Tournament Player's Championship

The "TPC" is under way in Ponte Vedra Beach. It is one of the biggest golf tournaments in the world. It is broadcast in 35 languages in about 500 million homes around the world.
I convinced Larry that we needed to take the beach "express" out there. Its last stop is at the Sawgrass Marriot, right there next to the boulevard which winds its way to the golf courses. There are flags hanging from each pole along that route with the year and its winner printed in bold, golfish colors. There are a lot of flags with "Jack Nicklaus" on them, a couple of Lee Trevinos, Arnold Palmers abound near the start of the lane. No animals are depicted untill you get way up the road, into the 2000's; then you see that a tiger has aparently learned the game and has won the TPC...

I told Larry that to miss such an extraordinary event where millionaires are walking around everywhere, would be folly. How could we fail to fill our tip hats, playing American music to all the golf fans.


We took the express and got off at the Marriot. We hadn't taken 10 steps when a black woman and her son asked us about our guitars. The lady wanted to buy one and learn how to play. I gave her a brief tutorial about finding good, reasonably priced instruments and showed her my Yamaha F-310. She gave us 5 dollars.


We had paid for our bus rides with a dollar to spare in less than two minutes. This seemed promising.


"I told you that there is money everywhere out here," I said to Larry.


Then, we went over by the ABC liquour store, which is where a lot of the pedestrian traffic seemed to be flowing. I went in for a beer and came out to see that Larry had taken out his guitar and was sitting on the bench in front of the store and playing. This is not a good idea on several fronts. First, playing in front of a liquor store might give the impression to people that we are playing for liquour. Not all people are enthusiastic about supporting alcoholic musicians (while others give you beer instead of money).


Then, a young man came over and started talking about music. He said that he was from Las Vegas and that he managed "supermodels" in some capacity. He had a lot of great stories about life in Las Vegas managing supermodels. He kept offering shots of vodka to us. I accepted a few. Then, he offered to bring us to a better spot to play. We got in his SUV, which was pretty modest; it didn't look like a super model of a vehicle. He appologized for it, saying that it had sentimental value to him. His phone rang. It was some friends of his who were having a party somewhere. He thought it would be cool for us to meet them. It seemed like enough of an adventure to give it a try, expecially if there were to be supermodels there.


The "party" turned out to be in Arlington, where I used to deliver pizza. It was in one of the worst parts of Arlington, a neighborhood that the locals call "Sin City." That's NOT it, to the left, not quite...


The "party" was his black roommate rolling a joint and playing video games.

My patience being short, I mentioned us getting back to Sawgrass. The guy just then realised that he didn't even have enough gas to bring us back. His slurred, cross-eyed appology was little comfort. Larry offered him 5 bucks to take "us" back to Baymeadows.


I thought "that's it? you're ready to give up that easily, after things looked so promising...before we met Mr. Vegas?"

Larry was ready to give up and go back "home."

I wasn't and so, I told them that I was going to walk back to Sawgrass. It was partially the vodka talking. Larry could go back home with his tail between his legs and 5 dollars poorer, provided that Mr. Vegas could make it there before crashing the SUV.

I Walk To Sawgrass From Arlington
I set out walking. Total Estimated Distance: 20.05 miles, according to Mapquest.


After about an hour, I went behind a Catholic Church and slept. I had brought my blanket and a bunch of food. The food was heavy and I was happy to eat a couple pounds of it and then discard the rest. It would only be good for that night. The 90 degree temperatures would compromise it the next day.


Good Luck To You, Brother
I woke up behind the church the next morning. The sun was just coming up and I had 26 cents in my pocket. The lady had handed the money to Larry, and we hadn't split it. I had walked off in haste. I found 7 more cents on the ground, while looking for cigarette butts. I was very thirsty. I stopped at a Salvation Army type place, where there was a big water jug. They said that I wasn't supposed to be back there, because it was a rehabilitation center, but the guy let me drink water. I'm sure he could see by the way I gulped down about 4 cups that I really needed it. He seemed satisfied that he gave water to a truely thirsty man. He said "good luck to you, brother."


I continued eastward. The sky began to threaten rain a few miles along. I stopped at a Kangaroo. I went inside with my 33 cents, and all I could do with that was strike up a conversation with "Are they calling for rain?"


"They didn't forecast it, but those clouds seem to have a different opinion," said the cashier.

I told her that I was afraid that, as soon as I started across the intercoastal, it would pour down, and I would'nt be able to protect my guitar. That made it seem reasonable for me to sit down in front of the store and wait.


The Grabbers happened to be there. The Grabbers are a guy and his girlfriend in a beat up van who go around to all kinds of dumpsters and grab stuff, filling the van. The van is equipt with racks and shelves and boxes, designed to organise food. We call them the grabbers because they won't leave a scrap for anyone else. Once, on Baymeadows, I asked them if I could get some of the chicken which they were grabbing. The girl begrudginly handed me a small package of skinny drumsticks. They supposedly go around selling it and then smoke crack. If you ask them, though, they have 8 children (who eat 100 pounds of food daily).

The grabbers were arguing. They seemed as surprised to see me way out there as I was to see them.


I took out the guitar and, out of the very next vehicle to pull up, jumped a couple guys who asked me to play "some Skynyrd." I played some and they gave me 3 bucks. I now had $3.33. I bought the best tasting Vault energy drink ever and then resumed walking. Part of me wanted to stay there and play because most of the people seemed to like it. I had my heart set on the TPC, though. It had become a challenge to walk the 20 miles. I thought that it was more like 30, and probably was; the way I went; I didn't have Mapquest available then.


I walked into Jax Beach and washed up at the bath house. I stopped and played at a few spots along the way, just to pay for what I was drinking. They were wrong about the rain but right about the 90 degrees.

