3 Minute Drill

I have 3 minutes
to say that I am back after the Sunday and the Holiday, when this library was closed.
Things are slow here. I made $4.78 in about an hour and a half on Decatur street. Then moved to Bourbon, where I decided, after looking up and down the street, that it wasn't worth it to try for another $4.78 and lose an hour and half of sleep.
Sue was with me. She is back in my life, after running into me and hanging out with me Sunday, and sharing my sleeping bag Sunday night and last night. Howard never heard a thing...
I woke up this morning before Sue. Howard had already gone for his morning newspaper and coffee.
I had a lot of plans for the day. I was going to do my laundry at the Rebuid Center, take a shower, check with them to see if a package being sent "priority" mail would be accepted by them, go to Chartres Street and note the address of Caveman Guru, so that I could use it to obtain a free camera cellphone with 250 free minutes from a place that gives them away like that, but requires that people have valid mailing addresses, check on a place which is like a crash pad for artists and musicians and has a washer/dryer and a shower and places to sleep, go to the phone store to see if they could test my USB cable, which might be the cause of my phone no longer charging, and about 4 other things.
So far, I have gotten the shower, and confirmed that the Rebuild Center will take mail sent "priority."
A trip to the phone store on Canal Street produced the result of the sales staff totally ignoring me, after speaking briefly to each other in some foreign language in a derisive tone, after I walked in. One of them might have been saying to the other "Ignore him."
Not having done my laundry, I noticed the stains on the clothes I was wearing and attributed their attitude to that. I walked out without saying anything to them. It was one of those times that I wish I could have walked out of the Radio Shack, two doors down from them, with my arms laden with expensive merchandise, of the same kind that they sell in the phone/camera/luggage/watch/etc store, where I went to ask them if they could plug a good USB cable into my phone to see if that would solve the problem that it is currently having.
Then, in that particular fantasy, the Radio Shack salesman would say to someone, within earshot of the foreigners, "Some guy just bought twenty grand worth of stuff, cash; I just made my commission for the week, yahoo!!"

Alex from California is sending some guitar strings, bless his heart.
Mary, from Massachusetts emailed me some songs. They were blues songs, like "The Black Keys," and B.B. King and Taj Mahal, for example.
Other than that, the trip out of here is still planned for next week.
I got some good news, but am out of time

9 More Days

Both offenses to take field simultaneously in
Saturday's matchup as part of and NFL "experiment."

It is Saturday Morning,
A Use For Howard
I have found a use for Howard. He gets a computer pass, allotting him his two hours per day on these computers. He gives me his two hours, and then he sits and reads several newspapers, and then novels, which he seems to fly through. I guess it's easy to read fast when you can't hear any distractions.
I can now spend 4 hours per day on the computers, which is a mixed blessing. While I am on the computer, I am not out on the street, putting in the 5 plus hours of playing which I have found necessary in order to maintain a semblance of a life.
These Next Nine Days
These next nine days, leading up to my courtdate, are going to be a test of something; I'm not sure what.
My foodcard is down to under 2 bucks, until 5 a.m., next Wednesday (89 more hours). Howard has offered to lend me money, should I be unable to make any on the street.
Today, the Saints play San Francisco on almost every television in the city, at 3 p.m., or so. Then, the Patriots play Denver at 8 p.m. I would love to watch the games, but that would take time away from playing. I will have to decide what is "more important." Funny how the two teams represent where I am trying to get the hell out of (NOLA), and where the hell I am trying to go (San Francisco).
I've noticed that musicians set up in the mainstream places, knowing that there is another group at the next block, and the next; knowing that they are only going to get one dollar from each person that broke a 20 dollar bill and is carying around the ones, just for the street performers. These musicians just put in the hours and eek out a living, one dollar at a time, banking upon one in every 25 people throwing them something. To me, that is an aweful lot of "rejection" to endure.

One on every block...

I have found that, at my quieter spots, away from that particular rat race, people will still throw one of their dollars, if they encounter me, but I am more likely to have them sit down and talk to me, out of curiosity about my lifestyle, and these people can make up for 20 or 30 of the one dollar throwers on Royal Street.
However...I'm thinking that, during the day, especially today, I might have to sit on Royal Street, the spot "known" for street performers, and feed off of the crumbs that people throw, until I have enough of a pile of them to at least get my laundry done, eat for a few days, buy a pack of smokes, and leave out of here in relative comfort, around the 24th of January.
Hopefully the sleeping spot will last until then. Maybe people feel sorry for Howard, and I guess that creates another "use" for him!
Sometimes I think that relationships are more important than anything else in the grand scheme of things and that all the fame and fortune in the world doesn't even stack up to the treasure stored in heaven when you befriend someone who wants a friend, but has trouble making them, and you look out for that person. Maybe, looking back, it will seem like the best thing that I did while in New Orleans, was help the poor guy out. I think that, sometimes, before shaking myself out of it.
A Letter From Karrie
Karrie sent a letter to my mom's address, which she has been able to keep a record of for more than a year now. She is in a shelter in Atlanta, Georgia. Her mom kicked her out, over something to do with reading lessons for Karrie. It may be that the family is trying to get more money out of her disability check, which they commondere

