Call Scotlandville Yard!

• Howard Misplaced

• 6 Day "Drought" Ends

• One More For The Road

Last Night, I had a little "scare," after

I Misplaced Howard.
After I left the library, I went to the convenience store, where I was readily allowed to busk in front of the store.
It was very noisy, as the heavy traffic on the street seemed to reflect off of the underside of the sheet metal over the pumps and right at me.
Howard remained at the library for another half hour and then walked up, after I had just begun playing (I had stopped for a few minutes to sip down a beer -behind a building and out of sight, because this in not New Orleans and "the police will give you a ticket," according to someone that I talked to, after I walked up to him with an open beer in my hand out of force of habit after 7 months in New Orleans).
I had a two dollar bill in my case, which I had started with, along with the first money that I have ever made in Scotlandville, Lousiana in the form of some change.
Howard stood for a second, looking at the money in my case. He must have thought that I had been playing for the whole half hour since I had left the library and only made two buck and change.
He left to go take a nap at the spot where his bag was hidden.
I played for about an hour and made about 11 bucks, battling the noise with the harmonica.
One black guy asked me to play some B.B. King.
I don't really know any (which translates into: I don't know the words to any of his songs past "They call it stormy Monday, and Tuesday's just as bad..." of course I know the 3 chords) so I played The Sesame Street song and blues-ed it up. I got a buck off one of his friends, via him.
A Little Annoyance
Then, Howard and I walked down to a truck stop which I had found on Google Maps to be located right down the street from us, about a half mile.
I felt blessed to have found the three key ingredients that I was looking for, a McDonalds, a library and a truck stop all in one convenient location. When I saw that the train tracks ran right by the truck stop, which was called the "Mr. Lucky S" truck stop, I thought that we had really "lucked" out.
Arriving at the truck stop, though, I was informed that I really needed to be on the other side of the Mississippi River, in West Baton Rouge, in order to get a ride to Texas, due to the way the roads were laid out. I guess every driver who stops at the Mr. Lucky S, is headed the opposite way.
I then thought about asking people in pickup trucks to transport Howard and I across the river.
Then Howard said "I'm tired; I'm going to go lay down," and off he went, after I suggested that he at least do so by the railroad tracks, in case a train stops in front of us in the middle of the night with an empty boxcars door gaping open at us.
I had "no choice" but to follow him. I couldn't just leave him behind (despite the little demon that was hovering over my left shoulder telling to to do just that).
Then a train stopped about a half mile down the tracks, its headlight winking at me and glimmering off the tracks.
Had I been alone, I would have at least walked down there to investigate, maybe talked to the conductor who might have said "I'm going to San Antonio, there's an empty car about 12 back, do you need some water?" which isn't out of the realm of possibility (its the rail police that you have to worry about, the crew members are your friends...).
But, I wasn't alone. I had a friend whose walking speed would double the time it would take to go and investigate, and who was already snoring.
I started to get a little annoyed and to kick myself for taking the guy along with me.
I decided to take a long walk and do some soul searching.
I left my backpack with Howard and took my guitar along after putting the harmonica in the case. I knew that my long walk would take me past the convenience store, and I might wind up busking some more, especially if encouraged by the owners.
I was gone about an hour.
When I got back to where I had left Howard and my backpack, there was nothing there, no Howard, no backpack with all my worldly posessions in it. Vanished! Kaput! No trace of them!
I knew that I had the right spot because I recognized the ant hill ("You might not want to lay down right there, Howard") that he had started to throw his blanket on top of before I suggested that he move a few feet over.
Then, I was more than a little annoyed. I was kicking myself and yelling out loud "I should have NEVER took him along!"
I wasn't sure what to make of it. I knew that the odds of him moving after he had fallen asleep were slim. I figured that some other agent was involved in moving him. Could we have chosen to lie down on the property of some top-secret, highly classified Federal building (disguised as a stockyard full of cows)?
Had the cops come along and questioned Howard, and became highly suspicious after Howard said "This isn't my backpack, its my friends, he's not here, he took a walk?" ...denying ownership of the bag, eh? ...can't wait to search it thoroughly at the jail...
Mystery Not As Great As Problem
The mystery wasn't as great as the problem, though.
The problem was, I now had nothing but the clothes on my back, which were going to be of little help on a night forecast to be 45 degrees. I thanked God that I had taken my guitar along, and stuffed the harp in the case.
...Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be...maybe I'm supposed to start with nothing but a guitar and harp and one set of clothes and 25 dollars and nothing else and find my way to California, using only my musical skills....is this the time to call my mother in tears and beg her to wire money because I'm stranded in Scotlandville, Louisiana?
I did what I always do in those situations. I prayed.
I re-thanked God for leaving me the guitar and the harmonica, and for having given me a place where I can play; all night if I want to.

