had mentioned a song called "Maria," as being one of his personal favorites. There it was in EP form in the box.

And there was a similar connection with each disc. Even Frank Sinatra, I heard mentioned just yesterday by Dave Rubin on his podcast, as being the kind of music Dave likes, and "The Voice: Frank Sinatra, The Capitol Years" was in this box I wasn't aware I had.

Macy Gray; I have just recently read the Wikipedia page of, after something made me curious about her. There was her disc: "On How Life Is."

And, as if this wasn't enough synchronicity; the disc at the very bottom was: "Synchronicity," by The Police...

The bag of plastic ties had been hidden in plain sight, on the table that the milk crate bookshelf sits on. This is something that Marie Kondo mentions in her "The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up" book -how things that you don't really need in a cluttered room become "invisible," -you see them every day but never see them...

What's Up, Stranger?

An irony, exchanged  between people who haven't seen each other in a while...

Something I half  expect to hear from my friend, Patrick, whom I haven't seen in about 3 weeks, the next time I see him.

I'll have to  explain about the flat tire on the bike that had me on foot and out of visiting range. Plus, he is often not home, making the mile walk to his place a gamble.

I also haven't  had the urge to smoke any marijuana lately, something that is a staple at his residence, and kind of his way of greeting guests...

"Lord, Almighty!"

Today, which was  the coldest day of the year so far, including last January and February, I set off for the plasma donation center.

Try as I  always do to get there earlier, out of consideration for the staff, who have to let people in one minute before closing, and then work overtime (for which they aren't compensated) in order to take their donation.

If they are  ever going to make a mistake and accidentally kill a donor, it would probably happen after 6 p.m. when, in a rush to get the person done, they might overlook something like iodine; or set the machine to extract 6,900 milliliters of plasma out of a person weighing 144 pounds, such as myself, instead of 690. By the time they noticed the puddle of overflow on the floor all around the persons donation station, the donor would be in another world, mingling with his great grandparents. And then they would get out of there even later, after having to mop up, toss the body in the dumpster out back, and then go into the computer to delete any record of his visit...

But, despite my  best efforts, I have been an habitual late-comer. I imagine they have a nickname for such people; some medical term for "pain in the ass."

That Darned Cat! 

This time, as  I was aiming to get on the street car before the one I have so far always wound up on; I realized that I hadn't shaved.

Shaving is a  good measure for the sake of not appearing to be homeless, something that is a disqualification from donating. I think this is in case the plasma sample they routinely test comes back showing certain infectious diseases, which means they have to notify the person; to advise him to go immediately to his doctor, and not to come there. Almost every homeless person now has a government phone that they could call, but, that's the rule...

Stepping out of  the building, clean shaven, I encountered a shivering Harold at the back door, which creature I let in and fed. I then missed that street car by about the same amount of time it took to do that.

The wind was  so strong, I would estimate the chill factor was "making it feel like" about 20 degrees. When the snots in your nose freeze and you have to start breathing through your mouth, you know it's cold.

In fact, it  was actually "ski mask" weather, as frost-bitten faces would have been a likely danger to anyone caught outside for any length of time. But, in typical Louisiana fashion, most people I saw were dressed in hoodies with maybe a sweatshirt underneath; totally unprepared, despite having the hoods pulled over their heads.

The drivers on  the roads were likewise handicapped by not having snow tires, and at one traffic light, which had a patch of ice leading up to it, I watched every other car slide and bump into the one in front of it whenever the light turned red. They would typically get out of their vehicles to check for damage, and then decide that getting back into the warmth of the car was more critical at that moment, than fretting over a broken license plate holder, and taking down insurance company information, etc..

My plasma donation  was a success, so I felt good about having supplied one of the raw materials from which life giving medications are manufactured. And, oh yeah; good about the $125 that I was paid...

I joked one  time to one of the "plasmapheresis" technicians: "You guy's are making plasma screen TV's back there, aren't you? It's OK, I won't give away your secret..." This got chuckles out of a few of them, with one young guy saying: "Nobody's ever asked that before," as if he had never thought of it.

After donating, I  walked the half mile or so to the WalMart, across the street from which is the bus stop where the only bus back to Canal Street (the #62) stops. My phone's battery had died, probably from being frozen, but I remembered that there was a #62 that stopped there at 8:16 p.m. There was a small group of people at the stop, cringing in their hoodies with the hoods pulled over their heads.

After getting cat  food and cash back from WalMart, I waited in the warmth of the lobby until shortly before 8:16 p.m., then half ran to the stop. The same group of people that I had seen were still there. There hadn't been a #62 by there for at least the past hour, I was told by a small black lady of about 50 years old, whom I first thought was a man, based upon the small area of face that I could see, peeking through the diaphragm of a hood that had been pulled as tightly closed as its drawstrings allowed.