E-Mail Me Music

I checked my inbox for music this morning. There was none. The mail must be running slow.
Elvis Costello, Beatles, Grateful Dead, Phish, Widespread Panic, Barry Manillow; I don't care.
The Framework Of The System
I have a theoretical 10 more days to "kill" in New Orleans. I don't like those two words in the same sentence.
The issue to resolve in my mind is basically; would there be any difference between going to court, getting fined and then never paying the fine as opposed to never even showing up for court.
My intuition tells me that failure to even go in front of a judge shows cowardice, a disreguard for the judicial system, an almost daring of the officers to apprehend you, refusal to take responsibility for one's actions, and possibly a "guilty" conscious.
Going to court,  getting fined and then failing to pay, could be ascribed to all sorts of factors coming into play, such as clerical errors and other hardships beyond the control of the poor guy who had taken responsibility for his actions, admitted his guilt and was working within the framework of the system.

The sleeping spot, under the sign which reads Downtown New Orleans Welcomes You! is going to be interpreted as a smartass attempt at sarcasm by an eventual cop, who will not see humor in it.
Last evening a man came out of the apartment building across the street and gave Howard a quilt. "He just walked over and asked me if I wanted a blanket," said Howard.
This was good, in that it shows that no more than everyone except one guy are against us sleeping there, out of all those in the apartment building across the street.

The quilt was bad, in the sense that, as opposed to Philipina, whom I was convinced was not there until I was within feet of her, I could see Howard from the corner of Canal and Basin Streets (both literally and figuratively). It's a nice quilt. It even has some kind of metallic guilding sewn in a brocaded pattern, the kind of material that reflects headlights really well.
Cave Man Guru
I saw caveman guru again. He rode up to me on his bike; a heavy framed Beach Cruiser with one gear. He seemed to be in the same friendly spirits and once again invited me to visit, shower, crash, do yoga, meditate upon the feminine Godess, surender myself to her and serve her as a dog, and stuff.
This morning, when I was flexing my knees and stretching out my muscles, I wondered if I may have been hearing the call of the Cave Man Guru....come stretch and breath and connect with yourself by relinquishing yourself....

Philipina

I play right down the street (about as far as you can see
on the sidewalk ahead's horizon) from this historic,
famous and probably a little "overpriced" place
on Bourbon Street.

• I Get Another Ticket On Canal Street (exodus postponed 11 days)
• I run into "Sue" (Philipina) this morning, who said more than she had done the previous two times (all within the past 3 days) that I had run into her.

I hadn't seen Sue, whose name I found out was actually Philipina, after we both had to go to court together (See November 20th or so), in weeks.
But, I've seen her one time upon each of the past three days.
The first time, she walked past at a distance of about 36 feet (12 yards), and didn't turn her head towards me, as if she never saw me. My opinion on the diminutive Colombian lady, who uses an assumed name, is that she would almost have certainly had to have seen me because, in her heightened state awareness, engendered by her being an 89 pound lady, I am pretty sure she sees everything in her surroundings, at all times.
The second time I saw her was on Royal Street when she had a tired look in her eyes. We both mouthed words inaudibly at that passing, and then continued walking on. I mouthed "Hello, Philipina," which I intended as a way to remind her that I knew her real name, and that I had her figured out in general and had concluded that she is poison to me.

I never even noticed you walk by, Daniel...

I couldnt' read her lips.
This morning on Canal Street, she was there, right in front of me, wearing her red and white knit hat which always makes me think of Santa Clause.
She was facing away from me, but I was pretty sure (see above) that she knew that I was standing behind her.
She was applying a simple test. I will call it the "See if he really wants me enough to approach me and initiate a conversation" test.
Anyways, we talked; for a while. She reiterated things that she had reiterated two months ago, the last time I had talked to her. She asked me how I had been, as if she might care.
She mentioned the fact that some of my hair had been removed. I told her about the terrible knot which I had gotten, which needed to be cut out with scissors by the nuns at the Rebuild Center, in my hair.
I felt like she was, by focusing upon a physical thing such as my hair; perhaps trying to steer the ball into her own court, so to speak, and use the power of flirting, perhaps.
I will again say that, I think Philipina was an amazingly beautiful young girl once, and is now a pretty hot 50 year old, (assuming those terms arent' mutually exclusive). I imagined that if I commented upon one of her physical aspects (like her hair) it would be taken as an expression of interest in her physically.
I had decided a while back that Sue, I mean Philipina is poison to me, in a relationship. And I mean "poison" in, you know, a good way. I just looked at the results that I was getting in my life, when I was trying to include Sue, I mean Philipina, in my life and I concluded that it wasn't worth it. 
I ran into Sue, I mean Philipina today for the third time in three days, and that probably means that she had planned it to be so. I find a woman who can orchestrate things that fluently very attractive in general, but I will have to make an exception when it comes to Sue, I mean Philipina, because I think she is "poison," to me.
She seemed even shorter than usual, maybe because of the way we were standing on the sidewalk.
Another Ticket
I got another ticket on Canal Street, from the same officer as before, but on the opposite side of the street, last night.
Things are slow now that all the big football games are over, and I guess the cops are trawling for some of the scraps which fell to the bottom of the sea, after the feeding frenzy of the nationally televised football games, had subsided.
The cop gave me the thing, acting like he didn't recognize me from the last ticket, (which was dismissed) and saying the same thing as before; as if by rote.
I have a court date just about 10 days from now, January 23rd, as a matter of fact.
I think I will tell them the truth, that I was planning upon leaving the very next day, since the big football games were over, and that I had just sat down to play there, because I had drunk so much Samuel Adams Noble Pils, that I was just ready to jam.
Fine With Me