I am inside here, right now, typing away...

I was approaching this library. Something told me to go around to the back of it. I did.
There was a loud racket coming from a huge heating and cooling type of unit, which had a barbed-wire fence around it. It was chained shut with a padlock. I could notice a difference in temperature when I was standing next to the fence, which was only about 10 feet high. There was heat coming off of the unit. The barbed wire was the flimsy kind with two links twisted together at the top.
I decided that if I could put one foot on the chain and padlock, I would be able to get over the fence without ripping my wrist open and requiring 7 stitches, like I did when I was 7 years old (the scar left was in the shape of the number 7, too, but I digress). I was freezing my ass off already and it was only 10:30 p.m.
I put my foot on the chain and the padlock and started to put my weight on it. The lock popped open and the chain released and hung there, swinging. It hadn't been locked, only rigged up to look like it was locked, maybe by a lazy guy who hates having to carry keys around.
I went inside the enclosure and walked around the unit. It was quite sophisticated with boxes and pipes and valves and hoses and even electrical wiring. Atop it were grates covering fans facing skyward. Following the heat source, I found two pipes about 9 inches in diameter and set about 5 feet apart to be almost too hot to hold my hand on...almost.
I crawled under the unit and managed to position myself so that one hot pipe fit the back of my hoodie-covered neck, and the other hot pipe was right where I could wedge one foot under it, so that it lay across my instep, and the other foot over it, so that my Achilles heel rested atop it. The middle of my body was cold at first, but, I could actually feel my blood warming up with each circulation past my neck and through my brain and then back down through my feet. Thank you, Jesus...
I woke this morning around sunup, still hugging the pipes and comfortable.
Thank You, Howard
I was planning upon flagging a police officer down to ask them if they happened to have scooped up any 67 year old men from any cow pastures the previous night, but, I had to use a restroom first.
I went to the Jack-In-The-Box, and there was Howard, scoffing down a sausage biscuit and a cup of coffee and reading the sports page, like he has been doing every morning since I met him.
"Yeah, the bugs got to be a little annoying, so I moved. I didn't want to just leave your bag there, so I took it with me and hid it real good in the bushes"
It was still there. I have all my stuff back. The End.
Epilogue: "Losing" all my stuff allowed me to really take inventory of everything I have and I think I appreciate it more now. Thank you, Howard...

The Sunrose In Baton Rouge

Howard and I got to Baton Rouge, about 2 hours before sundown, yesterday...
Finding a place to sleep was the priority. This was complicated by the fact that, like the typical bus terminal, theirs was located right in the heart of the downtown, urban, "crack-town" ghetto. No surprise, there.
Howard was like a fish out of water.
It was up to me to read the signs, both literally and figuratively, to figure out where we were, get ourselves rested, fed and on a train out of here by tonight.
The bus terminal was where 22nd street crossed. I knew that the descending numbers would lead to the "center" of downtown, probably named Main Street, or Center Street, or Huey P. Long Blvd, since he seems to be a legend here, whomever he is...
We walked in the direction of the ascending numbers, ran into a couple guys, whom I grilled for information.
My plan was to go to the bus terminal, first thing in the morning and check their map for the locations of libraries, such as this one.
I need to abandon this blog and find the railyard, or maybe a truck stop, so that we might be out of here shortly.
We stopped at a convenience store by this library, run by perhaps Syrians, or Hungarians, or something.
They asked me where we were coming from.
I told him "New Orleans," then, since I was holding my guitar, added "I play on Bourbon Street; but I need a vacation from it."
One of the two, behind the bullet-resistant glass said "You should sit in front of store, maybe make money playing!"
I have gotten this reaction in the past from store owners from countries where busking is considered to be an enhancement to the atmosphere of their business; quite the opposite of panhandling, and thier attitude is "Look, we even have entertainment for you, while you pump our middle eastern product into your tank!"
I had almost forgotten that aspect of busking. The last time it happened it was a Morrocan lady at a Kangaroo station in Jacksonville, who would almost command me to get out there in front of the store and make some money (what are you waiting for?). That produced around 75 bucks in about 4 hours on a typical night, as I recall.
Eventually, of course, someone "higher up" than the Morrocan lady put an immediate stop to it.
If some car jumped the curb and hit me while I was playing, I could sue Kangaroo.
If Kangaroo was robbed and I was hit by a stray bullet while playing, I could sue Kangaroo.
If people throw a few bucks in my hat, then they will have a few bucks less to spend in the Kangaroo (like anyone is going to not buy their cigarettes and beer, but rather throw the money to a busker and then go home and "jones" all night, give me a break...)
The downside was too large for Kangaroo, despite the fact that I was running in the store in between sets to spend my tips in there, on my own cigarettes and beer...but
The Syrians, or Albanians, or Croatians probably own the store outright and can do whatever they want, so, after this computer boots me off in 21 minutes, after my (only) one hour on it, I will go and see if I can busk in front of the Sunrose convenience store (no, I don't think it's a misprint of Sunrise; it's Sunrose...it's a Syrian thing, you wouldn't understand....)
Howard is in a daze.
When we walked past a yard that had dozens of city buses, all parked in parallel, he actually asked "Is that the bus terminal?"
When our bus pulled in this morning to take us here, with a huge LCD display atop the front window which said "10 Scotlandville" in large, red letters, and I started to pick up my pack and guitar, he asked "Are you going to go back and sit inside to wait?"
I said: "Look that way, Howard, do you see anything of note?"
"Oh, is that our bus?"
"Didn't I just tell you that we were waiting on the number 10 Scotlandville, which was supposed to be here in 10 minutes, 10 minutes ago?!?"
I may have underestimated the degree of disorientation that the guy labors under, or have forgotten how it was when he was following me around Mobile, like a lost soul. But, he's a nice guy and his company is some measure of compensation for the inane questions, which make me roll my eyes...
I need to find a map and get going. I paid 4 bucks for an all-day bus pass, ostensibly to get from here, back to the terminal (after busking and hopefully paying for all of todays expenses) and then out to a railyard or truck stop....