Once into St. John's County, I stopped at another Kangaroo. I made another few bucks and then the police came and asked me for ID. They held me while the warrant check came back. Then they let me go. They told me that, while I might have thought of the TPC as a golden opportunity, I would stand out like a sore thumb because I am not a billion-aire, and they would be able to tell that I "did'nt belong" and the police would be called wherever I went. He suggested that I go back to Jax Beach and "get them when they come out of here after the tournament."


I told him that I would just like to walk another mile and visit the Dominos where I once worked. I did.


Joe Mormino was the only remaining employee from the glory days of John Abels reign. It was as if the whole crew knew me, though. They all gathered around and smiled and seemed pleased to meet me. Joe Mormino tells a lot of stories about the old days, I guess. They all knew who I was.


I went to the little liquor store around the corner where the same guy was working. He remembered my name. The last time I had seen him was April of 2005. He let me sit out in front of his store and play. He brought me some grapes and a bottle of water. I made about 17 bucks in an hour and then, since it was slowing down and since I had walked 20+ miles in the sun etc. I retired for the night behind a Gate Station, where there is a picnic area. Then, I came here to the Ponte Vedra branch Library, where I don't stick out like a sore thumb, because this is where the poor folk who don't have computers come.

Annie, Get Your Harp

We Go To The Festival

Larry said that he had always wanted to go to the Springing the Blues festival. It is on the day that they open the beach. He said that he had always been working or something previous years and had missed it. I told him that, in the worst case, it would only cost us each 4 dollars to go (two busses each way) and that if we couldn't make any money, we could just come back and only be out a little bit of money.

We went to "Springing the Blues."Larry and I came out to the beach to play our guitars as street musicians and be like those little fish that swim next to sharks and feed upon the little morsels which escape the sharks mouths, playing in front of a closed business just down the street; "Tears in Heaven," by Eric Clapton..over and over and...over (If it aint broke why fix it?) I made about 60 bucks in two hours. One girl came and sat next to me with tears in her eyes and sang along. I never felt more connected to the rest of humanity than then.


The next morning, after missing the last bus out and only getting 3 hours of sleep, disturbed by seagulls, we sat in front of Freebirds while yet another blues band began to to play.


"I wonder what that girl looks like?" I asked Larry. "Sounds like a skinny black girl to me," I said.


"I don't know," said Larry. "Let me go see."

He didn't come back for a while, which meant something.

"No, a white girl."

"A fat one with blonde hair in a black rhinestone dress, standing with her legs two feet apart and belting out vocals?" I asked.

"No, one with dark, kind of frizzy hair," said Larry.

"Kind of Cuban looking?" I asked. This was during the second number.

"No, kind of frizzy in a Polish or Russian way....well, why don't you come check it out...that's her playing the harp"

"That's HER, playing the harp??" (There aren't many female blues harp players)

That was the best advice Larry has ever given me, to check them out. I was trying to catch a nap before playing in front of the Texaco station, but, it's hard to sleep through a blues festival.My life is changed forever after I watch Annie Raines and Paul Rishelle perform



We "checked it out" and I wound up with tears coming from my eyes when watching them do a song where Annie held one note for 2 minutes and 37 seconds.


When 22-year-old harmonica ace Annie Raines first sat in with 42-year-old country blues guitarist Paul Rishell in a Boston bar in 1992, few in the crowd suspected that they were witnessing the beginning of a musical partnership that would span the next fifteen years and counting.

Paul sat down the whole time as did Annie, who only stood when soloing. It was like watching a grandfather and daughter.

When Paul started stomping his foot is when I finally understood the whole universe.

"Despite the difference in their ages, Paul and Annie are equally passionate about their craft and devoted to the study and performance of a wide range of blues styles, from the syncopated acoustic guitar wizardry of Blind Lemon Jefferson and Son House to Chicagoan “Little” Walter Jacob’s swinging amplified harmonica. Paul has reached what Boston Phoenix writer Ted Drozdowski called “a place deep and resonant as Robert Johnson’s crossroads, where authenticity, soul, and a sense of purpose and commitment ring out in every note he sings and plays.” Annie has added vocals, mandolin, piano, and other instruments to her musical arsenal, while being recognized by top professionals and fans worldwide as the “queen of the blues harmonica.” Says blues legend Pinetop Perkins, “She plays so good it hurts!”


It was a life-changing experience; the whole weekend, actually.



The previous night, we had run into a guy who had a harmonica when we were on our way to find a spot in the dunes to sleep.
He seemed surprised that we were calling it quits, as it was "only" about midnight.


I decided to jam with him. We sat on a bench and I played one of my songs in the same key as his harp. A man came and put a 20 dollar bill in my case within two minutes. The harp player didn't care about the money; he had a regular job.

Then, at the Texaco station, I was talking to the cashier. He was from Cairo, Egypt.

He asked me "Why don't you sit in front of the store and play like they do in New York City, maybe make some money?"

What a far cry from being run off!

I decided that I would do just that the next day.

The next day came and, after being mesmerised by Paul Rishelle and Annie Raines, we went over to the Texaco and I achieved a mile-stone when I played without having even one beer first, to loosen up.

A lady who looked like my mother came and put 3 dollars in my case. It was my first tip playing sober. I think I could actually play that way, even though it hurts.

Poor Larry didn't really make that much money and it began to seem probable that most of his tips at the Kangaroo are from people who have sympathy and wonder how the poor guy could ever make a living. It's not that he is THAT bad, but, not ready for the big time Springing The Blues festival.
I dipped into my money and basically supported him the whole time. I was happy to do it, even though he can go through ten bucks at McDonalds like ringing a bell.


Now, we are arguing.

His Kangaroo finally ran him off, citing "customer complaints" about "the guitar guys out front."

It was probably O.L. calling the police on him. O.L. has been seen in the area, fresh out of jail. He stole 20 bucks from Larry and is afraid of running into him now. It seems like something he would do.


