I Might Get One

Corrie Looks Like This

I See Corrie
The other night, at the Save-A-Lot, I was at the register when none other than Corrie came up and said hi. She was quick to point out that her boyfriend was right outside, (and probably watching) before anything like a hug was exchanged. They were on their way to make sandwiches, having procured lunch meat at the Save-A-Lot, and found sub rolls in the Subway dumpster.
Church Service
I wound up going to Jeff's church with him last night. We brought John, the preacher along with us. At first, I was told that there was not room for John the Preacher, but then later re-informed that Leigh would not attend, due to being behind on her schoolwork, and that Jennifer, wife of Jeff would likewise not be there, due to illness.
We arrived there and heard preaching by the music minister. It had to do with "sanctification" and "justification" being mutually exclusive. I was glad that John didn't jump up out of his pew and scream "That's bullshit!!" at any time during the service.
Afterwards, I met a parishiner named Stephanie, who is a math teacher. We talked about calculus and "discreet" mathematics, while John conversed with others about sanctification and justification. John was inviting them to the revival, they were telling John that everything they needed was right in their bible. John just came by, as I am sitting here, and handed me a piece of paper with the revival schedule on it. Tonight, it is at 7:30. I may just poke my head in for a minute or two.

Songwriting Contest
I arrived at Serda's at about 8pm., and noticed that someone was already playing. I think we turned the clocks back one hour for daylight savings, or something. I had missed about 4 performers. The guy playing, I had heard before and I don't fear him as competition.
Once inside, I noticed the judges at their special table, with their names on placards in front of themselves. I watched just about all the performers thereafter.
Although I hadn't seen Jeff's daughter, Leigh at church, I was tapped on the shoulder by a young reddish haired girl after I had sat down near the judges table. She asked me if my name was Daniel, and, then introduced herself as Taylor, another daughter of Jeff.
Apparently her boyfriend? is one of the judges, the one from the Music Box on Dauphin Street.
Taylor was very friendly, and one of the prettier girls there, and we talked about writing and music and writing music. She displayed a sense of humor at various times, but not at the expense of the performers, who we both agreed, were trying their hardest to do well. All in all, she was like an angel. She knew that her dad had read On Writing, by Stepen King, and she encouraged me to look at my music as if it were my job, and to put 8 hours a day into it, the same way Stephen looks at his writing as if it is his job.
The two finalists selected were "Venom," a rapper, who I have seen before, and Sky Johansen, a keyboard player/singer, who was very artistic and almost avante-garde.
Venom raps so fast that I struggle to decipher what he is rapping about. It seems that he is rapping about finding success as a rapper.
Sky sang a song called "The Rain Song," and one called "Highway Story," I dread going up against her in the finals, but not so much in other contexts. (yes, that's an innuendo)
She used every octave on her keyboard, making her accompanyment sound sparse, yet interesting. Her body language helped to reenforce the illusion that she was a sorceress, conjuring the music up from out of her keyboard. Her arms moved like willow branches in the breeze right before a violent thunderstorm. Other than that, she sucked -LOL, just kidding!!
I ran into some friendly faces; Jimmy-Lee greeted me warmly. Several people asked me if I was going to play, and I told them about my stretegy of playing next week (Nov. 10th)

I Might Get One

All in all, it was an encouraging experience. I have been composing and arranging my stuff in my head since. I lay awake about 2 hours last night, running through my songs in my head. I am leaning towards doing "Computer Geek Blues," and "Hubert's Trip." They are both intended to be humorous, a commodity which was missing from all of the music last night. One I wrote in 1989 (as Taylor was being born), and the other, two weeks ago.
I am about to go practice, maybe after reading some. I might go to get a Crunk energy drink. I have changed my diet a lot as part of my training for the contest. I am thinking that I might do "Here Come The Bums," and "I'm Crazy About A Crazy Girl," and save "Hubert's Trip" for the finals. There won't BE any finals if they're not good enough, though. It will be a gamble. I haven't eaten; will have to get that unpleasant chore over with.
I am sure that I am going to go get at least a shot of liquor, but, I was sure of that yesterday, but then changed my mind. It will be 10 days without a drink, as of 9pm. tonight, unless I go to ABC and get a shot of Jim Beam, (just to prove to myself that I can't stand it, and am through with it forever.)
There must be people praying for me, or else maybe I am coming back to a way of life which I had 25 years ago, after I was born again at a Grateful Dead concert. It didn't seem to be producing any "fruit" back then, so I strayed away from it. But, I was ab;e to write a song back then, and remember it 20 years later; now, when I have trouble remembering where I put my milk crate that I sit on when I play.
One of the songwriters told me that he made 100 dollars in 45 minutes in New Orleans. He said the other performers there were 'territorial" because they "make their whole living doing that,"
Well, big deal, I make my "whole living" playing on the street, too. I'm ready to go there. He said it took him 6 hours to get a spot to play, and that was only after what he called "shcmoozing" the other performers.