Howard And Hotard

The Weather is in the news.New Orleans continues to throw everything but the kitchen sink at me, in its tantrum over my choosing to leave it...but...let's go back 24 hours and catch up on the details, shall we?

We would like to get there before dark...

Reunited
After having gotten off the bus in front of the library and blogging yesterday's post, I went to the sign spot, to find none other than Howard, under the holly trees, which were fending off about half of the drizzle which fell from the New Orleans sky.
Ok, Now let's go back 24 hours, then catch up...
After I had gotten out of the Jefferson Parish Jail, yesterday morning around 10 a.m., in Gretna, LA., and started to walk around aimlessly trying to get my bearings and finding first, a "Veitnamese" convenience store with energy drinks and some strange looking food items (I'm a dog lover; I don't want to know...) but no maps nor directions, I kept walking aimlessly.
There was a very stiff and erratic breeze which turned my guitar in case into something like a sail, threatening to blow me down (like Popeye) with each 45 mph. gust.
I was walking into the teeth of it.
Finding someone, finally, who was able to direct me to the nearest bus stop, and figuring at that time, that my best bet was to return to New Orleans to regroup and to try once again to leave it, I bent my steps in that direction.
Now, of a sudden, the breeze was blowing me from behind.
I stumbled along being pushed violently from behind, reminiscent of the railroad cop shoving me towards his cruiser, before he transported me 15 miles in the direction of the same city. I felt like I could just stop struggling and allow myself to tumble like a ragdoll in a wind tunnel; and be blown back; back to New Orleans.
Eventually I could see the tall buildings of that city in front of me. They were all sneering. The Capitol One building nudged the Marriot Tower and gestured towards me with its head, whereupon the second building looked up and saw me and then both skyscrapers began to quake uncontrollably, as they tried to suppress their laughter. I thought the cellphone towers were going to break off their rooves and tumble to the street...
The bus brought me back across the Mississippi and deposited me, like silt, right across the street from this library, as noted yesterday.
The Burger King Snafu
I talked to Howard, who seemed happy to see me, and maybe happier to have learned that my intention was never to ditch him in NOLA, or give him "the shake" in general.
He confirmed what had been one of my theories as to what had happened to him.
He too, upon reaching the end of the line of the number 94 bus, asked the driver where the truck stop was. His driver too, didn't know anything about any truck stop; it being so far off of his line that no passenger in the past had ever used his bus to get there.
Howard then gave that driver the misinformation that I had passed along that there was "a Burger King" at the truck stop (it was actually a Huddle House restaurant, I learned when I had gotten there, after my 3 mile walk).
There is another truck stop, the one on Paris Road, which has, you guessed it; a Burger King...
That rang a bell with the driver (who is perhaps a connosoir of soy meal) and he gave Howard a free transfer, so that he could go to that truck stop to look for me.
I had called there once from where I was, but at that time, nobody had yet seen an elderly gentleman with white hair, wearing a blue visor with a couple bags strapped to his back...someone close to that description (after all, this is New Orleans) but that person was accompanied by a lady.
So, Now What, Howard?
Now, using the above schedule for the Hotard Bus Lines 5 dollar trip to Baton Rouge (you wondered what Howard and Hotard meant in the title, eh?), He and I are going to take the bus to Baton Rouge, this afternoon, effectively getting me out of this city on the very last of the 15 days, which the court had extended me for doing such, as per the agreement, engineered by attorney Mary Howell and seconded by the City Attorney.
It is 12:50 p.m. now, and I think that we had better get shaking, even though I would love to stay and blog some more (so many stories; so little time...). The bus will keep us dry along the way and, hopfully (see radar) the rain will already have passed over Baton Rouge by the time we get there and we can at least resume our lives by finding a library and a McDonalds in the short term; and a rail yard within a day or so.
No, I actually don't "ever learn"...to answer your tacit question...