This is how you recoup losses!

 I will ask them to fine me 100 bucks. I'll tell the guy (the DA) that if I ever think that I want to come back to New Orleans, then I will mail the money ahead of me.
If I ever come back to New Orleans, I will mainly have to worry about the orangutan ordinances, but not so much with safeguarding my cash.
So, I might just stick around until the 23rd, and try to dispose of this second ticket, hoping that the DA will take me at me word. I did tell him, the last time, that I wanted to stay here through the BCS national championship game, (which I will always remember for the botched punt in the second quarter and the college girl that I made out with on the sidewalk during the first quarter) and then would leave. This egregious offense took place two nights after the game. I will ask for the fine, in return for pleading guilty. They will respect the amount of 100 dollars and everything that it stands for, to us all, and they will dare me to leave New Orleans and then come up with a means of buying safe passage back, somehow.
There might even be a line on me at the casino. 5:2 say's we ain't never gonna see the skinny guitar guy with the pony tail again...
So, that is where it stands on this Thursday night.

I should have been grilling fish here yesterday...

The Anti-Moth
Howard is now sleeping next to me at the sign spot. The library, along with putting up "no loitering" signs, added many more lumen of light to the porch at night. Those who still sleeping there, are lit up light jewels in a glass case (without the beauty and the value, maybe). I walked by and had to laugh out loud. I was getting a really good look at those murky shadow figures that I had been sleeping by for a couple weeks. They looked pathetic. Howard doesn't like a lot of light when he sleeps. He is the anti-moth, I guess.
Sue, I mean Philipina asked me where I have been "staying." I guess staying means "sleeping," and I am not even going to go there. I told her where I had been sleeping.
The money has been going "backwards," the past couple days, meaning I am waking up with less each consequetive morning. The matter of staying here another 11 days is a thorn in my side, but, it may give me time to plan the coming trip more throughly.

Window Dressing Busking

I will return to New Orleans better prepared...

Yesterday's post was dumped
by the computer, as I had not paid enough attention to the clock in the corner of the screen.
It was mostly about the experience of the national championship game at the Superdome.
I found an almost entire bottle of whiskey, after playing for the incoming people and making about 12 bucks, saving me about 12 bucks.
I then helped a young woman in LSU garb up from the sidewalk where she had landed, after the heel of her boot found one of the many cracks in New Orleans. I pulled her up by the hand, and then in the spirit of free whiskey, I found myself kissing her neck and nibbling on her ears, and herself holding me tighter and us making out on the sidewalk by the fenced in area where the large screen TV's were showing her team losing in the first quarter. I found it very enjoyable. I looked her in the eye a couple of times and all I saw was that it would be OK for me to continue. Eventually, I realised that our relationship probably had to come to an end and we kissed goodbye.
Then, basically, I chose not to play outside the stadium and not be heard. The majority of the people were their to see their team lose the game. The Alabama people could have made up for it in generosity, but I just wasn't in the mood for doing that style of busking, which I haven't coined a term for, but which involves trading in the visual of yourself playing, and most of the tips come with comments like "I can't really hear you, but..." or "Sounds good; what I can hear..."
I think I will call it "Window Dressing" busking...
I got so much more satisfaction in Saint Augustine, playing Brittany Spears songs in front of her wax likeness in the window of the museum, with a sign that said "Her the hits and see the t**s that made her a star.." It was "Ooops, I've done it again," and "Hit Me Baby, One More Time" over and over, but...still more satisfying than window dressing busking.

Or the time I rigged up coffee cans with colored cellophane and light bulbs, and a foot switch, and billed myself as a Pink Floyd Laser Light Show, and "freaked out" the tourists.
I have already said that the real money is either in demonstrating unusual exotic instruments; playing more than one -preferably more than three- instuments at the same time; playing more than one unusual exotic instrument at the same time; having a trained animal working for you; or being a pretty Chinese violinist.
On Leaving New Orleans
Howard wants to go with me, as far as "Texas," as he put it. He didn't say which part of Texas, but, if I wind up in San Antonio, it will be the first time since I was 19 years old. There is a photography studio there, where I had portraits made at that age. They told me that the negatives would remain on file and always be available to me, even 30 years later.