Serdascoffee.com

The songwriting contest will be streamed live on the Serda's website.
I am going to try to call my brother to see if he can capture the video and maybe load it up to U-Tube. The whole show should use less than 5 terabytes of space....
Nine days without drinking; as of 9 pm. tonight. Serda's songwriting contest starts tonight, first round. I'm in the second round, next week.
I'll be there tonight to scope the competition out.
First, to Jeff's church for the evening service.
Boy, could I use a drink right now...
Will have to step up the practice time this coming week, leading up to Wednesday night. I'm still debating upon which songs to do, but, the choices will become clearer after seeing who wins tonight, and why.

8 Days Until Contest

The Contest
It will be 8 days without any alcohol consumption, as of 9 pm. tonight. If I keep harping on this, I will drive myself to drink. In fact, don't be surprised to see me back at 1 day, on tomorrow's post....
The Songwriter's contest will start tommorow night, but that will be an elimination round in which I will not participate. I am thinking that a lot of good writers will be eliminated, and the next weeks field will be "weaker." That is my stragegy, along with practicing as much as possible.
The event will be "streamed" on serdascoffee.com, (I think that is it, I will check again) they say. I will have to see if anyone can capture it onto a hard drive or some device, by logging on. Maybe my brother in Massachusetts can, because he works in the technological field. I might call him.
Time has slithered away on me, like the serpent. I have to keep this short, and then call Jeff as per his e-mailed request.
I played on the median strip this morning, even though it was not out of pecunary dificulties, as is usually the case, when I am driven to take such an extreme measure.
The people can't really hear me play; just see me, and know that I am makinig an effort to do something besides stand there with a sign. The signs which the beggars hold are usually lacking in integrity, unless they specifically state words to the effect of "lazy and have discovered that I can do this and make easy money by taking advantage of people's generosity."
I stand there and play music, with a sign that says: "Street Musician Stimulus Package."
I made about 8 bucks. A cop came and told me that I couldn't play on that spot. "We let you play on Dauphin Street; we have no problem with that, but you're on the side of the road!" said the cop.
That is unfortunate, because, if I was really ambitious, I would play there in the early morning, and then move to Royal Street for lunch, and then to Dauphin in the evening, and get my "8 hours" in.
Time has escaped me. I still have things that I want to do. I have spent only one dollar today.

This May Be The Beets Talking

Songwriting Contest In 9 Days

The clock has just struck 2. In 7 hours, I will have been 7 days without drinking alcohol of any kind.

Yesterday, (Sunday) I was more tempted to spike my energy drink with vodka than I had been at any other time since deciding to stay sober and pour energy into the songwriting contest.

This may have been triggered by the fact that it was Sunday, and the football games were to come on the radio, and, even when I hardly drank much at all (1990's), I would be likely to reserve the practice of it for Sunday, when football games come on.
Another factor arose after running into "Pyro," the train hobo, who wound up sitting next to me, again, when I was playing on the street in the late morning, after church.
Before this happened, I had met him in Cathedral Park, where I had mentioned my 6 days without drinking. At which, he said that he hated to "discourage me," but that, in his opinion, I would start to drink again soon. "Someone is going to piss you off, and your going to need a drink," was his rationale.
I got away from him, and left him to foment in his hatred of disappointing people, and walked down Dauphin Street, where I decided to play just for the fun of it at the acoustically superior spot. It being Sunday, the business was closed, and I had the place to myself. 