Overcrowding Release

I spent the night in the Jefferson Parish Jail.
Now, I am back in New Orleans, at the same library, after having crashed and burned in Avondale, Louisiana.
True, had I sat tight in the car carrier, which was empty and had one of its doors ajar, I would have been blogging from Beaumont, or Houston or Austin or Galveston, or San Antonio.
After the nice officer kicked me out of the rail yard after I voluntarily allowed him to search all my stuff (he was worried that, since I had told him that I had been on a car carrier, that the car carrier was full of cars, and that my bag was hence full of "radios" taken out of the cars). It wasn't.
I left the yard and walked about 4 miles to the nearest Family Dollar/CVS plaza and got an energy drink and a bag of trail mix, which would turn out to be the only thing that I would eat that Tuesday.
After finding the Westwego library and blogging yesterdays post, I went to the bus stop and asked the driver if he went as far as the Wal-Mart which somebody said was "down that way."
He didn't, but, after chatting with him and the other passengers, there formed a consensus that I should be dropped off at a certain truck stop/casino and that I might be able to talk to people and find someone that would bring me to Texas.
I went there. I sat there and noticed how dead it seemed. There were a few trucks in the parking lot, but, I was informed by the cashier in the convenience store that, although she had no problem with me asking for a ride to Texas and even sitting out front with a sign that said "Texas," (and busking out a few Dylan tunes??) that hardly any of the truck drivers were inside the casino, having chosen to go off (by cab?) to other places while they waited the required period before they were allowed to drive some more...at least 8 hours rest per day, please...remember the Great Crash Of '99 when all those schoolchildren on that bus perished because the driver of that semi fell asleep while doing 80....
I was running to the store next door for beer, as it happened to be much cheaper than the beer at the casino. It was dead.
There were train tracks not far up the road, I was informed by the cashier.
I had strayed pretty far from the east end of the rail yard where I had been accosted that morning. I was now at the west end, five miles down the line. It was late evening and surely the same cop that had warned me that morning that I would go to jail if he ever saw me on "any railroad property within the state of Louisiana" was surely off duty by then.
I have found, in life, that really intense warnings are usually given in order to dissuade people from doing things that they can easily get away with. For example, if they don't have the manpower to police a certain area, in leau of the manpower, they will post a most formidable sign, threatening life imprisonment or the like, as if to say, we can't be here to stop them, but maybe the strong language on this sign will deter them...
I thought about this, and I drifted down the road from the casino where the tracks crossed a road not a half mile away.
I Get Railroaded
I didn't like the looks of it. There were three trains with their lights on and pointed towards Texas, but there were intense spotlights illuminating them.
I went the opposite direction from all of the "no trespassing" signs, and sat on a hillside, by the tracks and just watched for a while, drinking my third Red Dog beer (when you are travelling, it is good to be economical with your decisions).
After watching the trains and how they were leaving the yard, accelerating; not stopping to back up and attach more cars to their ass ends, I decided "Screw it, I'm going back to the truck stop/casino to try to get a ride.
I was doing just that; I had waited in front of the flashing, bell ringing arm which had come down to stop traffic, while a particularly slow train (though accelerating) and consisting in large part of  the kind of cars that are unsuitable to ride on; passed.
The arm finally went up, after the train was 100 yards beyond the road. I walked across the tracks, heading towards the casino when I heard a horn honk and was suddenly awash in blue and red lights, like a poor mans disco.
A guy stepped out of the Crown Victoria and said that he needed to talk to me. He was burly and had a crew cut and looked like most of the rail yard police that I had ever seen. He asked me for ID.
Upon seeing the name on the ID, he said "The officer that spoke to you this morning -what did he say would happen if he found you hanging around the tracks?"
I tried to correct him by saying "He said that if he found me on railroad property..."
"Which you were, when you were sitting by the ditch over there..." he jumped in.
I told him that I had sat at the casino and couldn't get a ride and that I was then just looking for a place to sleep, so as to try again the next day.
I had heard once that the railroad owns only 15 yards to each side of their tracks; I was, where I sat, certainly further removed from the gravel substrate of the tracks, which seems to extend just about 15 yards on each side as I sat on a hillside about 30 yards from the nearest track.
The guy arrested me and took me to the Jefferson Parish Jail, in the opposite direction that I was trying to travel, and just over the river from New Orleans.