Now I have the best spot in Mandarin. It is at the store where I used to work. They let me sit anywhere in front. They bring me out the extra food at the "end" of the night (7pm). I think they like the added security. I let Larry play there the night that he got run off. He was appreciative, but now, despite all the money I spent on him, he has a negative attitude.

Again, I don't know if I want to take him with me this summer, on my tour up the coast.

I've made about 400 bucks with the F-310 Yamaha, and about a dozen sincere compliments along with two people who want to take lessons from me.


And to think that I spent 3 years at the labor pool shovelling dirt!

I used to ride a Kawasaki, now I play a Yamaha
Here is a picture of my guitar, which I got on Thursday.
Larry and I went downtown, right in the ghetto where items are fenced that have questionable origins. I didn't think I would find a guitar after we got down there, because there were only about 12 of them, out of all the 5 pawn shops. But, there was this Yamaha, which they wanted 100 bucks for. I offered the guy 80 bucks and he said "no." Then, I realized that it came with a case, which is a 20 dollar value. I went back and asked him if I could give him 100 dollars even, (he would cover the $6.50 in tax) He went for it. They don't call me the Donald Trump of Mandarin for nothing!
Well, the guitar is a very fine instrument. Yamaha's are the ones that the whole folk group at St. Bernards strummed. It is because they are about the lowest priced guitars that are still quality instuments that are available. And so, I now own a Yamaha F-310. There is one on e-bay which they started the bidding for at $129.00.
Mine is just about brand new.
We (Larry and I) went down to the landing to play. Larry couldn't keep his hands off of my new guitar. He seems to like to play it whenever he gets a chance.
Right now, I have made $40 in tips playing the thing.
I will be mailing mom the first dollar that I made with it; I kept it.
Well, the library is closing, but I had to at least post something to say that I got the money and, things are working out fine. I am to go back to the Barnes and Noble after I leave here, and play some more. I made 14 bucks in about 2 hours. -very slow, but I have my whole life ahead of me!
Um, yeah, so here is another picture of the Calico cat, and I will do more later.
Big Tree Falls Almost On Us
A huge pine tree, which we knew was ready to fall, fell yesterday. It was during a storm which boasted 50 mile per hour winds.
We had been looking at the tree and trying to guess which of our tents it would fall upon and which of us would be squashed like a locust under someone's boot.
I even had tried to use the hatchet to put a notch in the thing and try to encourage it to go the other way.
Well, it fell and misse my tent by about 4 feet. A piece broke off, (about a 700 pound piece) and landed about 6 feet from Larry's. I guess we are blessed.


Here is the picture of the cat, as promised.
They are getting big. We don't have to worry about their survival after we go on tour, they are the 'kings of the jungle' for sure. More later.

It Isn't A Free Lunch

Police Raid Camp

The second raid of the camp in a year and a half took place about a week ago. The police came and told us that we needed to "vacate" the spot. We were allowed to take whatever we wanted with us, and we were not asked for ID or harassed. We grabbed our guitars and clothing and left. We now live about 300 yards away in another spot. Larry's tent no longer exists as pictured to the right. We don't really care too much, as we realized that we didn't have much to lose. They got the calico cat, though, who was friendly enough to walk up to the cops and the crew of prisoners who were bagging up everything and clearing the spot. The black cat was wiser, and we still have him. We don't know the fate of the calico. Hopefully he was brought to the Humane Society, or something.

Street Musicianship
The job of street musician is more than a full time job. When I am not at the library, getting new material, I am practicing the new material, or playing the new material, or on a bus to go to a spot where there is something going on and the potential for a thousand people to be there...
Saturday, I went to Jacksonville Beach to play music.
There had been several people who had told me that I "needed" to go to the beach in order to make any good money.
That morning I was up with the birds and preparing to go. After two connecting busses, I got there in the late afternoon.
There was a festival going on in the ampetheter and the loud music spilled out into the streets, making it very difficult to set up anywhere and play. I hadn't made a penny by 8 pm. I was at the bus stop, ready to go back to Mandarin, almost broke, and feeling depression setting in, when I decided to go back and try again. It would mean missing the last bus out of the area and having to spend the night there.
I sat in front of a closed business which sold bathing suits and such and began to play. 30 bucks found their way into my guitar case in one hour as group after group of college kids on spring break walked past. Most of them dropped something in the case. I was playing my best 3 songs over and over, since each group only heard me for about 10 seconds.
Then, one of the bartenders from Campeche Bay, a restaurant/bar came out for a cigarette and listened to me while he smoked. He told me that he would give me a free beer if I went into Campeche Bay, which I did. Then, as the evening wound down, and I became more leary about carrying my guitar and a pocket-full of money around, I walked down the beach and found a spot in the dunes to sleep.
I had a hard time sleeping because the temperature went down to about 50 degrees. I had prepared by bringing extra sweatshirts, but they weren't enough. I anticipated the sunrise and the heat that it would bring. I was happy when my portable radio announced the time as 5am. Maybe I can get some sleep as soon as it warms up some...