This song is called "Can You Spare Some Change!"

Pyro found me in short order and sat next to me, as he had done the previous evening. He was noticeably drunk, as he had been the previous evening, and was panhandling people as they walked by, ditto.
He asked me to play a certain song by Iggy Pop. When I told him that I didn't know this certain song by Iggy Pop (right), he said that it wouldn't be a problem, because the song only had two chords.
This did not surprise me because, judging by the photos of Iggy Pop which I have seen, and which make up 99% of the body of knowledge that I have about him; he looks like a "two-chord" man.
I decided to just pack up and leave the spot. There weren't many people walking around, and Pyro was saying at that point that if I played the two chords, he would sing the Iggy Pop song.
I then realised that I had practiced and studied music too long and hard to have things culminate in me playing two chords while a malodorous train hobo belted out an Iggy Pop song, for the edification of all.
As I walked off, Pyro called me names and threatened to beat me up, because I didn't want to play the song. This really pissed me off and I stopped and turned back towards him, with my hand in my knife pocket.
I would have gone into the Dauphin Store and gotten a strong beer, had I not remembered that it was Pyro who had foretold of someone angering me to the point of driving me to drink.
I solidified my ever growing suspician, at that point, that there may be some credence in what certain people say about Satan being alive and real and roaming the earth, seeking to devour and destroy people.
I wasn't going to let Pyro be my undoing, though. I've resisted better demons than he will ever be; though he is young, and has time to improve his skills.

That afternoon, I watched the Patriots game on the TV at the Hardee's on Government St. I bought a large ice tea, so that I wouldn't be freeloading off of them. The Patriots won, and so I went to Save-A-Lot, to get some things to celebrate the win with, things like canned beets.
In the evening, I ate instant potatoes with green and pinto beans, along with beets and sauerkraut. I then lay down and munched on cashews, while listening to the sports station on my cheap AM radio. They were talking about the New Orleans Saint's victory, but mentioned the Patriots periodically.  
This morning, I woke up at about 6:45, before John the Preacher did. He seems to sleep in later when it is cold outside. It was a chilly 55 degrees or so last night. We went to get our hard-boiled eggs and mandarin oranges (not blueberries, today).
Today, I study and practice, and may play at The Garage, tonight, to further practice my material for the contest in 9 days.

Blue Mountain Dew

Countdown To Songwriting Contest: 10 Days

Last night, I reached the "5 day" point of abstinence from alcohol, at approximately 9 pm.

I played out on the street and reached the level of enjoyment which I previously had only been getting after imbibing.

Taking a break at one point, I felt a letdown, knowing that I wasn't going to follow my prior routine of going behind somewhere and drinking a beer. I decided to get a Mountain Dew (the blue kind) instead, and found myself just as joyful, as I walked to the Dauphin Store for that beverage; as much as I would have been in the past, when going for beer.

I made 31 bucks, and added it to the 13, which had slowly accumulated during the week. Subtracting the cost of two bottles of Mountain Dew, I woke up with 41 bucks. I went to church at the Dauphin Street Fellowship.

I was very tempted to add vodka to my blue Mountain Dew this morning. I didn't.

I ran into John the Preacher, shortly after making that decision, as I walked up Government Street, on my way to pick old newspapers out of the bin at the recycling place, so that I could do the crossword puzzles, (and catch up on old weather reports LOL..)

John had gotten up at 7 am,. and gone to the Presbyterian Bible Study, he told me; in hopes of saving at least just one of their souls. They are so friendly, and they give all the homeless people hard-boiled eggs and blueberries each morning, Monday through Friday, and it seemed a shame to John to let them spend an eternity in hell, just because they believe that once "saved," a person cannot loose their salvation.

Now, the Patriot's game is about to start, and I might try to find a bar to stand outside of and watch the game through a window, as I sip a store-bought Mountain Dew.

Work on my own songs is coming along promisingly. I play them on my spots and get tipped for them. I am seeing which songs it might be wise to play at the songwriting contest, by judging the reactions to them on the street. It is a feather in a busker's cap to get people to stop for more than 10 seconds to listen.