San Antonio may be on the horizon...

We are probably going to try to get a train tomorrow. I have been cautioned about the danger of going cross country on the rails, by some. I think I can get to Texas without incident. I think the position of the city with regards to the railroad would be "get 'em out of here!"
Tonight, I will talk to as many hobos as it takes me to get a consensus on how to hop a train out of here.
I've got about 30 pounds of stuff. I will put new strings on the guitar tonight.

The "Lost Post" of Yesterday

Alabama beat LSU last night, 21-0.
I played for a while before the game, but it was for people who could see me but not hear me, and I soon tired of that.
I then went to Rouse's Market to get a Paulaner Double Bock, and it was on my way there that I saw a girl stumble and fall on the sidewalk.
Nobody seemed to rush to her aid, perhaps because of the colors that she was wearing.
I went and offered her a hand, pulled her up and then found myself hugging her.
I kissed her on the neck and nibbled on her ears while telling her that she was in the prime of her life and unbelievably beautiful. She returned my affection and we were making out on the sidewalk, myself and an LSU college student, before I realised that it was probably just going to lead to heartbreak...

Charging Ahead

Over The River And Through The Hoods

I am charging
my mp3 player now. Soon, I will check my e-mail to see if anyone sent music.
Wish List: Grateful Dead, Elvis Costello, Phish, Widespread Panic, Beatles, Joe Satriani...
I will be charging ahead with my plans to leave here soon.
On Leaving New Orleans
I have been able to put things into perspective this past week in New Orleans.
The "busking" situation is this:
There are people making $1,000 per day, on the same day that others might make $100, if they were to work the same hours.
Tanya and Dorise have houses and cars. They could decided to fly to Melbourne, Australia, for example, tomorrow, take a cab from the airport to a certain area, set up and make up to 1,000 gellamos (the Australian currency, I think), enjoy the rest of the week sightseeing, and then fly back to New Orleans and sleep in their own beds. I hung out for about 45 minutes last night, in which at least 100 bucks went into their basket(s). I think they use two baskets as a ploy to remind people that they have to split the money. One lady wanted all 4 of their CDs. She asked for a discount. Dorise told her "$45; that's getting one for free," and with that, an amount equal to my whole nights take went into one of the baskets, where it rested upon a 6 inch thick bed of paper money with Jackson and Hamilton and Lincoln peeking at you, everywhere you look.

Someone waits for them to both look at their strings
before snatching a CD...

Doreen and family are in the same bracket.
Like An Instrument
Some of the bands that play things like washtub bass, washing board rhythm, banjo, fiddle and guitar, and sing about travelling, dressed like travellers, come in a not too distant second to the "big two," but they have to divide their tips amongst up to 10 people, with mandolins thrown in. They are cashing in on the "exotic instrument" bonus...ain't never seen no one standin' up on a upside down washtub with a string attached to it, playing it like an instrument...
At Least, An Amp
Then, there is a slew of "one guy with an amp"s.
These are people who may have tried to add a second musician and for reasons ranging from, "I don't know any of the stuff he knows, and vice-verse" to the more practical "We make about 50 bucks a night together, but I usually make about 30 to 35 by myself."


Poor Grandpa Elliot. Now it's these guys putting him
"out of business."

 He sounds good and knows a lot of "classic rock," but he doesn't sing, minus 35 points... There is something pedestrian about a distorted electric guitar, too. People don't have to come all the way to New Orleans to hear one, as some do for the clarinetists or trombone players.
Another one, the guy who plays classical and Celtic music on a nylon string guitar, seemed to be keeping pace with the minimum wage being earned by the 99%, though, he has told me that he (and J.S. Bach, the "father of modern music") has had "two dollar" days. If you look at the balance sheet of a music store, you might find the amount spent on classical music verses other kinds, to fall in line with the above figures.
Yet another guy, the older heavyset guy with the cowboy hat, who plays a lot of Bob Dylan, but does it in his own older, heavyset way, was in grand spirits. He must have connected on some level with a tourist, and gotten rewarded at the fiscal level.
The Wild Card
The above is an example of the "wild card" which is out there for all of the performers. You always want to play the song that the couple walking by just then, made love to their first time. With practice, you will be able to look at a couple and determine what that song is.
The older, heavyset guy had the wild card fall upon him yesterday.
The rest of the 99% of street musicians did not and will be lucky to be able to keep new strings on their instruments, batteries in their amps and come up with some kind of roof to put over their heads.
It is also more trying to sit out for the same span of time as a "Tanya and Dorise" will do, while making minimum wage. It is easier to notice that, after your first 2 hours set, you have made over 500 bucks, and decide "Let's keep going..."
There is also an endurance factor involved. "You have to gradually build up," said Dorise to me yesterday, alluding to the fact that a musician might only be able to go "full tilt boogie" for 3 hours per day when first starting out as a street musician, due to blisters, and the psychological enigma of having to repeat one's "best " material over and over, at intervals, which ushers in boredom to take its place amongst the other obstacles. You run the risk of becoming tired of your favorite activity.