I gingerly insinuated  myself into the personal space of at least one of them, in order to avail myself to the buffer against what was probably a 35 mph wind, in the form of one of the plexiglass walls of the kiosk. During normal weather, I would half expect any of them to say: "Dude, can you not stand so close to me?" but, in a spirit engendered by what was a legitimate "cold emergency," none of them protested.

"I'm glad to  see people here," I said to the small black lady, whom I still thought was a man -a Cajun man, as there seems to be a strain of them that are of diminutive stature and have rather androgynous faces. I figured it was fitting to at least make some small conversation with the person I was standing one foot away from. "That usually means the bus is coming. Some people know the schedules. When there's nobody here I always figure I just missed the thing..."

"Uh-huh, that's right,"  said that person in a voice that gave away the fact that it was a woman..

It seemed like  our mutual sense in that regard bespoke of a wisdom that came from intuition and common sense, and I surmised that this might be a rather intelligent lady, despite whatever level of formal education she might acquired in her 50 or so years.

"It's the wind  that'll get you," I added.

"Uh-huh, the wind  chill!" responded the petite, probably Cajun lady.

"You have to  turn your back to it," I added, in the way of excusing myself for any rudeness that she may have perceived from me having my back to her.

I cracked open  the 24 ounce can of Heineken that I had gotten in WalMart, which was undoubtedly a lot colder than it was when I bought it, and took a few sips, thinking the carbohydrates in it would have a warming effect on me; or the alcohol a numbing one; or both.

I felt a  pang of guilt over the fact that, unlike the few people there wearing only hoodies with maybe a sweatshirt underneath, I had had the foresight to don my winter jacket; one which had been given to me by my old friend, Howard, after he had returned from a sight-seeing trip in Alaska, back around 2013. It is, as would be expected, a Howard-sized jacket, copious enough to wrap around me almost twice, and bears the label "Alaska" on it, as if that is the brand name of it. Howard might have said something like: "I don't think I'll be needing this down here," when he presented it to me.

Think again, Howard.  We aren't far enough "down" to preclude the need for such a garment. I wonder if he thought about that jacket wherever he is now, whenever he stepped outside on his way to buy a bag of Cheetoz and a 2-liter Pepsi that morning...

At one point,  I felt the petite, probably Creole (I've been referring to her as Cajun, but Creole might be the right designation) lady's body press against my back.

She immediately giggled  and said: "Sorry, I'm just trying to use the body heat." I noted that she hadn't said "your" body heat, and thought that maybe she thought that that would have sounded too personal.

With about 18  ounces of Heineken in me (the same lady had accidentally kicked the can over, and apologized, although it had been my fault for setting it down in the dark so close to her feet, so I could put my hands in my pockets in between sips) and hearing some almost prayer-like utterances coming from behind me, in Creole patios; I fell into a kind of a reverie about the concentration camp inmates that Solzhenitsyn wrote about in "One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich," and felt sorry for them in hindsight.

But then I  steered my thoughts towards feelings of gratitude over having a warm apartment waiting for me, should the #62 ever arrive. I half-incredulously wondered about The Law of Attraction, and what in the world its application to someone in a labor camp, or to myself at that moment, could possibly be.

I focused more  strongly on the feelings of gratitude and happiness that I could wring from the situation I was in....I've got a few cans of good food for Harold...I got the money for my plasma...the Heineken seems to be helping...

Just then, a  particularly strong and icy breeze made the kiosk shudder, and a cry issued forth from the lady behind me. "Oh, Lord in Heaven," I paraphrase it as.

And then, I  thought about the Howard sized winter coat that I was swimming in, made by "Alaska." I quickly calculated that the dimensions of Howard's girth were equal to just about one of myself; plus one petite Creole lady.

Wasting no more  time, I unzipped the front of the jacket, and saying something as inane as "Here," opened it like the mouth of a whale ready to devour a school of squid.

She rushed into  it, with another little giggle and I found that it neatly wrapped around her hoodie clad frame and I was able to hold it closed on the side of her opposite me, with one hand, and still have a free Heineken hand. A perfect fit.

"Oh, Lord Almighty,  thank you.." she said, as we huddled together like a newlywed couple.

The few other  people there, who were all African American, cast at least one glance our way, with expressions on their faces evincing kind of a combination of surprise and admiration.

It made me  wonder if the tenor of race relations "down here" are at such a pitch to make them assume that a white man would just as soon watch a lady of color freeze to death than do what I had.

As if to  answer a tacit question posed by none of them, the lady said aloud, to no one in particular: "This is an emergency; you gotta do what you gotta do!"

"Amen," the congregation  said.

I must say  that ol' Howard's jacket never felt so warm inside.

The #62 eventually  arrived.