5 Days

Countdown to Songwriting Contest: 11 days
It will be 5 days since I've had a beer or drink, as of about 9pm. tonight.
I am in training for the songwriting contest.
I am registered for the 10th, but will attend on the 3rd, just to see what the competitors are up to.
I saw the "92 (the zoo) FM" van parked right by the beer store.
There is a new hobo in town, who goes by the "name " of "Pyro"

He sat next to me last night, smelling like a train that hasn't bathed, as I played. He was asking people for money as they walked by. He called it "spaingeing," which is an abbreviation of "spare change," the clever devil, him. He was lamenting the breaking of a half gallon of wine on the sidewalk, a tragedy which had befallen him earlier that night.

He was spending every cent he "made" on beer, and became pretty incoherent, and said things to the people passing by, which were cryptical, for example, saying 'north" to one group of young men, as he pointed skyward. 

He was angry at the people of Mobile, because he wasn't getting any money out of them. At one point, his "Do you have any spare change?" only netted him 80 cents from a nice couple, who were on their way towards Royal Street. Looking down into his hand, he uttered an oath, adding, "This isn't crap, I hate this town." Those who didn't give to him had their backs cursed as they walked away.

He talked about travelling the country by trrain (avoiding bathtubs,) but mostly it was in  relationship to how the pan-handling is, nationwide. I mentioned the new laws in Mobile against begging. He continued to beg anyways.

He gave me some "useful" information about train hopping. Eventually I escaped him by just packing up and walking away, but not before learning that he is from Dalton, Georgia, where Karrie Porras is also from.

One interesting sidenote; he is called "Pyro," because of the fact that he was burned severely as a child, and bears the scars to this day, just like Karrie Porras, who was burned severely as an infant in that same small town in Georgia.

It has been pretty boring, playing sober; it makes me question the purpose of it sometimes. John the preacher thinks that if I start doing gospel songs exclusively, then I will rise to great stardom of some kind. Of course, John needed 3 bucks to do his laundry the other day and had to borrow it.

Focus Upon Music
Yesterday, I made up my mind to go and to play on the grass median strip on Water Street, with my sign which reads: “Street Musician Stimulus Package.” I was out of money for beer and cigarettes, by my own doing, as a way of quitting those items, but realized that I had placed myself out of the market for guitar strings as a side effect.
I thus directed my steps in the opposite direction from which I had been going for countless days past, and went to Water Street, instead.
I played for about 45 minutes and got about 4 dollars. This, I found satisfactory, as it was almost enough for new strings. I would try to borrow the balance, against what I projected to make during the coming weekend.
Serda’s Songwriter’s Open Mic Night was to be that night. I decided to walk by there on my way to eat at the Waterfront Mission.
I usually don’t eat lunch, but was feeling like I wanted to load up on food, for some reason. This feeling usually comes when I am about to embark upon some undertaking which might be strenuous. Often the feeling comes before I even discover the task which is to be in front of me, and only have a premonition of it.
Then, in the window of Serda’s was a poster, which announced a songwriter’s contest, to be held each Wednesday of November, culminating in six finalists (two to be chosen each week) vying for a prize of studio time, to record 5 songs, and air time on a local FM radio station, to showcase the same.
I felt like this was a miracle of sorts, and due to my decision to quit drinking, and smoking. I think that God created the contest, in order to give me a way to fight the temptation to get drunk and lazy and neglect my chosen craft. Since it is the “second annual” contest, God re-wrote history and implanted in the minds of people the recollection of last year’s contest.
I ate at the mission, then called Jeff, who said that he could bring me to the music store before picking up his daughter, Leigh, and taking all of us to the church service that evening.
The preacher spoke to me after the service, and asked me what I did for a living. “So, you’re a professional musician?” he inquired, after I told him what I did. I told him that I guessed that I was, only without management.
I got to Serda’s and was greeted by Jimmy Lee, who seemed to harbor no ill will towards me. He put me on last, after Elizabeth, the poet and then a mandolin player/singer performed.
I did mostly untested new material, since the pressure of the contest next month has overshadowed any that I might have felt on this occasion, which seemed like a rehearsal for the contest.
About 8 people hung around and listened to me, even though they were through performing, and they and their friends were free to go. They were the same 8 that seem to encourage me; the one’s that don’t stare me down when I enter the venue, and look at me as if I am crashing their private party.
The songs went pretty well. I had trouble “loosening up,” being sober, (except for the caffeine in the small, black coffee, which I had at my side.)
I did “I Lost My Sparrow,” and then “Computer Geek Blues” and then hacked up “The Can Man,” pretty badly, but not so much as to negate what I had gained by doing “Computer Geek,” fairly competently.
I got some good reactions, but left feeling like I have a lot of practicing to do, if I want to win the recording session and have my songs played on 92 (the zoo) FM, in Mobile, Alabama.
It was raining hard when I stepped outside at almost midnight. Jimmy Lee gave me a ride to the church spot, where I found John the Street Preacher, sprawled out on the porch. We sat and talked for a while.
The rain was being blown in a favorable direction to anyone using the porch to sleep, and we woke up dry in the morning, and went to get our eggs and blueberries.