"You have to gradually work on your raggedy stuff, in between your best stuff and work it into your set," added Dorise.
Leaving New Orleans will feel like being sent back to the minors, in a sense. Kind of like "The kid had some good stuff, but he just wasn't quite ready for the majors" type of thing. There is a resolve to come back here and attempt it again, like those guys that just won't let Mount Everest rest. "If you quit New Orleans, you'll be a quitter the rest of your life, son..."
If I come back here, it will have to be with a portable amplifier, microphone and other little battery operated things like a cheap mixer to blend guitar and voice before amplification; a pre-amp, I think they call them, in tow.
I will never be a pretty Chinese girl (alas), even if I put my mind to it, and even if I were to take up the violin and try to bring my skills on that most revered, admired and tipped instrument, up to Tanya's level, It would hard to even match her money wise; short of me finding an orangutan that can keep a steady beat on a drum.
I'm not going to stand on a washtub and make a complete jackass of myself either (just kidding, washtub girl, if you're reading...)
So, that is what I took away from the past week.
Yesterday, the streets were packed with people from LSU and Alabama. So many people were about, that the base noise level was higher. There was a doo wop group, standing in the middle of Royal Street, without microphones, and you had to move to within 12 feet of them to really hear them.
Tanya and Dorise were a couple blocks down from Rouse's Market, where Doreen was.
They were fine where they were, with their two amplifiers and their fully charged batteries.
The rest of the performers were off on the side streets, eating the crumbs which fell off of the Royal Street table, by trying to get a dollar from every 200th person or so; like telemarketers and their "numbers game."
Howard, You Decide?
There is the matter of travelling with or without Howard. I see no reason for him to want to leave here, except that it is a lurid, seedy, filthy, dangerous place with temptations equal to the lucre. I will talk to him soon.
Since talking to him is so difficult, I don't even know where he is from and how he got here, nor even how old he is. He looks around 71...

Taking Inventory

The Instant Coffee

Where the parcel originated from

The instant coffee which the Lidgleys sent from London is; keeping alive a streak; excellent.
"Instant coffee" isn't "instant coffee," otherwise everyone would just get the cheap stuff from Save-A-Lot.
Last year, they sent Nescafe Classico instant, which made an excellent cup, and which required less of itself to do so. This year it is excellent, but I forget the brand.
I'm going to have some now.....
My thanks to the Lidgleys, if they see this before I get a chance to catch up on my mail...
Combined with the little stove which Alex from California sent and which runs off of "Yellow Heat," which is some kind of inflamatory which burns "clean," the instant coffe is a powerful assett, which will save me money on $3.19 Starbucks drinks, while not robbing me of the flavor and "coffee satisfaction," of that product.
And at those times when I can't use the stove, like in an airport which might have rules against open flames,  I can bring the giftcard to Starbucks itself.
Plus there is the priceless bonus of being able to walk into the hotels which are dying to be swank and exclusive but are saddled with the presence of a Starbucks cafe which is open to "the public," and patronise that cafe, sitting for a good while sipping and reading the New York Times and USA Today's which people leave behind....

They also sent three shirts, one of them almost a tye-dye, another the exact kind of shirt that the clean guy would wear (in fact, the other night, when I didn't see him there and I was wearing the shirt, with the third shirt -a long sleeved denim button up one- I was tempted to jump up on the spot and do a clean guy routine (think Bill Murray's lounge singing character; those old enough to remember that...)
Cigarettes were included; Benson & Hedges, which blow away American cigarettes like Marlboro, like a puff of smoke. An amount of cash, also, which gave me the freedom to do whatever the heck I wanted to, that next day, which turned out to be what I usually do, and all in all it was a well thought out parcel. They must have done their homework and read this blog, so uncannily apt were some of the things.
Not My Color
I went to take a shower at Rebuild yesterday morning, and saw Howard arrive to do the same, apparently planning to change back into the clothes that he has been wearing for the past month.
I gave him a couple of my shirts, now that I have 3 new ones. One which I gave him was the black and white checkered flannel one, which a lady had given me outside a church on a cold day. I had a couple bad sets tip-wise, wearing that shirt, and decided that black and white just wasn't my color.
I slept until 11 a.m. this morning,
at the "sign" spot. I needed the rest.
The poor souls at the library patio have to be up and out by 8 a.m., as there have been posted "no loitering" signs there, by the library staff.
They still loiter, asleep. I wouldn't sleep as soundly as possible, knowing that the posted signs give the cops carte blanche, if they ever need a dozen or so inmates, or if the Mayor say's, "Some of the NFL executives are going to have to stay at the Holiday Inn, across the street from the library, because there are so many people in town for the college games; could you guy's get the bums off the patio...?"