When the lady  and I sat in separate seats, the driver kind of smiled, as if she had gleaned what had happened.

Now, I am  home, Harold is warm and well fed, and I think I'll turn on my plasma screen TV and see what's on...

You have just read 2,010 words

The Power Of Melissa Manchester

I'm passing up reading: "Ted Bundy's Only Living Victim Tells Her Story," which has been suggested to me on the front page of my Firefox browser -a good compliment to the holiday Spirit.
These recommendations are most probably generated by an algorithm, and I suppose my browsing habits could be being fed into the module, in order to come up with recommendations; things to look at before even going to whatever you opened the browser to look at, originally, if that was anything specific.
I had just been thinking about how, when we were growing up, 8th graders picked on 7th graders at a more merciless level than that which existed throughout my entire schooling. For example, while being terrorized by a lot of 8th graders, when in 7th grade, it wasn't like I wanted to do the same to the 6th graders below me.
I was wondering if this meant that some proclivity for violence matures in human males around the age at which they are in 8th grade.
Other things took the form of "hazing" such as between high school Seniors, and their Juniors below them, but it wasn't as much based on physical mis-matchings between individuals, but rather groups of Seniors imposing themselves upon outnumbered Juniors, mostly trying to humiliate and embarrass, but not beat up.
Anyways, that is what I was just wondering about; and I decided to put up a post. The present moment is good; it is much colder outside than it is inside, and so that is the simple pleasure sufficient for the evening...
Listening to 70's music which has stirred up memories of those years mentioned above is to blame for those thoughts coming around, I suspect.
I listened to Melissa Manchester's "You Should Hear (how she talks about you)" on the "oldies" station, and that did it.

21 Dollar Saturday

Saturday, I was joined at the Lilly Pad by Jacob, who had arrived at Sacred Heart along with a group of 5 other individuals, all of whom had been delivered by 2 vehicles. These "friends" of Jacob, I had to take at face value, as having been vetted by him, and I loosely followed the axiom of "any friend of Jacob is a friend of mine." The group were very polite and orderly, and shook my hand as I was introduced to them each in turn. I recognized one of them as being Hunter, from having met him before, and the same for Doug, whom I met once about 4 years ago, and remembered because of his having hallucinated on the acid that we had all dropped, that he was laying at the bottom of a large aquarium that the room he was in, had turned into. He had explained this to Jacob and I, after we had gone to check upon him, where he lay on his back, holding his breath and making swimming motions. The group of them, comprised of Hunter, Doug, a guy called "Rizzo," and a couple others, whose names I forget, were coming along with the intention of surfing Bourbon Street, ostensibly to hook up with women of some kind. These were very possibly young men (in their early 20's) who spent most of their lives staring at the screens of their phones. Their attention spans were put on display, after we had gotten to the street car stop and Hunter lamented that he was in danger of dying of boredom if the street car were to take more than a few minutes to arrive. Everything that I said to any of them, after the auspicious introductions, which went according to basic tradition, and made me think they may have been socialized through the channels of perhaps a church group or a bible study, was met with a deer in headlights stare, as if whatever I said had no counterpart in cyberspace and they were at a loss for an appropriate emoji or catch phrase to respond with. The typical "reply" to any light banter that I might have offered was to turn away from me without a word, or any facial expression which might have indicated that they at least had understood what I was trying to say.. One of the last interactions I had with any of them, before a group policy of ignoring me was put into action, was when I had looked down the trolley tracks and seen the headlight of a car that had made the turn onto Canal Street at Carrollton Street, a half mile away, and would be arriving in about 5 minutes. "I can see the light," I remarked, as a way of imparting the good news that our wait would not be much longer. "That's not good," said Hunter, which seemed to be a spiritually based comment. So, I added, for good measure: "The light only thrives in darkness.." and then was reminded of the "Satanic" bible that I once had, written by Anton Levey (sp?) and how that particular text was in large part just the inverse of the "holy" bible, with it's author in many cases having just taken the tradition Christian teachings and flipped them upside-down so that his viewpoint would be something like "Darkness is much more enjoyable against a backdrop of light," or something; I said... Hunter looked at me as if searching for a button that he could click on, in order to close a window and make me dissapear. After a couple seconds of this, he merely turned his back on me and walked a few feet away; a distance that he maintained for the rest of the time that I found myself in his company. 

A souvenir from "The Hunt."

This went on until such a time that Jacob and I had reached the Lilly Pad, where it was agreed that we would all smoke off of a THC vaporizor (similar to the device that landed Brittany Griner, the basketball player in a Russian prison for "9 years") and then the 4 or 5 of them would go off to seek adventure along the length of Bourbon Street, while Jacob and I stayed there and busked. 

Which we did, it was just one of those 21 dollar nights*; a far cry from the $169 bucks that Jacob and I split just a couple months ago.