Songwriting Contest

Serda's is having a songwriting contest next month. The winner gets to cut a CD in a studio, and some other stuff.
It is sponsored by the local newpaper, the local "zoo" radio station, and the local Arts and Entertainment magazine type thing.
I can win the contest, if I make a consorted effort; and I'm not really sure what "consorted" even means, I'll have to look that up.
I will have to listen to the "zoo" radio station. This part worries me, because the judge from that station listens to hip hop and R&B all day.
The other guy from the magazine, I will have to read his reviews to see what he likes.
The newpaper editor, ditto.
I have registered for the second week, on November 10th. Two finalists will be chosen from each night, and the six of them will compete on the last night. Losers are not allowed to re-try. This is why I registered for the second week, because the first week, the two finalists will probably be chosen from a bunch of people, eliminating all but the two winners. This may decimate the songwriting population of Mobile, leaving less competitors for the second week. Maybe I should try to move to the third week, following this logic.
I need to go, I have work to do.

Nobody There To Be Cheap

Yesterday, I left the library and went to get my stuff, which was stashed at the Save-A-Lot.
I had decided to wash some of my clothes, so that I could wear different ones each day. Come next Sunday, I will probably put on the one's that I had on last Sunday, just to mess with the guy that made a comment about them. I washed three pair of pants, and threw out the ones with the holes in the leg which were too long also.

The "Feel" Of Downtown Mobile, Last Night

The streets were deserted downtown, and I worked on some of my own songs, making the best of the time, but no money. I started to get mad and curse the cheapness of the people, then stopped myself when I realised that nobody was there being cheap. One guy walked by and told me to go to New Orleans.

I wound up spending what little I had on Steel Reserve, which I drank in the park, where I had to fend off beggars, who wanted dollars and cigarettes. I became angry at one point.

I have concluded that quitting smoking and drinking is my only path to peace of mind. Not smoking will reduce the number of friends that I have from almost 40, down to about 5, but I am willing to suffer that consequence.

Now, I am in a self-imposed rehab, brought on by having ruined myself financially.

I am treating the Serda's Open Mic on Wednesday as if it were a real gig, and plan upon preparing for it as such. I want to see how well I can do when I make the effort.

Saturday Night Nothing Special

Where We Were, 6 Years Before We Were There

Dauphin Island
Yesterday morning, Sunday, I woke up under the trolley which I had slept under, the night before.
I had started to play, Friday night, and, seeing that it was slow, had taken a couple of breaks and sat eating peanuts and drinking beer and listening to the Alabama game on my cheap AM radio.
Eventually, I became groggy and wound up crawling under the trolley which I was leaning back against, and going to sleep.
I had thereby found a new spot to sleep at, which is waterproof, invisible and undiscovered. Still, the ridiculousness of sleeping outdoors is never more apparent than when sleeping in places like that.
The disappointment of having been too tired and having drank myself to sleep, caused me to feel ashamed and guilty when I woke up in the morning. I had gotten a full 8 hours of sleep, at least.
I went to the store and got an energy drink. It was only about 7 am.
I Repent Of My Trolley-Sleeping Ways
I decided that I was going to go to church somewhere, because I had hit "rock bottom" under that trolley, which was parked on a grassy lot, that was not totally ant-free, and I walked down by the Fellowship at 316 Dauphin St.
The Battle Intensifies

They hadn't opened the door yet. There was another guy waiting out fromt for a van to come and take him to "The Cave," which he described as a church which is set up like a bar and "in fact, it used to BE a bar," where there is a rock band, featuring a very good guitarist, and the congregation, made up of "a bunch of old bikers who have found Jesus," sit at bar stools and drink coffee instead of beer. The guy told me that I should definitely check it out sometime.