I look forward to having a covert dwelling, out in nature, where I can feed birds by day and possums will be welcome to approach my fire pit with their eyes glowing orange at night and feed off scraps from my grill, which will be laden with roasted fish that I caught that morning, out of the stream which runs by my camp which I have dammed up to form a bathtub, also.
Lions and Saints
The big news of the day, (for a street musician) is that, at 7 p.m. tonight, there will be a big-time NFL playoff game at the Superdome which, hopefully, will be attended by only those wealthy enough to purchase a playoff ticket, and who are patrons of The Arts.
The MP3 Player
I have lost a lot of music off of the MP3 player, after a mishap while trying to synch the device to the computer here at the library. It gets really "technical," the nature of what happened, but the result is, IF ANYONE CAN E-MAIL ME MUSIC AS ATTACHMENTS, I WILL APPRECIATE IT, AND FEEL FREE TO SEND MUSIC THAT IS NOT WIDELY POPULAR.
The Cell Phone
My phone isn't charging up as much as it used to, during an hour or two session on the computer here.
It might be related to the frayed cable, maybe the wire which carries the charging current isn't always connected...
My Glasses
One of the "arms?" has fallen off of my eye glasses. I can still wear them, as one arm is enough to keep them on my head. New Orleans just appears slightly tilted now. I think that the screw which holds the arm in place, unscrewed itself over time (the same time period that I was "screwing" myself, maybe) and that is the only problem with them. The real problem is getting to Wal-Mart and dealing with the situation at their Vision-Mart.
The Future
There is a playoff game tonight, another game Monday night, and then there is nothing keeping me here except a morbid fascination with impending doom.

Acarlo!

Last night was Thursday night,
The tourists, in town for the football games, seem to have had run out of steam last night.
The playoff "seeding," which conspired to have the Detroit Lions coming here, maybe somewhat unexpectedly, to the Superdome on Saturday, added yet another diversion for the amusement of those who came here for the Sugar Bowl, and are staying for the BCS championship game, this coming Tuesday.
There were very few people out. I saw several musicians calling it an early night and packing up, while I was still on my way out to play. I decided to just sit and practice some stuff. I got a few bucks thrown to me.
I went back to retrieve my sleeping bag from a spot nearby the library.
The patio was packed "like sardines" with people and their beddings.
Howard had reserved a spot for me, I could see, in between himself and the front edge of the marble floor, about the size of a coffin, I thought. I decided to leave there and sleep at the sign spot, which I did.
Howard came by and dropped off the sports section of the day's paper, at about 6:30 a.m., as he has been doing, since I moved my sleeping spot.
Rainbow Children Rain Blows
This morning, he told me about a fight which had broken out last night. I wasn't surprised to hear about it, given the fact that it was a slow night for bums too, not just musicians.
I didn't hear what the fight started over, because Howard didn't hear what the fight started over. I'm sure that it was related to the economy. These "Rainbow Children," "hobos," or "travelling kids," whatever one wants to call them, are self governed by the principle that everything is community property. I call it a "pass the bottle" society.
They pool together whatever they were collectively able to beg on a particular day, and then buy as much liquor as that will afford. Every cigarette lit, gets passed around. Anyone who has a guitar and won't let someone else play it, for example, is just not in the rainbow spirit and is to be an object of their resentment, and stolen from if possible, because they have no right to covet what God has provided as a blessing to the whole rainbow family.
Their dynamic would be a lot more palettable, were they to follow principles of Christian morality and/or wouldn't be ready to fight anyone who wasn't willing to pass around whatever they have, causing them to wake up flat broke the next morning, like "everyone else." What I see are a bunch of lazy derelicts, who love the idea of "sharing" because they rarely have anything to share, and wind up sharing the fruit of somebody else.
A Made Man

Give my little guitar playing buddy
a break on his coffee.

I decided to go to Starbucks to use the giftcard, which came in the parcel which the Lidgleys sent from London. The parcel took only 10 days this time to arrive.
I wanted to see what the balance was on the card, plus, I wanted to spare my food card from another charge of $3.19 for a Starbucks drink from Walgreens.
I was tempted to go into the Starbucks inside The Marriott. Their security people are always on the alert for loiterers. They seem to derive a smug satisfaction from saying: "If you're not going to purchase anything, then, you'll have to leave," with barely supressed grins.
I decided to walk an extra half mile to the Westin, where the coffee isn't nearly as expensive, because the either are or aren't a "franchise store," I forget which.
The barrister, a large black lady, who resembles Doreen, the clarinetist, made up my coffee and then waved away my proferred giftcard, saying: "Don't worry about it; I like your music."
Ever since the night that I played funky guitar for Doreen and her band, when they were breaking down and packing up, I have noticed a difference in the way I have been treated by various people. The night after that, the young black guy who works security at Rouse's Market, in front of which they play, greeted me with a friendliness, which I hadn't seen before from him.
At The Unique Grocery, the employees have taken to calling me "Acarlo," which I think means; "next in line to succeed Doreen's present guitarist."
Doreen probably has a lot of clout in the city, because she has been one of its main attractions for umpteen years. She is probably "connected," if you know what I mean...