Easter Sunrise

As soon as the sky brightened, I crawled over to the other side of the dune, to the side facing the ocean. I looked to my left and was surprised to notice a huge group of people on the beach, at 5:30 am. Then I realized that it was Easter Sunday (I had lost track of the days, because I originally wanted to come out to the beach on friday)
So, I wound up watching the sun rise on Easter Sunday morning, not even realizing that people flocked to the beach to do just that. I thought it was cool that I was led there by accident, there because I missed a bus!Easter Sunday, I played for about 1 hour in the same spot. Then, one of the Jacksonville Beach cops stopped and told me to close my case up and leave. He said that they considered it "panhandling" if the musician opens his/her case up, as an invitation to tippers. I stood there and acted as if all of that was news to me. He ran my ID and then let me go. I picked up the 17 bucks or so that I had made in the hour, and left. The cop said "I've been sitting and listening to you play and your music is..." and he never finished the sentence, but he suggested that I go to a certain club where the owner is "a really nice guy" and see if I could play inside the place, legally. (because my music is....)
That is about it from the trip to the beach. It started out dismally and then wound up being a positive experience. Now I "need" to go to St. Augustine, according to the kid at the music store where I get my strings. He said that one of his friends saw me playing at the Regal Theatre, last week, before another cop made me leave there. It took me about 8 days to make the cost of the guitar back. It was slow, because I had to learn where the best spots are. Now I play at the BP station where I used to work. One of the old employees is still there, Dustin, and he lets me play and even brings out food and gave me an umbrella once. He said that "you do have a good sound," also. I estimate that I've made about 180 bucks off of the 100 dollar guitar, in about 2 weeks.

Last night, I went to the BP and noticed that Dustin's truck wasn't there. I wondered who was working and if they would let me play there. I was surprised to see that the foreigners who own the francise are none other than the same foreigners who own the one on the end of Baymeadows Road. A young guy, who I helped with his car battery once, came out and said that I could play wherever I wanted to, and on any Monday, which is his regular shift.
So things have been gradually improving as we prepare to march up the east coast, living on music.
One thing that I have realized, though, is that, even though it is possible to make more money as a street musician than as a laborer, and that it is better because you are doing something that you love, it still takes a lot of hours to make really good money. Each hour can be about 30 songs, and, by the end of the night, you might have played over 100 songs and the fingers are sore.
It is still work.
It isn't a free lunch at all.

This is for the Birds

Larry.

The Constant Threat Of Moose

Kinda makes me want to go to Alaska during the summer and set up an awsome, covert campsite, where never our smoke will be seen, and then get a job, about a two mile hike to civilization, and earn those Alaskan wages, perhaps 15 bucks an hour for flipping burgers, and save and invest, until, at a later time; I can return to the "lower 48" and have enough money to fix my licence and start a better life, without the constant threat of moose.

Tuesday, the landscaping company never even called the labor pool, and I had ridden through the rain that morning, just so I could sit and drink the labor pool coffee and watch the news (and weather) on the labor pool TV.

Other companies that worked outdoors cancelled their jobs, too, and that was one bunch of unhappy niggas, walking out of there and getting back on the van for a ride back downtown, where they would eat for free at the missions, and then try again the next day.

The rest of the week, more of the same...

The Gunslinger

Hello, Just a quick message, since I'm at the library. I went to the plasma place and they are backed up, probably a 3 hour ordeal to donate, and so, since they are open til 7 on Thursdays, I decided to put in 4 hours on the computer, and then I will go back right before they close when the crowd has thinned out and they are in a hurry to get everyone out...I'll use their hurried-ness to my advantage; right now they are taking their sweet time.
I worked on Wednesday, even though I was up til midnight (couldn't fall asleep; thoughts from the past racing through my mind, -thinking about things that happened years ago that still bug me- and that somehow wouldn't stop; even though my alarm was set for 3:36am; that happens a lot, worrying about not getting enough sleep instead of falling asleep.)
I got to the pool and the new dispatcher asked me if I wanted to go "gunslinging."
Everytime they yell that they need gunslingers, the whole crowd backs away from the window and words like "hell no" can be heard amongst them. Apparently nobody wanted to go gunslinging. He yelled "(for me)!," and I went up to the window. He asked me if I wanted to go gunslinging and I thought about how I always wanted to try it, and how in the past, things that other people couldn't handle just turned out to be just plain hard work. I told him yes.
They sent me to the van, where there were 3 large black men already sitting there in the bright green gunslinging vests. One of them looked at me and asked me if I was going to Waste Systems. I said yes. He let out a chuckle.
We got to the place and pulled into the parking lot. One of the black men asked me if I was "scared." I honestly said "A little."
Gunslinging is riding on the back of a trash truck, jumping off, throwing people's trash into the truck and mashing the button so that the "hopper" crushes it, then jumping back on and going to the next, and the next, and the next house, untill sometime before the sun goes down, everybody's trash is in the truck. It can wear you out, they say. (after it rains they can be full of water and weigh 100 pounds) We used to call them rubbish men; used to make fun of them as being the epitome of the lowest form of laborer. "..Better study hard in school, or you'll wind up a rubbish man.."
So, I got there and they assigned me a driver named Cory.
We left and went out to a place in Atlantic Beach. He drove and I jumped out and threw the 'yard trash' into the back of the truck.

"Watch out for snakes!"