Upon my soul, I've never seen such bickering!!

Meanwhile, the pastor of The Fellowship had come out, and noting that the van for The Cave hadn't arrived yet, gently prodded us by saying that they were "just about to begin."

While waiting for the Fellowship to open, I had called Jeff, who informed me that he had matters with his family and wouldn't be able to come get me. So, The Fellowship it was for me.

The Fellowship has a big pot of coffee, which I mentioned in a past post. It also has a significant number of homeless people on any given Sunday, who seem to be there for the coffee, and to bum cigarettes off of the people who drink coffee, then step out back for a cigarette.

They are like starving fleas in a house where the family has been on vacation for a while, taking the pets with them, and just returned. (They make "flea bombs," maybe I could market a "homeless bum" bomb and set one off behind The Fellowship every Sunday.)

Clothed In Iniquity

One of the "worshippers" made a comment to the guy sitting next to him, as I walked past, of which I heard only "boots the same way, too." He was looking at my boots. I assumed he was remarking that I had on the same clothes as the previous two days. He had no way of knowing that I had washed them at the church spot and dried them on the vent, one of those nights. I thought that it was uncalled for in a House of Worship to make such a comment, or even to see the relevance of what he meant by it, and especially to say it loud enough to be audible to the person whom he is defaming, as if to direct it at him.

Blacks are prone to do this. I aksed (sic) one intelligent one once, why they are prone to do this. He replied that they are trying to "open the lines of communication."

I suppose the guy in church was giving me a chance to make a rebuttal, whereby I could have assuaged his fear that he was in church with an unsanitary homeless guy, by telling him that yes, I have on the same clothes, but I had washed them, (and then added "What's it to you, n*#&@!!")

Despite this negativity, I manged to come out feeling better, and only had a couple of beers afterwards.
Getting Away From Mobile
Then Jeff met me at the library. His daughter, Erin and son, Jarod joined us in a trip to Dauphin Island. Apparently, Jeff used to live there, and he and his kids hadn't been there in a while.


"Peeping Toms" carry stilts on Dauphin Island



It began to cloud up and lightning was visible as soon as we got to the beach (above) and so we only had a few minutes there. The lightning may have been aimed at me because I had the same clothes on as the day before.

We rode around looking at the sights on Dauphin Island. Every house was on stilts.
The rain stopped, but then started back up in the early morning. I was on the porch spot, as were two other guys, whom John the preacher and I had talked to a bit and determined were pretty nice guys, who wouldn't steal our stuff in the middle of the night.
I was the woke up at about my usual time. Both John and a new guy were still asleep.
I woke them up, and informed them that it was probably time for The Coffee Club.
John was disoriented at first, and looked around for a few seconds at the marble porch in confusion, but soon recalled his immediate purpose (hard-boiled egg and blueberries.) and stood up and quickly packed up his bedding's.
I guess the overcast sky caused them to oversleep in the same way that some natural phenomena cause whales to beach themselves. I might hear higher frequencies than them.
We went en mass to the Presbyterian for our hard boiled eggs and blueberries.
Now, it is Monday. It is still raining, and there is supposedly some kind of tropical system in the area.