"The Drunk Guy Who Sings Along, Out of Tune, For a Few Songs And Then Walks Off, Without Leaving A Tip" -that character- showed up and blocked the tip jar for about 20 minutes at one point and, while it was overall a fun night for at least myself; it wasn't very much for profit.

*I owe Jacob a couple bucks after discovering a few loose ones in the jar that I hadn't remembered going in there

Right Now I Am Writing

I think I'm playing a lot better than I have in the past. And I suppose it is from playing with Jr and having to play very accurately or else there will be 2 guitars not quite right, and the effect on the ear of such a situation being something like 4 times worse than that of just one guitarist who sucks (because you have to square the values, for some reason) it becomes incumbent upon me to try to not be the one screwing up.
And so, I hope that bears fruit soon.

And it is time to sleep. 

Right: I still have not had the courage to take an ice bath, as per the directives of Wim Hof (right) in his method, the other half of which consisting of a breathing exercise...

I am perhaps afraid of the cold, perhaps having frozen to death in almost all of my past lives....

My Sentiments, Exactly

Soon, I hope to get my house in order, and funnel the scattered energies that compel me, into the most "meaningful" endeavors.
I've been making some progress, having established a "morning"routine of washing dishes, wiping down counters, and sweeping up the kitchen...
And now, emptying Harold's litter box has been added to a ritual that takes only about 30 minutes to go through, but which gives me kind of a foundation upon which the rest of the day can be built upon.
No more working 36 hours straight on a piece of digital music until the point is reached when the smell of some garbage that was thrown in the trash 30 hours prior begins to encroach upon the studio room.
I'm becoming more aware of when I'm working hard but not "smart," and am trying to put myself to sleep on a more consistent basis. Working hard, but not smart might be illustrated by me spending a whole hour adding a high-hat cymbal manually to every beat of something, when it would have taken only 8 minutes to just lay out a track of high-hat cymbal hits for a duration, and then grab the guitar and play and sing the thing again, using the cymbal as a guide.
But, fatigue can cut into productivity. It is also a factor in making me feel like not doing a blog post.
Also, the issue of not being particularly proud of the way I might have frittered away a day, doesn't really motivate me to sit down and write all about it...
So, it is perhaps out of legitimate concern that someone commented about an update issuing forth from these pages.

I think this blog originally exuded an optimism which sprang from a belief that I was on the right track, somehow, and that my life would bear fruit, and that a reader would be invited along for the ride...
"Documenting My Ascendance From Homelessness To Superstardom" was the title, once. Now it has become "Did You Mean: Street Musician Daniel?" after a few intermediate reworkings, one of which I paraphrase as: "Can A Street Musician In The French Quarter Resist Being Seduced And Ruined By The Myriad Temptations Therein." That one was hard to fit on the banner without wrapping it around, as I recall...
But, evil (or something, I forget) thrives in darkness.
So I suppose It might have been out of genuine concern that "anonymous" left the above comment, and I tend to read between the lines of it: "Daniel, set your life on a more positive trajectory; one that you will be excited to blog about each day; stop doing things that you are ashamed of, at some level; please and thank you."

2 Weeks Between Posts

 

Off to the "new" plasma place to get 100 dollars for 690 milliliters of my life giving fluid...
I've been pretty busy the past 2 weeks but haven't expanded the "morning routine" past washing all the dishes and wiping down the kitchen counters...
Taking out the trash and replenishing Harold's liter box would come next on the checklist...
Blogging after that, I suppose...
Although I'm thinking of shifting away from blogging about the trivialities of a typical day and rather devoting it to stories that can come from anywhere in the past...
In fact I'm just now dredging up memories through the meditations and such that I'm doing; and I suppose a lot of that stuff, I had been suppressing. So, maybe more stories here, which will absolve me from having to guild the lily and make an ordinary day seem interesting...

The Routine

 It's not much of a routine, just washing all the dishes in the sink and wiping down the counter in the kitchen....

On the street car into the Quarter, sipping on kratom tea with Jacob Scardino (left) circa. September, 2022

But, there is something to be said about the discipline of it. Before, I would feel overwhelmed by the chaos of the day. I suppose, if I started on some other task or project; in the back of my mind would be the dirty kitchen.
Now, once I have that out of the way, I can tackle the next thing.

I try to wash just a little bit of my clothes in the tub, so that the pile doesn't grow into every stitch of clothing I own except the stuff I never wear, and for good reason...
Other than that, I just wanted to come here and write something; anything, just to tick off that box.

I started to get to the list of songs that I'm compiling, which are ones that I used to do, in some cases "every night," and that have fallen out of my memory for whatever reason. The harmonica playing had something to do with it, as, stuff in keys that don't fit any of the harps I have kind of got lost.