...and put some caramel syrup in it if he wants; kapeesh?

Hard Of Smelling
As the time of my departure from New Orleans nears, I need to talk to Howard.
I don't want the day to come when I pack up in the morning and tell him: "Well, I'm off to try to hop a westbound train. Good luck, Howard. Maybe I'll see you if I come back for Mardi Gras." and then have him say:
"Well, wait a minute, I'll come with you."
There is a benefit to having a friend come along, but it can be negated by other factors.
Should I get to a point where I have a chance to hitch hike a ride, it will be harder to find someone willing, or having the room to, cart two people, and their luggage.
Secondly, Howard has been wearing the same clothes since we were in Mobile, which was at least around a month ago.
He had left his extra clothes in a bag outside the library one day. I remember hearing the announcement come over the libraries PA, asking someone to "please remove the bags" which were left in front of the library. It didn't occur to me, at that time, that they might be Howard's, but it should have -the way he just leaves stuff laying around after he's done with it- and Howard didn't hear the announcement. That is how he lost his clothes about a month ago.
I was going to go to the Goodwill this morning and buy another pair of pants. He was going to go with me. I changed my plans, after I washed a pair of jeans in the shower at the Rebuild Center, and put them on wet. They were drying fine in the sun this morning.
Howard cancelled his plans to get a new pair of pants, because I wasn't going, I assume...
If he were to get into the closed confines of the cab of a car, with a good Samaritan, the person, after rolling down his window all the way and lighting a cigarette perhaps, to no avail, might just stop the vehicle and say "I'm sorry, I just can't do this. My wife will kill me if I bring the car home smelling at all like that..."
Howard is hard of smelling.

The Troll (appended a bit)

Last night was Wednesday night,
and there was no bowl game at the Superdome, but, there is going to be an NFL playoff game, between the Saints and the Lions, (oh, my!)

Tanya and Dorise, experimenting with
a different playing spot than their usual
one on Royal Street.

On Saturday, just 4 days after the Sugar Bowl, and 3 days before the BCS championship game, between Alabama, and LSU.
Geek Speak
[[I need to put in a little aside here. Once, I was accused of being a "troll," by some guy in California, who was on a team of online people that volunteered their time, I guess, to help people who's blogs had been deleted by Google, I guess. The reason that the "troll flag" went up, I think, is because I mention a lot of things at times which are the hottest search terms in the nation, like "Alabama," and "LSU." See, I did it again! But, anyways, there you go, Alabama vs. LSU at the Superdome, and my blog being hit upon by souls everywhere who are interested in that football game and haven't read the help screen about blocking irrelevant results out of the search...]]
The Shaman Guy, But First, The Clean Guy

I left the library and walked a common path, towards the Quarter and its The Unique Grocery store.
I saw the clean guy, John B.
He wasn't looking too happy. I wasn't in the mood for stopping to talk. I raised my hand in greeting, but slowed not my pace as I passed him. He returned my greeting and didn't ask me to stop. I made the excuse that I was dying to get to The Unique Grocery, to get a beer; an excuse that any man must honor.
I think he may have thought that I had snubbed him on his offerings to collaberate. I have not.
I am just procrastinating in getting around to starting a singing group with him and becoming famous. I dally, I really do. I rationalize it to myself with "You can't rush art."
Cave Man Guru
I had my first Samuel Adams in my hand, and was walking down Royal Street, trying to see who might be out playing. I got to a certain spot where there was a guy sitting on the granite steps in front of a statue.
He accosted me. My first impression being that he was some kind of bum. He told me that he, too was a musician. Then, where's your instrument, Suspicious Man?
He told me that he did "tribal music," played a percussion instrument, was a Shaman from  a region of the Amazon where there was no country rendered on "the map," but where his country was, where his father was the king.
He had spent 36 months, or so, meditating in the cave and sleeping in a hammock.
He was in this country to spread the spirit of the feminine divinity, Shiva, and for that purpose alone.
He needed a guitar player, he added, to add guitar to what he described as "tribal music," as I have said, and as being simple "really simple." The lyrics were from tribal chants 5,000 years old. He offered to show me his studio. He gave me an example of some of the lyrics, which were in a primitive language and were in praise of the feminine divinity, Shiva, by singing some of them. To me, it sounded like pretty generic chanting. He certainly didn't turn any heads along the way to Chartres Street with his 5,000 year old ditties.

He got me to at least walk with him, to see where his studio was located.
I resolved, as we walked, to abort my plans to check out his place, if he mentioned the word "feminine," more than a couple additional times. I was questioning the shaman's sexual orientation, and sizing him up physically to assess his chances of pinning me down upon a yoga mat and violating me. 
On the way there, he told me that he made music which was distributed to yoga and (something else, I forget) spas around the nation.
He said that he was a servant of a god the figure of which, I figured, was either "Krisna", or the one that the Hindu's are for, maybe Shiva herself.
His apartment was on the second floor, next to a restaurant.
He showed me where the doorbell was, telling me that if I ever needed a shower and a place to crash, etc. that his place was a "shrine."
Before we arrived at the entrance to his place, we encountered stuff laying on the sidewalk, rug remnants, empty suitcases, to name some. He scooped them up, saying that he had been hoping for just those items, and that the universe had layed them on his doorstep.