Straw And Drink

Straw Just Like This

We Get A Bed Of Straw
It is Saturday morning and I slept "in" until about 8:45.
I woke up on a bed of straw, which had been spread over the whole area where myself, John the street preacher, and now a new guy with a woman, sleep.
The new couple are both black and probably in their late 30's. She has her hair bleached to a shade of orange-ish yellow. The guy is portly and rolls a large suitcase on wheels behind him. I have seen them in Cathedral Park a couple of times, and they were always friendly; asking me where I was going to play and wishing me luck.
The straw was strewn sometime between Thursday and Friday. Our cardboard had been covered by straw, as opposed to being throw away, leading me to think that, whoever put the straw down was sympathetic to us homeless people and not trying to run us out.
It may be a stretch to think that the Christ Church bought the straw to make us more comfortable, but, putting the cardboard out of view by covering it with straw may have been intended as a suggestion, by whoever did it, of how we can continue to sleep on the spot and not have unsightly cardboard under the HVAC unit or leaning on the building.
It crossed my mind that someone from the church may have seen John preaching on the street and then seen him sleeping at the spot, and put the straw down as a gift of some sort. If that is true, though, and they hear me play, they might come rake it out of my spot and use it to add another layer to his.
I have yet to run into John the street preacher or the black couple, but if I do I will have to ask them how they enjoyed the straw.
Thursday And Friday
Thursday night, I had very little success, as there were few people out. On my way back to the church spot, where I may have had my first encounter with the straw, I was waylayed by a guy, who was sitting at a table in front of Veet's, which is a bar that had a House Band, which is a band that plays there just about every night of the week.
The guy, who turned out to be Jesse, told me he had walked by me when I was playing and that I had been playing very well, though he hadn't had any cash on him at that time. He offered by buy me a drink, and after my acceptance of that offer, joined me in a couple shots of Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey, which is $8.50 per each at Veet's, which is a bar that has a house band.
Veet's also has a bartender who is very "homeless-unfriendly" which is a term that soon might make its way into the Oxford dictionary, with business owner's from places like Veet's being referenced. The first time I was at that establishment, I had run into Ben, the ambulance driver, who brought me in with him, and had to assure the bartender that I was his guest, to make it OK for myself to enter.
When Jesse placed the first round of whiskey down, he informed me that the bartender had asked him if I had "pan-handled" the drink from him. He offered to provide the service of running me off of the property, should that have been the case.
We talked for a while, myself satisfying his curiosity about what it's like to play music on the street and sleep on a bed of straw (although I had yet to) and him telling me that he works for Hewlett-Packard doing a job which he hates, and which makes him feel like "a fraud." He added that he is "ashamed" of how much money he makes.
While we were on the second round of whiskey at $8.50 per each, Jesse began to cultivate some ill sentiments toward the bartender, whom he felt had done me an injustice by his comments. He seemed to enjoy our conversation, and told me that I seemed like "a pretty square guy," and then went inside and informed the bartender of this opinion, payed his tab of almost 100 dollars, and then concluded by telling that personage that he was taking his business elsewhere.
To make a long story short (if it's possible at this point) Jesse (and I) took his business elsewhere and then elsewhere. I showed him several cool spots in Mobile where one can buy a friend a drink at up to 11 dollars per each, and then even wound up driving Jesse's rented car (blind as a bat, no licence, but more sober than he) back to the hotel, after he reached a point at which 11 dollar shots of bourbon will "catch up" to a man, (somewhere around 175 dollars worth.)
After Jesse showed me his wedding band to affirm his heterosexuality, I wound up staying at the moderately swank "Hampton" Inn, where the staff, in deference to the rates charged there, were all smiles and politeness and didn't ask Jesse if I had panhandled a room out of him.
Jesse left and went back out at some wee hour, to find trouble with a strange woman, I gather, and didn't return until noon Friday, and so I had the room to myself.
He was hurrying to catch his flight at that time, and so, couldn't elaborate on the strange woman or anything else, and we wished each other luck, and I went out to the street and he, back to the job that he hates which makes him feel like a fraud.
Now, it is Saturday morning, as stated at the top of the page. I am about to go out to me job which makes me feel like a beer.