I keep finding myself saying: "Wow, I used to do that song," when coming across stuff like "Dock of the Bay," the Otis Redding song that I know how to play, but haven't thought of, when out there at the Lilly Pad.

So, the list will help, even if I don't bring it out there with me (right now it's on a huge cumbersome poster board). I can just read through it to refresh my memory. When I was drinking to the point of blacking out a lot nights, it promoted a kind of laziness whereby I would just do the same dozen or so songs that I knew so well I could play them "with one hand tied behind my back."
But, that's the order of the day, this November 7th.

I suppose I'll go and vote tomorrow. The last time I was there the poll worker, who looked like a "woke" lesbian ignored me as I stood at the bay of the fire station, with nobody in front of me. Did she really think I was going to be deterred from voting because nobody had come and taken my ID and all that?

Then she had demanded that I put a mask on, as if still looking for a reason to turn me away. As part of apologizing for taking so long to get the thing on my face, I had told her that it was the first time I was putting the thing on. I could see the gears turning in her blue hair covered head. Could she turn me away for a reason such as: "You can't just put the mask on to vote if you never wear it otherwise; I can't let you in," type of thing....

What I've Done The Past 3 Hours...

Daniel McKenna III · Lost Menu Boogie

Not That The World Didn't Need A Stealth Bomber...

I have noticed a difference in the general flow of things since surrendering my will to "a higher power," as per the admonition of the Alcoholic's Anonymous 12 step program; to wit; step 2.

This is your brain

I immediately started having pangs of loneliness while out in the parking lot getting some sun. As I walked along, I felt that there were people out at my playing spot that I could meet and at least talk to.

So, I was on my bike at about 10 p.m. with the mic stand tied in an upright position to the rack, like a giant lightning rod behind me.

I got to the Lilly Pad and played.

Earlier, I had been at the Shell station with just one dollar and 5 cents on me. I had passed by a lot of people who were partying and I felt envious. I could smell weed and could see people drinking out of bottles of Patron (a $90 bottle of tequila, I kid you not).

I consoled myself by being grateful to have enough to buy Harold a can of food and as soon as I had reconciled myself to this feeling of gratitude, there was a folded up 5 dollar bill laying on the ground, beside the passenger side of an SUV. I bought a half pint of brandy and the can of cat food.

On the way out of Sacred Heart, I had encountered a couple residents who were sitting by the back lobby door, each one smoking a cigarette. I told them that I had just awoken from a 12 hour sleep, which was true.
"I took a Valium* and another kind of sleeping pill that a friend gave me, and that was at about 13 hours ago; I just woke up without any tobacco at all; could I bum a cigarette from one of you?" This was, I believe, the first time I've ever asked anyone for a cigarette since coming to New Orleans 12 years ago, by the way...

They both shrugged and told me that they each had bummed the ones they had.

At that, I went to fetch my bike, thinking I would ride by the Holy Ground bar and snipe a butt out of one of their ashtrays, and/or continue on to the D Mac's bar and do the same, or I would use the one dollar and 5 cents to buy a cigar that I could break open and smoke one bowl at a time, throughout the night; busking was also in the back of my mind.

There was no tobacco at the Holy Ground, as if the trays had been purposely picked clean, perhaps at the sight of me approaching on my bike. That was the negative thought that hit me -I have harbored the suspicion that some of the bar patrons are resentful of us Sacred Heart residents because we are all staying there for free, through one agency or another, and will do things like pick the ashtrays clean at the sight of one of us coming.

It occurred to me, as I was shaking off the grogginess, that either of the guys by the back door could have offered me at least "the last drag" off their cigarettes, as is a common practice between smokers. I wondered if they thought that I was out of tobacco, on this 4th day of the month, because I had spent all of my monthly check (that they might assume that I get) on crack, and thus thought that it was my own fault that I didn't have any tobacco so early in the month and, hence, didn't want to reward my recklessness with even "the last drag" off their cigarette. ...you should have thought about cigarettes before you started hitting that crack pipe...
I thought of digging through the dumpster at Shell to find an empty box from a carton of American Spirit cigarettes I would stuff it with paper or something to make it look full. Then I would return to Sacred Heart and go past them with it poking out of the top of a bag on my handlebars, so they would see it.

Then they would think that, not only did I not smoke up my entire "check," I even had the means to buy a $90 carton of premium smokes. 

Then they would squirm, thinking that I had a whole carton of really good cigarettes, while they would be back to trying to bum their next one. They would remember that they had refused me even the last drag off of theirs, even after I had told them that I just woke up after a 12 hour snooze to find myself out of tobacco.
Would either of them have the gall to ask me for a cigarette upon seeing "the carton?" Or ask me for a whole pack (because, after all I had "a whole carton") Part of me wanted to test the depth of their natures that way. And what snide remark could I have at the ready? "Man, I just bummed this carton, sorry..."
At least one of them, a guy I've come to regard as being pretty decent, might have phrased it as: "I don't suppose I could get a couple off you...?" as if at least acknowledging that he shouldn't suppose he could, given how selfish he/they had been..