Wednesday is yard trash day, and so, all the trash consisted of the products of yard work; limbs, clippings, piles of plants that looked like they were from another planet; thorns, spiders, lizards..but not snakes.
"Watch out for snakes," said Cory.
"Snakes aren't going to move into a pile of brush that was just layed there recently, I know snakes," I said.
"Watch out for snakes anyways."
The worst was a lemon tree that had died and been set in front of a house. The man was waiting there for us so he could warn me about the thorns; talk about thorns -like the talons on an eagle - that tree got me and I carry the scab to this day, course it was only yesterday... I threw the trash as energetically as I could. My side only hurt when I twisted a certain way. We finished early.
The man on the radio called and asked Cory how we were doing. He said that we were finished. The man on the radio said that, then, we did good. Cory said that if he had money he would have bought me lunch, because I worked "real good." He said that his back was hurting and that he usually jumped out and helped a lot more, but that I did most of it. He shook my hand and asked me what my name was before I got out, back at the place. They gave me eight hours, even though it took four.
The labor pool was "down a van," and said they couldn't pick me up for an hour, so I walked back, three miles to the pool and got my check.
I guess my legend grows now, as the big black men will say "He went gunslinging, did good."
"For real? that skinny whiteboy? No!"
"Yeah, man..ran Cory's route, they were done by noontime!"
"For real? No way"
"Word up, nigga!" (they really talk like that)
So that was my experience as a gunslinger, the word itself strikes fear into the labor pool. I had avoided it, and it was the one job that I ever turned down at the pool. But, that was when they offered it to me a couple days after being hit by the car, when I couldn't even sit up to go to the bathroom when I woke up, and had to use a bottle. My side had been better. I sneezed on the walk back to the pool (probably got a whiff of pollen or something) and it was sore but didn't seize up into a cramp like it had been doing when I coughed or sneezed.
This morning was a different story. I guess being a hero and gunslinging wasn't good for cracked ribs, because this morning I had taken a step back in recovery, but only back to how it was a week ago. So, I decided to come downtown and give plasma for 20 bucks and then to try to make another 30 or so with the guitar tonight. We are living on the edge and a broken string could beach us like musical whales, but, I could be ready to go tommorow morning, back to the pool, maybe even go gunslinging...and so that is where it is at now.
Temperatures in the low 80's all week, high 60's at night. I have a bunch of things to do online, so I'll go do them now. Larry wants me to download a bunch of sheetmusic and lyrics. I haven't touched my blog in two weeks, but I plan to post something about being a street musician, a top 20 songs list perhaps. I noticed that nobody answered my last mail, but I guess that means that you all are busy and productive. Hope you are all well, first day of summer is coming soon. I plan to hunker down and have a cool shelter by then, perhaps digging something out and covering it with a lot of palmettos. I'll have to do it because Larry is pretty slow in getting motivated. He's been out of work for about two weeks now. At first, I was glad to be able to pay him back by spending my labor pool money on things and making a better life for us both, but now I feel pressure to work everyday, because I know he is dead broke, but my plasma money will have to do for now, he could at least clean up around the house while I'm gone or something; typical roommate squabbles. Something will turn up; hope it's good!

We Want To Go

WE want to go. We want to go from here, the state which is shaped like what it has done to so many here....
We want to go to the Golden State; through the Golden Gate. The Bay Area has been calling me. I went there once. Maybe it is my destiny to die in an earthquake... I would want the refridgerator to topple onto me, snuffing out my life in that scenario.
Of course, we could go, get jobs and an apartment and not have to worry about Sunshine and orange juice and gator bites. In fact, we would only have to worry about the 49'ers running game, getting hit by a trolley car, and getting sick of rice-a-roni.
We talk about things like this all the time, but I am starting to realize that I am the one who would have to be the catalist because right now we are dragging our feet and in danger of something catastrophic happening while we are sitting here making plans.
Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans" -John Lennon
So I am thinking about what I want to do, and if Larry wants to come along; the more the merrier!!

A Year Ago Today

This post originally appeared on my blog on May 21, 2006

Last night we had our first taste of the muggy weather of which we are going to have a mouthfull of through most of late July and August. It would have been impossible to get a good nights rest, had this been a week-night. I told Biddle that we would have to take the weather into consideration before long.

Chess: Daniel 72-0 against Biddle

Biddle has yet to defeat me on the chess board, and seems to be more confused with each sucessive loss. Here, he grabs a flashlight because he cannot believe his eyes in the available light, because what they tell him is that I have just made a move that he has never imagined was possible; he badly wants to disbelieve it.

June 16, 2006
Am at computer 9.

Last night, rode with Biddle to the beach, drinking hard cider on the way. We explored some areas which I had pre-designated as being suitable for camping, but found them to be unaccessible. The property values and the demand for real estate out there make it so that each acre is carefully watched. We failed to walk down the beach and check out the dunes.

Then, after eating, we spotted the dog track on the way back to Sunbeam, and decided to go in and fetch some fun by each playing one dog and then leaving. I decided upon #3, and Biddle was going to play #8. We got in the place and it was a beehive of gambling activity. The second floor was all poker. I looked and saw people sitting in what I guessed was their "signature" attire, or their "lucky" wear; hats, weird vests, some in sunglasses, feathers in hair...the garb of The Losers. We went and found a race which was to kick off. I played 3, Biddle, 8. The race went off and #3 took off like a rocket and lead the field by about 7 lengths. "There goes your #3, you're gonna win," said the man to my left, who had been guiding us in deciphering the wall of monitors, which showed races from all over the world; all bettable. Dog number 3 lead untill the last 100 feet of the race, at which point he acted as if he had been shot. He finished about 6th. I think the pundits would say that he "faded." Biddle's dog didn't have to fade, because he was never that vivid. "One more race?" said Biddle, and I realized that I knew we were going to play one more race, even as #3 was "fading," and probably because of the fact that, for about 25 seconds, I was a winner, and only turned into a loser at the very end of the run. I played #1 to win.Biddle played a 3-8 quinella, or whatever they are called. (He took my "lucky" dog, and paired it with his "lucky" dog, to arrive at the combination.) I wouldn't be writing this if Biddle's quinella didn't come in, netting him $38.80. I guess I thought that I was lucky for him, or that I was the one who suggested that we stop and each play one dog...I guess I expected him to at least flip me a five-spot to cover my loss on dog #1, who came out slow and then tapered off...but, Biddle pocketed the money and, to his credit, didn't say "One more race?" Now, I try to be productive. I am supposed to meet the Oriental girl who works at the check cashing place to "help me with my homework." She hasn't shown up yet.
June 17, 2006 Today, Biddle and I went down to the Sulzbaucher Homeless place, in the van, to eat the free meal offered at high noon to all the "needy." One needy guy must have weighed about 280, whom I saw. We did this for psychological reasons; to tease those that have not found their way out of that institution, to prove that there is a way out; to flaunt the van (all '93 Expedition of it)...I wasn't sure. The lasagna was alright.
The only guy to beat me in the last year on the chessboard was sitting there, playing chess. I remember the game. I made a rare mistake and lost my queen (and the game) very early on. I continued to play (which is an insult to the opponent; kind of like the knight in Monty Python who, after having his arm severed, continues to taunt the foe, merely switching his sword to the other hand) and the game actually ended closer than it could or should have. He didn't seem to want any part of me on the chess board. We ate, and then Biddle suggested we go out to the beach. I had told him that I wanted to come to the library to blog and to study Java and CSS, so that I will not be so dumb. He started driving towards the bridge which leads to the beach. I had to firmly insist that
I had an agenda, and that I never appreciated when anyone deflects me from the path I have chosen.This is why I am a loner. I think that the more people in a group, the more "watered down" the dynamic becomes.So, Biddle went on his way, feeling kicked to the curb, no doubt. I came to the library. I spent most of my time on my totally private journal, because I don't trust anyone right now. I feel like someone is going to stop me and search my bag; a Jacksonville phenomenon - hard to explain.