I Prepare For Nothing

A Less Than Stellar Night
I washed my hair in Cooper's Park, and then put a massive amount of conditioner in it and brushed it through. It took about 20 minutes to remove all of the "snarls." When I was done, it was 6:30pm., and I called Jeff about going to his church's Wednesday night service. I was about an hour and a half too late in calling, I learned. The service apparently starts at 5 pm., when a meal is served; something to remember, if you are ever in Mobile.
I went off aimlessly, and eventually sat at the acoustically sound spot to sip beer and work on music which I was considering playing at Serda's Songwriter's Open Mic Night. I was happy to make 6 bucks, as, the street was pretty deserted. One guy threw me 5 bucks, as I was playing "You Must Be Getting What You Want," which was written about Karrie, and basically contends that she must have found another way to stay drunk all of the time, and have someone to cling to, since she has made no effort to contact me the past 145 days.
I miss Karrie sometimes when I am drinking. It belies my original objective in coming to Mobile to get away from her influence, and to drink a lot less as a result, when I wind up drinking just as much. I might as well have her here with me, sharing the love, at those times.
Serda's Un-Friends Me
Having missed the chance to go to Jeff's church, there was some consolation in the fact that I was able to arrive relatively early at Serda's. In fact, there was enough time remaining before the start of the event to have more beer. I was thinking about doing my newest song, "Computer Geek Blues," but not ruling out a couple others.

Who am I that Serda's is not mindful of me?

This became a mute point, because Jimmy Lee, (the MC guy) never asked me if I wanted to play, or if I was ready to play, or at what place in the lineup he was thinking of putting me.

I hung around and listened to the other performers, and drank more beer and saw Jimmy Lee walk past me more than once and divert his eyes from me and never speak to me.
This was the first time that I had ever gone there without being asked to play something. There were quite a few performers there, and maybe some of them were first-timers and had preference over others, or maybe Jimmy Lee saw how drunk I was getting and remembered a less than stellar performance I gave about three weeks ago, when in that same state. I don't know, because he never said anything to me. I felt unwelcome.
I left there and went off and sat and stared up at the stars and searched my soul.

Wizards And Demons

I am offered methodone.
I got up at sunup and walked to the restroom, to splash water on my face.
There was a guy standing in front of the Government building, who asked me about my guitar, said that he himself played, and gave me a couple cigarettes.

He eventually prevailed upon me to show him my guitar, whereupon he played a bit of "Margaritaville," the Jimmy Buffet song. Jimmy Buffet is rumored to have gotten his start right here, in Mobile. Coincidentally, there is the same rumor which floats around St. Augustine, where I was prior to coming here.
We talked a while and then the man offered me some methodone, in the pill form. I asked him if it was addictive. "Not if you just do it once, no. If you do as much as I have, then it's very addictive. That's why I'm addicted to it," he replied. He told me that I would feel like King Kong, if I were to take it, and would climb up a building and play guitar on the roof.
I wondered what would stop someone from doing it more than once, if it's as great as he made it sound.
He went on to invite me to return and meet him there after I finished eating at the Presbyterian. I ate at the Coffee Club, and then left and walked in the opposite direction of the guy who offered me methodone.
I Run Into A Demon
Then, as I was on my way to the Shell for my morning energy drink, I was accosted by a young black guy, who was wearing a camoflage type of jacket.
I had seen him before, and he is in fact the same guy who punched me one night, when I was holding his cellphone as collateral for 10 bucks, which my friend Thomas had let him hold.
He began to claim that he had dropped a bag of "weed," in the park, claiming that I was the only person around at the time, and that I must have picked it up.
I told him that, no, I hadn't found a bag of pot under the bench in the park, where he was sitting. He persisted in repeating the question, acting as if he was becoming more angry, and accusing me of lying.I had my guitar on me and I was worried about him trying to harm it, so I picked up my pace towards the Shell. He shadowed me. He did this both literally and figuratively, because the sun was behind us and I could see his shadow, a little behind my own.
He began to accuse me of stealing his pot, and threatened to strike me, regardless of the fact that we were on a semi-busy street in broad daylight.

I watched his shadow for sudden movements and tried to angle my guitar away from him. He eventually struck at me with his foot, trying to knock me to the ground. I looked at him and felt fire in my blood. I didn't want to put my guitar down and retaliate, for fear of of one of his friends running off with it as part of a pre-planned ambush.
I walked the rest of the way to the Shell.
Once there, I stored my pack and guitar in a corner, and then went back outside, intent upon severely beating him.
I didn't have my knife. For the first time since I had gotten it, on the night of the "God hates you," people's appearance, I had forgotten it at the sleeping spot. I had taken it out of my pocket in order to wash my pants, and had noticed the absence of it after I was half way to the Shell, right before spotting the kid in the camoflaged jacket, who is posessed by a demon.