At D Macs the scene was similar to that of Holy Ground, as if the sidewalk had recently been swept clean and the ashtrays emptied. I still tried to smile and make eye contact with the half dozen or so people who were distributed at the tables, all with bottles of alcohol, cigarettes going and with the smell of good weed redolent in the air.

That's OK, I thought, I was still grateful to have the cigar money, keeping my chin up in that regard.

Then I remembered Harold. I decided to set aside any selfishness and sacrifice the cigar in order to get him his can. I was at that point -to keep the chronological order of this intact- that I encountered the folded up five spot -just after deciding to put Harold's needs ahead of my wants.

So, then, with the half pint of brandy, I stopped in front of D Macs to gaze inside, noticing that the World Series was on the TV, and that no musicians had started playing yet, on their modest stage which has a house sound system so that musicians need not bring their own equipment; but can plug right in, with microphones already set up, etc.

There were 3 guys at the table nearest me talking about jazz and I heard the mention of "Larry Coryell and Alphonso Johnson," out of one of their mouths. It became evident that they were a 3 piece jazz combo who were waiting to go inside and play.

I didn't want to insinuate myself into their sphere so I just maintained my distance of about 8 feet from them, and no sooner had I decided to do that (and perhaps dispel any notions that they may have had that I was a skeezer who was lurking nearby, with plans of moving in for the skeeze) one of them spoke up, asking me if I was alright.

I told him/them about having just woken up after a 12 hour slumber.

"Is that cat food in there?" asked the same guy, looking at the bag on my handlebar.

After my affirmative answer we had a short discussion about the unavailability of cat food in general and how, even when a store has some, it is not necessarily in the flavors a particular cat might eat.
"I have a very finicky one," said the guy.

We found common ground on the subject of finicky cats, with me telling him that I had to canvas about a half dozen stores sometimes in order to find a suitable flavor.

It was then that I offered that "Larry Coryell's 'Live At The Village Gate' is "the reason I wanted to take up the electric guitar," alluding to my having overheard one of them mentioning him.

Then it came out that the guy who had asked me if I was alright was from South Hadley, Massachusetts -one of my old stomping grounds.

"I used to sell weed to the guy's in that band 'Phish.' They all lived in a band house not far from Hampshire College."

"Oh, yeah; Hampshire College...I loved the 'five college' area..." he said.

The "Five College" area was comprised of UMass, Hampshire, Mt. Holyoke, Amherst and Smith colleges. 

A student enrolled at any one of those institutions could take a course or two (or more, I forget the specifics) at the other four schools, through a cooperative program of some sort. 

This was great for the poor kids, whose parents might only be able to send them to the state run UMass. It allowed them to hobnob with students at the other schools, where tuition was $17,000 a year -in the case of Smith College (which boasts former first lady Barbara Bush as an alumnus) and something like $23,000 a year at Hampshire College.

This is your brain on drugs

Both Smith and Mt. Holyoke were started as women only colleges, but by 1989, when the 5 College area was my stomping ground, that designation had been removed.

The most expensive school, Hampshire, was generally attended by kids who wouldn't need a college education for any pecuniary reasons. The typical kid there was just prolonging his childhood for 4 more years before taking over as vice president of their dad's insurance company, or whatever.

The dormitories were like hippie communes, redolent of patchouli oil, with the walls airbrush painted in tie-dye colors.
One cool facet of the five college system was the ability of students to craft their own majors, outside of the tradition ones, and call them whatever they wanted. Diverse courses could be cobbled together to form whatever would ultimately be emblazoned on their earned degree.

I remember one kid in particular was majoring in "The Religions of Africa," and, as if pushing the envelope of the convention to the ridiculous, one kid was working on a degree in "Frisbee."

Before anyone hearing of this could laugh too long, it would be pointed out that the kid was concentrating on math, physics and science and studying the aerodynamics of that iconic toy and infamous college student pastime. Before even graduating, he had sold a patent or two to the Whamo Corporation for an improved Frisbee design, using novel compositions of plastic, for weight and flexibility; and, as Hampshire College lore had it, eventually he wound up with a lucrative position at Boeing, coming up with new wing designs, and such. With a degree in his cubicle recognizing him as a doctor of "Frisbee."

I used to deliver pizza to the campus often, and walking into the dorms was like entering a Grateful Dead concert, complete with the soundtrack blaring. These kids were already rich, yet many were able to parlay their educations into even taller stacks of money; as if the less one sweats over money, the more it flows. 