I told him that I only had "4 minutes" to check out his place, as I was quite anxious to get out, and half bored with thinking about self actualization.
I helped him by carrying a rug remnant up a long filight of stairs.
I made sure that people saw us enter his place, by striking up short conversations with a doorman or two in the immediate area.
I tried the read the faces of everyone who looked like they worked on that block for expressions that said "Ain't never seen this weirdo here, before," or "Maybe I should tell that fellow to be careful around "'Crazy Caveman Guru,' as he's well earned the right to be called on this block."
I followed him up the stairs and through a "hanging beads" door, into a room, which had evidence of being used for a yoga studio, and a shrine.
Walking in, the first thing I noticed was the very warm, almost sauna-like air that enveloped me. It was like a tropical rainforest.
There was a projector, casting the image of the feminine divinity in a corner of the ceiling. There was a multilayered shelf, laden with small statues and other types of images, made out of crystal and other materials, along with a picture of a man, whom Caveman Guru said was the king. He was shirtless, looked like he was from way up the Amazon, and looked like a king. A shirtless king. Everything in the room was related to the feminine divinity, by either being an oil painting of her, or a statue of her, or a phrase quoted to her on a poster. We stood on a divine rug, surrounded by esoteric items, which all needed to be explained to me.
The computer on a desk seemed to be the only thing not from a rainforest along the Amazon.
I told him that I had a blog. He said that he wanted to see it, because he thought that maybe I would serve Shiva by teaching him how to start his own blog. He said that he didn't know much about technology, having lived in a cave for the past 3 years.
I told him that I once lived in a cave in Phoenix, but that caused him to shake his head with pursed lips, which communicated to me the fact that he didn't think that my little cave dwelling experience stacked up with his at all.
I was having flashbacks of a person I know, but haven't seen in 20 years, who seemed to operate under the assumption that his "cause" was the only one that mattered, and that every other human being was put on earth for his use, in furtering it, if they hold any value as human beings at all. It was his tone of voice which triggered the memory.
Another room contained lots of electronic items, from camcorders to a huge high definition screen, at least 4 feet across. There was a hammock stretched across the center of the room, which he moved, so that he could display the fruits of one of his recording sessions.
The screen showed waves coming towards the viewer and crashing upon rocks in the foreground. It looked like the light brownish waves are being driven by high winds. Each wave could be heard crashing in pretty high definition sound.
"I took this from my cave, in Hawaii," he said.
Apparently the shaman from a place in Venezuela on the Amazon, as he described it, chose Hawaii as a place to escape to and meditate in a cave for 3 years. I don't recall the Amazon River even going into Venezuela, but, maybe his tribe lived on one of its tributaries.
"There's my hammock," he said, as the camera panned to the right to reveal just such a place of repose, stretched between what might have been two coconut trees, if the video was actually shot in Hawaii, or two trees indiginous to Louisianna, if he shot the video down by the Mississippi river for use in luring people into his cult.
He played one of his CDs for me. I thought that one particular percussion instrument was way too loud in the mix, and out of tune. I also thought that it was simple, and that there might be any number of guitarist in the area, capable of comping along with it, and maybe gaining a free room in the process. It didn't inspire me to want to jam along, feminine divinity notwithstanding.
He produced, from another roon, a percussion instrument, long and eliptical and looking like it was made from natural fiber. He didn't play it, though. Never even tapped it.
I offered to show him this blog on his computer. He booted the thing up, but left it hanging on the screen prompting for a password. He never logged on. The mouse; he never even tapped it.
And,  he had moments of becaming rather pushy, I thought.
At one point he told me "Stand up!" He wanted to show me the paintings on the wall behind me, but I wasn't sure I hadn't detected a note of triumph in his voice, after I had complied and stood up.
He kept switching the lights in the room off, and then back on, also.He said strange things. For example, at one point I started to say something. He cut me off and said "We're both going to be silent, and then, when you have something to say, you will say it.I knew I had to call his bluff and reinvoke the "4 minutes" rule, just to see if he would honor it.
Then, it felt like a mind game, where I had to review every thought of mine to determine if it was "worth" saying.

I managed to leave within another 4 minutes, fending off all of his arguments, the prevailing theme of which being, why was I going out to play in the street, hoping someone would throw me some change, when I was passing up a chance to serve the feminine divinity.

I left and went off to play. There were few people out. It is in between football games here, with the Saints ready to play in two days, and the the BCS championship 4 days later...but...
I found this picture (left) of Tanya on the internet.
I just want to let things rest at this point.
The Howard Matter
Still, Howard has made no indication of wheather he intends to travel with me, next week.
I talked to two hobos on Decatur street, who were soon in a drunken argument over where the best place to hop a train out of here headed west would be.