Invited To A Bash

This is basically where the live blog begins.
Every post dated earlier than this has been recollected at a later time and then filed away under that dateline.

Ok, yesterday I worked on a demolition ticket, out of the Workforce Labor Pool, demolishing a Holiday Inn, which was way out on Jacksonville Beach.

We went in with mainly (manly) sledgehammers and swung them just about indiscriminately, bashing away.

There were some good hammerers. "Cowboy," or "Wild-man," as he was also called by some, was given stewardship over myself and another worker. He was to direct us in our bashing, telling us what to bash and what not to bash.

When Cowboy had the hammer in his own hands, he became spastic and quite animated, as if he had a personal grudge against the hotel and the objects in it. He was quite an inspiration. With great grunts and groans, he whirled and struck objects repeatedly and in rapid succession, until he was dripping sweat, red in the face and bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

I noticed that he also struck things in the places least likely to produce the desired result of them being dismantled. A lot of times if he had turned an object on its side and whacked it on a weaker spot, I think he would have split them with one or two hits, instead of the twenty or more which he delivered. I didn't want to criticize him, so I just stood back (everyone stood back from him) and let him at it.


It was kind of depressing to think of all the history and memories which were being bashed away, torn down and dropped five stories into a dumpster.
I thought of all the days and nights spent throughout the hundred or so years that the inn was in business.
The honeymoons, the celebrities, the people who knew people who knew people whom I may have met in my life. I had a feeling of nostalgia and wondered what "if these walls could talk..."

Then I grabbed my sledgehammer and started wreaking the place.

The song "Sledgehammer" by Peter Gabriel was in my head most of the day.

I made 53 dollars and change.

Flashback Friday: November, 2002 through March, 2003

When we last left Daniel, he had moved into Xanna's house, (his alternative to jail) where some unusual things had started to occur...
His girlfriend had become convinced that there was a blond haired woman in cohabitation of the house, and having an affair with him. The "blond bitch," as she referred to the woman, had the uncanny ability to remain out of sight.

Chapter 5

Things got more intense, living in Xanna's house.

She was finding "clues" all over the house, pursuant to her meticulous investigations, like what she believed were the initials of "the blond bitch," carved into the back of a stool in the piano room. I must admit that the way the paint had chipped off of that particular piece of furniture did resemble the initials "B" and "S," (perhaps the blond marking her territory...and playing games with Xanna, or perhaps, just B.S...)

I tried to reason with her. After all, our relationship hadn't started out this way at all.
I said, "Xanna,(cupping her chin in my hand and forcing her to look me in the eyes) why don't you believe me when I say that there is no other woman in this house?"

She couldn't believe me, because there was another woman in the house; it was Xanna herself, when she was in her "other" mind.

She had a dual personality, and was jealous of the other woman, who was actually herself, in her other mind.

There were times that I made love to her when she was manifesting her other personality, and when she came back to her original self, she was pissed. She just knew that I had been with another woman; she had left clues. She wanted to kill that other woman.
And then, there was the ghost.
I came to believe that there was actually a ghost in the house.
I wasn't scared at all, though.
I talked to it (her). I was pretty sure it was the ghost of a little girl, after hearing the voice on the tape, which Xanna had covertly made, and; how scared can you be of a little girl?
I told her, one afternoon, as I lay on the bed with the late winter afternoon's sunlight streaming in through the window, that she could appear to me, if she wanted to; I wouldn't mind. All that happened after that was, I heard the distinctive sound of a little girls footsteps walking down the hall, away. I guess that creeped the ghoul out, somewhat.
"I'm not appearing to you, you're weird.."
The thing that I still think about, and you, dear reader might be wondering about is: Were the footsteps the sound of a shod foot? Did it sound like the ghost was wearing shoes?
I have to say, and this is one of the things that makes me think that "ghosts" just might be manifestations of our own psychic energies, that the only thing that registered with me was that it was the sound of footsteps, half barefooted, half shod maybe.
The Stray Cat
Then, Xanna took in a stray cat, which she had found somewhere -a rust colored one 
We kept it until it urinated on our bed.
"Oh, no. That's just plain aggressive behavior. It's being territorial!" was Xannas conclusion.
The rust colored cat  had to go.
I was the only one home when it happened and discovered the cat pee, after I had gone to the main bedroom to use the phone on the night table.
As I sat on the bed, I felt a wet spot in the middle of it. I smelled it and determined it to be urine of cat. I checked the extent of the damage. I was particularly concerned about the pillows, being of the mind that one could never wash cat urine out of one. I was most glad that the pillows were not affected.
I took them off the bed and placed them on the couch over by the window, the one with the tape recorder under it. Then, I stripped off the quilt, blankets and sheets, and put them in a pile in the middle of the floor. The urine had soaked all the way to the mattress, leaving a dampness there.
I went to the kitchen and got some foam spray cleaner.
When I returned to the bedroom, I froze for a second in the doorway, staring in bewilderment at the bed.
My pillow was sitting atop the wet spot. Xannas was still on the couch where I had put both of them, not two minutes sooner.
I was hard pressed for an >explanation of how it got there, being the only one there, as far as I knew ...maybe the blond bitch....but I was starting to suspec that the house was haunted, though it didn't frighten me in the way one might think it should have. Perhaps because it seemed like the ghost of a little girl, though one apparently strong enough to lift Xanna off the bed and throw her out into the hallway...
I continued to hear the footsteps of a little girl in the hallway, on on the staircase leading to "the attic" when the house was otherwise quiet.
I continued talking to it, telling it that it could appear and I wouldn't hurt it. ...just don't hurt me...
Xanna was becoming as haunting as any specter could be, by this time.
After that cat incident, I became a little bit spooked by the house, though.
A couple of nights later, I was there alone; again.
I went to the back bedroom to lie down and try to sleep.
I left the light on, though; because of a slightly "creepy" feeling that I had.