So, It was kind of a no-brainer that the jam band from the Burlington Vermont area would find their home in a two story Victorian style house that they all shared, about 2 miles from Hampshire College. And, as fate would have it; I wound up selling them weed, that I got from a deadhead friend.

This antidote amused the guy who had asked if I was alright and he then asked: "Do you want a hit," producing a bowl which he packed for me, after I had said something to the effect of "Hell, yeah!"

I told him that I felt as though that was a blessing and forgave me for having spent the folded up five on brandy, when I could have bought a 5 dollar bud instead.

He talked me out of putting into play the fake carton scheme. "You'll be putting energy into revenge that could be used for more positive things," said the guy who had seen the Phish house that I described before, but hadn't known it was them that lived there.

So, returning to my place aglow from brandy and weed, I loaded up my bike and backpack. This was Friday night, the 4th of November and hours before my food stamp card, which was down to $2.38, was to be loaded.

One cool thing about having surrendered my will to a higher power, or about doing that in general; is that I didn't have to use any of my own will power. Truly my steps were being directed by a higher power, and that entity was doing a better job than I could have managed myself. My desire for brandy and weed would go away, or not, through no effort of mine.

I mixed up the last of my kratom, gave Harold the last of his food, then went to the Lilly Pad.

Somehow just talking about the Five College area had rekindled some of the wide-eyed naive optimism that I lived with back in 1989 and, even though the Phish guys would ostensibly go on to have a more remarkable musical career than myself, this was something that I couldn't say for sure, as I went out with the same feeling that I had had back then, that I had something important to contribute to the art of music; and that it was something that no other person on earth could create. 

These thoughts had supplanted the negative ones that I have been backsliding into having, these past couple years; ones about arriving at the Lilly Pad to find someone else already playing there; or there being a loud speaker system blaring from someone outside the bar; or of sucking -the last one being probably the most deeply rooted fear.

When I first came to New Orleans it was in fear, after warnings of certain people, the essence of which were: "The best musicians from all over the world go to New Orleans and most of them don't survive more than a couple of weeks. You'll be playing on some corner, and there will be a guy 50 feet away playing Bach on a clarinet with his toes! People will be fresh out of some club where they just heard some world class music being played and then they'll be walking past you. You think they're gonna throw you a tip?! New Orleans will chew you up and spit you out; or turn you into an alcoholic!" type of stuff.

"Not if you're different," the guy from South Hadley had reassured me on that head, which stemmed from a routine: "So, what brought you to New Orleans?" inquiry.

I played for about an hour and a half and had about 25 bucks in the jar, with a young guy sitting on the stoop who had thrown 5 of that there, when it dawned on me that I wasn't overly drunk. And, that it hadn't really been a persistent urge to become so. The kratom tea and the joy of being different had kept me going.

Piano?!

I did take a break, going to get a can for Harold and one Andy Gator beer from Fred's Market on Elysian Fields road, leaving my bike unlocked out front.

I kept nervously glancing through the glass at it while at the register. I told the guy about what happened about 2 months ago when I had done the same thing and had gotten back to it just as a young black guy in a group of 4 of them had his hand on it, and appeared to be considering riding off on it.

"Yo, that's my bike," I had told him.

He had said: "Man, I'll take this bike and that piano on your back, if I want!" That was when I seriously considered getting a small pistol to put in my backpack. I imagined, if such a situation arose again and the young black kid in a group of 4 of them was serious, saying something like:

"Hey man, I don't want no trouble. Here, I just cashed my paycheck; you can have the money too, I just don't want any trouble," as I undid the ties on the backpack, then producing not the money but the pistol. At that point I could just point it at him and say something slick like: "Do you want all my bullets, too?" and I wouldn't have to shoot him, which would be good because the entire Quarter is under the watch of at least one camera. I wouldn't want to wind up having conversations with various cellmates for like 7 to 10 years that would go something like:

"You should have just given him the guitar and the bike, then called the police; you might have gotten it back. I've heard that the whole Quarter is under the watch of at least one camera."

"I know."

"He called it a 'piano?'" gushed the amused cashier.

"Yeah, that's happened before. I think it might be because they have early memories of going to church, where there would be a piano, and so they just formed the assumption that whatever makes music is a piano," I explained before hurrying out to where my bike was.

This is your brain on drugs with a side of bacon, a cinnamon roll and a couple wedges of persimmon.

Returning to the Lilly Pad, fortified with the knowledge that I would be arriving home with a can for Harold in a flavor that he likes, and by the Andy Gator double bock (alcohol content: 9.2%) I made the rest of what would amount to a 38 dollar outing. It was over the course of about 2 hours of playing and, hence, met my "average" earning of $18/hr., more or less.