That place was like a crash course in everything that I ever hated about any jail anywhere.
It was overcrowded (incarceration is probably the biggest "industry" in this country, having overtaken Coca Cola) of course.
Overcrowding
The booking process took about 9 hours, though, when you did the math -10 minutes to fill out the booking report, 10 minutes to fingerprint, 10 minutes for medical to ask you if you are thinking about taking your life and if you are allergic to "anything,"- and then multiplying that by the number of inmates in the typically frigid (to fight germs) holding cell, it didn't add up.
Of course, you would see a corrections officer talking on her cellphone, eating snacks and lazily flipping over a piece of paper every once in a while and calling the name of another detainee.
Don't Drink The Water
I slept as much as I could, even managing to block out the sounds of "the loud guy," who is always in a holding cell and who wants to tell his story and show off his lungs at the same time.
There was "the guy who stands at the window, looking out" who seems to be fascinated by the inner workings of a jail, or he thinks that they will book him faster if he stands there and stares them down for hours...
The jail was disgusting. The toilet in the holding cell smelled so strongly of "unwashed for months toilet" that very few people even drank of the water fountain attached to the commode, because they had to hold their nose while doing so, or the water they drank would taste like urine.
Then, Why Did You Ask?
In the morning, after having tried to sleep the whole time, after having my huge backpack searched and my sesame oil, mustard, hot sauce and garlic salt thrown into a trash barrel in front of me, after I was told that "you can't have any food in your property" and being told to take the elastic off of my pony tail (so that my mugshot would look like I really was a dangerous, freaky looking criminal) and being asked to open my mouth, so that they could take a DNA sample, because of a urinating in public charge in Saint Augustine, Florida, which was "upgraded" to indecent exposure by a quick witted officer, after I had told him "I haven't even urinated yet!" (to which he replied: Oh, well that's worse...now you're standing there with your genitals exposed...THAT'S a sex crime!!").
I wondered why they said "We're going to take a DNA sample, ok?," when they hadn't said "We're going to take a mug shot, ok?" or "We're going to pat you down, ok?"
I think it is because I could have refused to open my mouth and let them swab inside it, telling them that I would gladly do it if they were to obtain a court ordered search warrant, signed by a judge. I told them just that.
They said: "We could strap you down and get it that way..." at which point I could have asked them "Would that be legal?" after which they might have said "Alright, smart ass," and put their swabs away.
I really don't plan upon committing a heinous crime where my DNA will link me to the scene, but, it is just the principle of the thing.
I let them swab my mouth, although thinking in the back of my mind that I was being manipulated, I couldn't help add: "I guess now, I'll have to to completely incinerate my victims beyond recognition, instead of letting them go, like I used to; good job, guys..."
I think part of the reason that I am a free man right now is that, those imbeciles don't know what the hell "incinerate" even means...
They've Got Easy Jobs
The staff of the Jefferson Parish Jail, apart from appearing lackadaisical, used profanity extensively. One of the correctional officers, who was a black lady, at one point said something which came out as "ess-cuse me" (I'm pretty sure that she was trying to say "excuse me" to someone.)
I asked her "Don't you have to be at least a high school graduate to get your job?" and then corrected her pronunciation. Luckily for me, I don't think she ever had a clue as to what my point was.
At about 10 p.m. this morning, without ever having gone in front of a judge, I was called out of the holding cell, where I had been laying on a bare metal bunk with no mattress ("someone threw up the mattress," was the explaination for that) along with a couple other guys.
Overcrowding Release
My guitar and backpack were sitting on the floor a couple of feet from where I stood. I took this to be a positive sign of my being released.
It was.
I was handed a sheet of paper upon which was written "Overcrowding Release."
I signed it and was soon out on the streets of Gretna, Louisiana, asking directions to the nearest bus line to take me anywhere. I got on a bus which took me right back to New Orleans -dropped me off right in front of this library, as a matter of fact- and that is where I am.
I did notice that I felt a flexibility and a sense of autonomy when I was out there, without Howard.
It's kind of nice to only have only oneself to argue with over every decision, and only yourself to kick yourself in the ass when you wind up sleeping next to a stinking toilet.
The security guard here at the library, told me that he had seen Howard "this morning." Howard must have thought that I had tried to lose him, and just returned to the life that he has come to know, never missing a sausage McMuffin in the process...I don't know what is up with that, I haven't spoken to him yet.