As close to Xanna as I could find...

As I lay there awhile, and thought about sleeping with the lights on, I started to feel like a little boy who is afraid of the "boogy man."
This is ridiculous, I'm a grown man!
With that thought, I reached over to the switch on the wall near the night stand and flicked the light off.
Simultaneous to the room snapping into darkness, something jumped off of the dresser and onto the floor.
I snapped the light back on. It was a comb, which had been on the dresser, laying there on the hardwood floor, now.
I slept with the light on that night..
The Last Episode
We were close to breaking up. Xanna was ranting like a crazy woman.
She had developed a mantra, which she repeated almost non stop. It went something like this:
"That's just disrespectful -coming up in my house when I'm not home! She ain't nothing but a tramp; ain't nothing but a bitch and a whore. Let me catch her in this house one time, I'll show that bitch that I'm no one to mess with!. Coming up in here when I 'm at work...that's just disrespectful...She ain't nothing but a tramp; ain't nothing but a whore.... 

Sometimes when I was trying to sleep, she would seemingly sense the exact point of my driftng off and would then jar me awake by starting the mantra -always the same words, same cadence, same inflection, over and over.
To Make Matters Worse..
I inadvertently added to the confusion once.
I had bought a tuning "hammer" (28 bucks for the darned thing) and was going to surprise Xanna by fine tuning her piano. I worked on it covertly (if you don't count the ghost as a witness) for hours. I wanted to see if she would notice the difference and say something like "The piano sounds great today." But, I made a mistake and turned a wrong peg, unwittingly leaving a string dreadfully flat.
The C sharp that I flattened almost an octave, just happened to be one of the notes of prominence in "The Maple Leaf Rag," which was one of only three pieces that I ever heard Xanna play. She played each of them as if she were taking out her frustrations on the poor piano.
She went into the piano room one evening and attacked the keyboard in her usual way, hitting the "clunker" note at a point in the music which seemed to be a showcase for it. It was the musical equivalent of hitting the listener totally unexpectedly in the face with an ice cold bucket of water, or as if the piano had imploded suddenly.
At that point, Xanna flew into a rage. "Oh, no! Now, she's messing with my piano, now she's really playing games with me!"
It was interesting to note that her reaction to an actual quantifiable wrong (her piano was certainly detuned) was pretty much the same as to her "imagined" injuries at the hands of the blond bitch. If she had any suspicion that she might only be imagining things, the piano would have been a different matter. But she seemed to take the reality of the string being way out of tune the same way as she did the other things, like the initials carved into furniture...
That wasn't the kind of "surprise" that I had had in mind. I felt that I had to spoil it by showing her the tuning hammer and taking the blame for the seventh measure of "The Maple Leaf Rag." I didn't want to give her any (more) reason to think that there might be unusual, unexplainable things happening in her house...
January, 2002
"If you think you might be poisoned..."
I was sitting  at the house one morning, when I got a call from the manager of the Pizza Hut where Xanna worked.
I was basically told  that I needed to pack up my stuff and move out of the house. She said that that was Xannas wish, but she was too afraid to tell me so much, to my face. She was telling her co-workers that I was trying to kill her and take her house from her; she was convinced.
I told her manager that I needed to hear it from Xanna herself and that I would honor her wish for me to leave if it is as such...almost gladly, at this point.
That night, at the gas station, a couple of Pizza Hut workers came by to gas up. They gave me icy stares, and treated me like a guy who is trying to kill one of their co-workers and commandeer her house.
When Xanna arrived at about her usual time, at her usual pump, I asked her how she had gotten the notion that I was trying to kill her and take her house.
"You must think I'm stupid," she said through a clenched jaw. "You were singing a song about poison last night, right in front of me, like you're trying to taunt me!"
The prior night, I was singing a jingle which I had been hearing several times a night on the radio station that I listened to. It was a public service spot from the National Center For Poison Control, or something. The refrain kind of went: "If you think you might be poisoned, and you don't know what to do, call 1-800-222-2222..."
The jingle became "stuck" in my head and I had been walking around humming it to myself, while performing my nightly tasks. When Xanna showed up that night, I was in a good mood and just busted out with the jingle, thinking that she had probably heard it a hundred times on the radio herself. I didn't think much past that at all. She wasn't amused by my rendition. Not exactly.
She Just Died!
By March, Xanna and I were still sleeping in the same bed, but had stopped having sex.
I was making plans (behind her back) to move out of her house and into the tool shed behind the gas station after the manager, who was sympathetic to my plight, offered to allow me to put a cot and a TV back there and live for a while.
He was both concerned that Xanna might get me in trouble with the law by making accusations based upon her imaginings, and he also saw the value of having the assistant manager always be on-site; always available to cover for other employees who couldn't make it in to work.
Xanna and I were at the house. I went to lay down on the bed in the back bedroom.
She followed me there, as usual, and assumed her regular position beside me.
I was laying on my stomach with my arms folded under my pillow and my head turned away from her. I felt her lay her hand on my back; the "cat paw" which I had grown accustomed to.
I didn't drift off to sleep right away, rather, I lay there trying to relax my mind and let my thoughts drift.
I started to become aware of how cool Xanna's hand felt on my back, and how it seemed to be getting even cooler. Within a minute, it felt so downright frigid that the thought occurred to me: She just died!
Now wide awake, and with my heart sped up and a lump in my throat, I turned my head to look at her. She had both her arms folded under her pillow. Her hand hadn't been on my back at all.
Into March...
As fate would have it, Xanna's behaviour at her job became such that her co-workers started to question her claim that I was out to get her.
One night she called the police on another delivery person because that person had taken a pizza off the rack and gone to deliver it. Xanna thought that she had been next in line for it. She reported the pie "stolen" to the officers.
"I think we owe you an appology. Xanna's acting really crazy. At first we didn't know who to believe, but now we're pretty sure that she is probably imagining things," said a contrite Pizza Hut manager to me at the gas station, shortly after that.
I probably would have been out of her house already by the middle of March, but I got a call from my mother in Massachusetts, informing me that my father had passed away.