Once again, I witnessed the phenomenon whereby, when I was playing my hardest, to the point of becoming oblivious to anything else, a 20 dollar bill found its way into the jar (that would have been the perfect time for someone to ride off on my bike).

I was glad that I had chosen music over Frisbee all those years ago; and I'm pretty sure the Phish guys are of the same mind (not that the world didn't need a Stealth bomber).

*It was Valerian Root, not Valium, but in my Valerian Root fog I had told them "Valium."

I Really Want To Make This Shot

 

It took me a while to locate my book on the Japanese art of decluttering; amidst all the clutter in my room.

I've been trying to establish a daily routine of sorts, which consists of me at least cleaning the kitchen at the start of each day.

It's hard to pinpoint the start of a day that might have me having slept for about 8 hours after being up for a couple days straight. Maybe I need to find some text about the importance of a regular sleep schedule.

The old schedule of busking every single night, along with producing a steady stream of a couple hundred bucks each week, would have me returning home at around 2 in the morning. This had been consistent enough so that, even now, I can often find Harold the cat at the back door to the building shortly after the street car that passes at around 2:05, passes. I wonder if that particular car makes a uniquely identifiable sound or if it is just the fact that it stopped to let me off that drew his attention. I'm not sure about the internal clocks of cats but I do know that at around 2:05 a.m. I can find him waiting to come inside and eat.

When I wasn't drinking, I could unwind after busking and be in bed shortly before sunup, and then be up at high noon, which occurs at around 1:30 in the afternoon here, due to where the time zone lines have been drawn.

I strongly suspect that if I practice the art of decluttering, it will yield a less stressful and more productive life. A clue to this is the fact that, each successive day, after waking up and cleaning the kitchen, I have been forging ahead and tackling one more task, which usually involves putting something away, out of sight, in a closet or a drawer. As an extension of the clean kitchen, with the uncluttered counter and the shiny sink, I have been encroaching upon other areas. Putting all my busking gear up, rather than leaving the empty guitar case and backpack strewn on the couch or on the rug seems to give me an additional benefit -there seems to be less distraction in my mind as there is less to process.

Certain things are taken for granted, like drawings hung on walls that I walk by every day but never "see." But yet, if one of them was to disappear, I suspect the empty space would become conspicuous.

The Jordan Peterson video of his interview of Newt Gingrich that I posted a short clip of yesterday included Newt using the example of the Alcoholic's Anonymous people's "12 step program" to illustrate a point, which was basically that the last 10 steps are dependent upon the acceptance of the first 2. Without admitting the problem and acknowledging that you are powerless to affect a solution of your own volition, and then accepting that there is a higher power that must be surrendered to, then the rest of the steps become useless.

This "higher power" is left to the broad interpretation of the alcoholic, so that he doesn't stumble over the same thought constructs while are of no use to him (see step one). I guess this is so that, even atheists can avail themselves to its agency. 

I knew an atheist, once, named Richard Conlon as a matter of fact, who shot pool "professionally." He told me that sometimes (as luck might have it) he would find himself in dire predicaments where he teetered on the brink of being in over his head. While feeling that his luck was due to change; he may have had to gamble his food money for the upcoming week, or maybe even his car, in order to break even. 

He said that, although he didn't believe in "God," there was something that he fell back upon when his path took him through that particular valley in the shadow of darkness. 

Faced with those circumstances, the would close his eyes and communicate to something unspecified; words such as "I really need to make this shot!" This had saved him from imminent ruin on more than one such occasion, he said. It also taught him to be more careful "the next time." I got the sense that there was some element of "bargaining" involved in the process, as far as one can bargain with a non entity.. 

He was clear on the fact that he wasn't talking to any huge man in the sky, nor anyone anyone affixed to a crucifix.

But bargaining is a function of the same thought constructs deemed to be useless by step 1, so that it is more of a surrendering to what is to be; and an acceptance which could be simply stated as: maybe it's time for me to go without food for a week, or "maybe It's best that I don't own a car at this point in my life.

I recently entertained the notion that maybe the maintenance of this very blog is like a millstone around my neck and that it was somehow putting me at a disadvantage. Perhaps it was fostering a feeling of accountability to my readers that was not helpful to me. I was leaving myself open to the possibility of shutting it down and quitting blogging. Then, I encountered the Jordan Peterson video, which reminded of the A.A. thing, which I decided to give some consideration to; and before i knew it, I was motivated to find the Japanese art of uncluttering book, which seemed to be right in step with all the other things and, all I can say is that I have written this here post, and haven't quit blogging as of this writing, at least.

I also felt a tinge of loneliness earlier and found myself craving the human contact that is often found when busking at the Lilly Pad, or at least saw it as an antidote to that loneliness, and an alternative to the fellowship of Sacred Heart residents who have all gotten their free government money and have descended into various deprivations and debaucheries.
 

I guess I really want to make this shot...