I'm not Daniel, I come from California,
 surely you must be mistaken

I just may try to slip away on my own, jumping a train out of the same yard here, where they really don't seem to care (just get them out of here!). I'm not sure.
Resources Have Dwindled
I have spent my money down to a pathetic amount. They booked me into the jail with 54 dollars and change, and that was yesterday evening.
I might have to play Bourbon Street a little more, taking a risk, or just try to train hop again, but just not step off the train anywhere near Avondale, Louisiana. (does the overcrowding mean carte blanche on trainhopping?)
I could just make my money, rip up my summons to appear and get on out of here.
I'm sure that I can change my identity and come back from California a different man. Thank God for places like The Rebuild Center, that can help a homeless man get an ID when he has none at all and is no different from The Man Who Fell To Earth...

I have like 3 minutes

Had I stayed on the train for 15 more minutes, I would have
been out of Avondale, Louisiana, but, no...

I am in Westwego, Louisiana, after having been kicked out of the rail yard by a
very nice Union Pacific policeman, who wrote me a summons and then basically said "Unless you have a compelling reason to come back to Avondale, Lousianna, this will just sit here, waiting for you, like a spiders web..." (I'm paraphrasing)

I Lose Howard
I lost Howard. We were on the #94 bus, headed to the truck stop. It is a long ride. I had to pee. I told Howard to go on to the truck stop and I would catch up on the next bus.
I got on the next bus and learned that the closest it came to the truck stop was like 2 and a half miles.
I walked it, expecting to overtake Howard, who would be dragging his feet.
I never saw him.
I decided to blow off the truck stop because it was dead, hopped a train, slept for 6 hours on it; woke up thinking that I might be in Houston or Galveston, because there were oil refinerys around. I sat for 4 hours, waiting for the train to continue on, practicing harmonica, writing this, and brushing out my hair with conditioner etc. I wish I had done any one of those things for 5 minutes longer, because that is how long after I got off the train that the train started moving. Meanwhile I was being strip searched by rail cops as I saw it pull off...I am in Westwego, I haven't made it far from New Orleans.....more tomorrow...
Tonight, I will sleep somewhere, try to get a digital camera, hoping that I can get one that only takes pictures and isn't a phone and a calendar and a tweeter all rolled into one; for about 30 bucks.
I am spoiled by (and my readers, too) the 3 megapixel quality that I had grown accustomed to with the Sprint LG phone. I don't think I want to settle for less.
At this point, I NEED to hitch-hike, at least untill I am out of Louisiana, or, out of the nice officers jurisdiction.
I was happy to have a bag with no marijuana, not even one picture of Marilynn Monroe posing topless, no weapons except pepper spray and a Crown Royal bag full (but emptying at an alarming rate) of coins, which doesn't appear to be a weapon, unless I casually swing it around in front of the cop like it was a pair of numchucks...
I will sleep somewhere tonight, in Westwego, Louisiana...or I might try to walk to the Wal-Mart and get some kind of digital camera...for the sake of my blog readers, if for no other reason.
I will have my thumb out on Route 90 west, 360 miles out of Houston, and 560 miles out of San Antonio.
I have no idea if Howard thought that I had ditched him; and if he is going to continue on to San Antonio without me.
I have to admit that it would have been a very clever way to get rid of the guy "I need to take a leak so bad, I'm getting off the bus...just go to the truck stop and I'll catch up to you" and then, there IS no truck stop, according to the bus driver on the #94 line which I took (it was so far off her route that she didn't even know it was there, until I mentioned that there was a casino and a bar there. Oh, the video poker place...that's WAY down that way...you should have gotten off 3 miles back!

Lights, Camera...Action!