The Ghost

The gravity of the situation kind of kept us together, bonded by the crisis, and seemed to give Xanna a temporary return to reality, enough so that she offered me her condolences. It was the first time that I had seen her face soften in weeks.
I hastily made plans to drive my Jetta the 800 miles to attend the wake and funeral.
Xanna insisted that I drive her Mustang instead. She came along with me.
She spent almost the entire week that we spent in Massachusetts in the car, wrapped in blankets. My surviving family members seemed to be conspicuous in their avoidance of her and even the subject of her. They kept their comments to her brief and impersanal, them not knowing what to "make" of her, starting with her odd name, and probably extending to a sense that there was something not quite right with her. They didn't ask me much about her.
My mother gave me some of my deceased father's stuff, as I was leaving. His electric razor, his watch (which had stopped at around the time of his passing; and which began to tick again after I put it on my wrist) and a sweater made of a silky material. The sweater looked like it could have been worn by either a man or a woman; a point which would have been trivial, had I not had Xanna as a roommate.
After driving 12 hours from Massachusetts back to Virginia, I had less than 3 hours left before I was scheduled to work my shift at the gas station. I was going to try to grab as much sleep as I could.
I wasn't able to get more than a few seconds in, though.
Xanna started the mantra: "She ain't nothing but a bitch; nothing but a tramp and a whore -coming up in my house when I'm not here; that's just disrespectful..."
She stood almost over me, as I tried to sleep. At the instant that I dozed off, it seemed, she broke the silence: "Let me catch her, just once in this house..."
I tried to reason with her, but that option seemed to be long gone. "I have to work in three hours, sweetie. I have been driving for the last twelve hours. Can you please let me get some rest?"
Sleep deprivation, stress and grief over losing my father combined to bring me to a boiling point.
I jumped up and yelled in her face, cutting her off in the middle of "ain't nothin' but a whore" and told her that I was packing up and leaving as soon as I got off work the next morning."I can't stay here any longer, you're acting absolutely batshit crazy!"
"There's nothing wrong with my mind!!"
I tried again, to get as many winks as I could before my shift at work was to start.
Again, I had just drifted off when I was woken up.
She was standing in the doorway holding the sweater which my mother had given me.
"Who's sweater is THIS!? This is a womans sweater! Let's see you explain this one!!"
I snapped.
I jumped up, flew across the room, snatched the sweater from her, and got in her face, yelling "Are you saying that my father wore womens clothes!? This was his sweater, which my mom gave to me!! You...!"
My fist was coiled, the muscles in my arm were tense. I was one nerve synapse away from letting it fly and pounding her face, I could see it in my imagination, I could feel it in my imagination. But, I held back. I've never hit a woman in my life, but that was as close as I have ever come.
I grabbed some things, and went off to sleep somewhere in my Jetta, for at least the couple hours I had left before I had to work.
The Return Of The Jetta
I knew that I wasn't going back to her house. I would talk to Modou about allowing me to stay in the storage room behind the gas station. More than a year after meeting Xanna, at the same gas station, I welcomed the prospect of being "homeless" once again.
I set up a mattress and a little table in the storage room, along with bringing my computer there from Xannas house.
I was going there to retrieve stuff when I knew Xanna was at work. There were ways to get into the house, even when it was locked, like climbing up on the lower roof and entering through any of the glassless windows of the second floor.
The next afternoon, after getting off of work, I had opted to sleep for the first time in my new quarters, surrounded by boxes full of cigarettes and palettes of soda.
I was just drifting off to sleep when the door flew open and Xanna was standing there, glaring. Her arms were akimbo and her eyes darting around the storage room, as if looking for the blond bitch.
"So this is your little love nest!"
"No, this is where Modou is letting me stay until I find a place."
Looking more closely at her face, it appeared that she had been punched in the eye that I never hit, as it was black and blue and swollen.
After she stormed out of the storage room, she paused to glare at the Jetta, which had been her Christmas gift to me, a few months earlier.
The next time I got in that car and turned the key, the motor started to turn over, and then stalled.
It never started for me again, even though I had several of the best mechanics in Charlottesville, replacing suspect parts, downloading schematics and pulling their hair out over it.
I eventually brought it to the junkyard where all of the newly installed parts had come from and selling the parts back to them, along with the Jetta itself. 

The Return Of Tom

I continued to live in the storage room and to save money.
I saw Xanna about a month after our breakup, after I had bought another car. She was sitting in a black Monte Carlo in a parking lot; with Tom, the guy who had beaten and sodomized her after their breakup, but before their reunion, apparently,