I have spent the last couple days, since Friday night, hiding out, across the Mississippi River, in Algiers.
Being so close to the day of departure is almost something that Trouble smells out and does all it can to sabotage plans and frustrate dreams i.e. get you stuck in New Orleans with no money or posessions and even less than no hope of ever getting out; a guppy in an aquarium full of bottom feeders...
Phone Lost
I don't know if it was a freudean slip on my part, but, Saturday night into Sunday Morning, 12:36 was actually the time that I knocked off after a $60 night where I felt like my harp was putting out a magnetic field, hypnotising tourists and drawing them to my tip jar.
I went around the corner to eat some delicious food, out of a stryrofoam, which I didn't realise was leaking until I felt the olive oil running down my leg) and took out my phone.
So close to the eve of departure, I was thinking about the higher likelyhood of being searched by police when out on the road and looking unfamiliar, yet familiar (they are sick of seeing "traveling people"). Local police have already concocted ways to, and have, searched you; more than once, ran your ID across the country in their idle time behind their laptops, etc. -maybe even phoned jurisdictions that your petty misdemeanor record has placed you, and asked "What da ya know 'bout dis guy?"
"Oh, McKenna! Where do I start..."
I started to flip through my phones pictures, deleting all that could be deemed insensitive or inappropriate; which just left a few pictures of me and Sue and a handful of tastefully rendered Playboy centerfolds that I once found online...I was googling "Marylyn Monroe" or something :)
I remember having trouble with the touch screen because of the olive oil on my fingers. I remember deleting a bunch of pictures, preparing to travel "clean," but I don't really recall setting the phone down beside me on the marble steps in the darkness and then later, picking up my pack and my guitar and walking off, leaving it behind.
I woke up Sunday morning, Saint Patrick's Day, pretty paranoid.
One of the street sweepers found it... and turned it on and the first thing he saw were the Playboy pics that I chose not to delete (because any red blooded man likes to look at a little tastefull photographed ass, every once in a while; its very American and the Hefner estate is a celebration of the sucess of free enterprise in this great land.)
And, the first thing he does is one of two things; -he keeps the phone, tries to make it his and leaves the pictures on the phone, like they came with it; and only he and a few of his close street sweeping buddies ever see them -or, he turns the phone in to the police, to put in their "lost and found" box.
Can you see where this is going?
Maybe the police, upon seeing certain pictures on the phone, see a "red flag" flash before their eyes and automatically turn it over to sex crimes whose policy in cases like these is to detain the guy for "routine questioning" to ask him if he's a serial rapist, and if so, what's he doing in The French Quarter (that's what we really want to know...)
And search him...
As I layed under a holly bush Sunday, drinking Bush and listening to my little radio, while across the river the big Saint Patrick's Day parades were raging down almost every street and when I could actually smell a 100 dollar night wafting across the river every time the breeze blew a certain way, I thought:
I'm walking down the street and some scary dude, (scary because he is dressed in almost business attire, accessorised with a badge under his lapel), approaches me with a chishire grin and asks: "Excuse me sir, did you lose your phone?"
At this point, I need to say "I don't own a phone, I'm saving up for one as a matter of fact..."
Then, when he produces the phone and shows me "a picture of myself, taking a picture of myself with the very phone," I would have to say: "Those are my Facebook pictures! What's someone doing with my Facebook pictures of Sue and I?!? -Maybe she is being stalked or something, she's very paranoid!"
All this crap would be necessary, because I've learned a lot about the presence of a guy in a suit with a badge under his lapel.
Well, now he's just going to just walk off, or
"Ok, Mr. McKenna. Why don't you just put your hands on the back of the squad car -you're not under arrest; we're just making sure that you don't have anything on you that you could hurt us with, while we're talking to you. Is this your backpack? -you were carrying it...
Then, as I lean on the car with my legs spread, they find a joint or a bud of weed that some reveller on Bourbon Street threw in my backpack while I had my head bent over, wailing on the harmonica -might have even said "Here you go, buddy" but I didn't hear him...(it's happened more than once)...
Now, they have the whole 30 days that they will be holding me in jail (on a bond amount just out of my reach -just a little more than I was carrying on me when I was nabbed -darn the luck) -
They have 30 days during which they will have the luxury of sending my phone over to "forensics," where they will "undelete" not only the photos that I erased on the marble steps because I didn't want police to see them, they will see the photos which were deleted way back in Mobile, the one's that contained shots from a nudist beach, which took the authorities 70 days to determine were not child pornography.
I was never this paranoid in my life, maybe Sue has rubbed off on me, but...
I left Howard a note, telling him that I was going to err on the side of caution, because I lost my phone and "my whole life is on it..." or words to that effect, and that I would meet him near the truckstop this afternoon at 4 p.m., where we will go and do laundry and shower and eat and drink and wait around and talk to people that might be going west.
I will buy either a prepaid phone with a camera built into it and just use it as a camera, radio, stopwatch, alarmclock etc, and not shell out for the unlimited service until I determine that I can keep up this pace of making 30 to 50 bucks (or more) consistently. Except those phones only have 1.3 megapixels and I don't know if that quality is up to the standards of this blog.....

Behaving For Dummies

• World: Behaving Possibly Keeps Me Out Of Trouble
• Health: Howards Blood pressure



Howard has had to interrupt his routine
the past couple mornings to go check
upon the arrival of his high blood pressure medication.
Frankly, it is stressing him out and sending
his pressure "through the roof"
(something rarely seen in homeless men).

• Books: Story To Be Serial?
• Money: 30 dollar night

Avoiding Decatur Street
I went straight to the Bourbon Street spot last night, even earlier than the (Wednesday) night before. It was not only still daylight; the sun was out!!
It was probably a little too early for a lot of tourists to have already loosened their wallets with food and drink, and it kind of showed the first hour -a lot of reserved smiles; a little bit of cash.
I went to Sidney's to spend one of the few dollars that I had made, then returned not once, but three more times, in between breaks* finally knocking off at the well behaved hour of 10 p.m. (there is supposedly another curfew on Bourbon Street, the spirit of which is "You can play there from 6 p.m. until 10 p.m. every night and 'they can't say anything to you about it [assuming your performance is legal]'"
After 10, they can say something...
*I schedule regular breaks now, like 10 minutes every hour, weather I need to use the restroom or not. It seems to have helped me to establish some kind of "order" and keeps me fresh.
I made about 25 bucks for the night, all in ones, plus a lot of change, which I gladly put into my Crown Royal bag.

I just about broke even for the night, though, with the just-arrived-at-Sidney's, Bigfoot Barley Style Ale being almost solely responsible. I blame the brewers and Sidney's and even the girl that rang them up for me, for my demise.
Bag Replaces Railroad Spike
The Crown Royal bag probably weighs about 3 pounds now and has replaced the railroad spike as my "right hand" weapon of choice (left hand, pepper spray). The railroad spike has the bevelled head which could fracture bones; and the pointed end is just a little too medieval for my tastes, and it is quite rusted.
The Crown Royal bag is more humane, as I can put the appropriate amount of coins in it, for whomever I am striking in the head, adjusting the blow to be commensurate with whatever offense they have committed against me.
Karma Better On Bourbon

As part of the privilege that I've enjoyed in the residential end of the street where I play, I'm pretty sure that the nice gentleman in the condo passed instructions to the officer whom I encountered at 1:30 a.m. Sunday morning that went something like. "I don't want him arrested, or given a ticket; just politely asked to move on...could you do that for me?" Imagine wielding that kind of power!
Of course, the officer, having been instructed not to bite; still could not be restrained from barking "Do you want to go to jail!?!" a few times, but that has probably all been related in last Sundays fine post...

Your hair is so shiny, like plastic...your lips are so...
shiny, like plastic...I bet you're shiny all over!

It Could Have Been Me
On that third trip to Sidney's, which is on the street that I was avoiding, I came around a corner and was presented with the sight of four men being issued citations by an officer whom I recognized from him having gotten me twice before.
He might have been playing the "after 8 p.m." angle on them (a curfew that some say only pertains to one side of Decatur -the side the four gentlemen were on- others that it only effects certain stretches of that one side, and there are those that say the curfew is a bunch of malarkey and "There ain't no such law.") or the "obstruction of a public passageway" (but that's a lot to write four times) or the "sitting down" offense (intoxicated tourists might trip over you and injure themselves) the four didn't know at that point; the officer was sitting in his car, citing away...his bald dome made aglow, like the top of The Kremlin, by his "dome" light. It could have been me...
Howards Meds
Howard should have his high blood pressure medicine today. I hope it doesn't make him listless, disoriented, having stomach cramps, vertigo, fatigue, dry tongue, sleeplessness or in some cases dead. That would suck...
Story To Be Serialised?
I will be off working on a story which just gets longer and longer. There is actually something like a 10 megabyte limit to each post on Blogger, here.
I think 10 megabytes could store the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, plus a recording of Frank Sinatra, but, nevertheless, I am thinking of publishing the story in parts; sure am.
I just need to contrive ways to leave my readers hanging each Friday...

Correction

• Daniel Posts Two Consequetive Gains



"Have Something To Say..."

• Just waiting on Howard's medicine

The Real Wednesday Night
I erroneously called the night before last Wednesday night
(referring to it as a notoriously slow business night) in yesterdays post when, in fact, that had been Tuesday night when I got the 35 dollar tip for playing "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan, and then "Dear Prudence," by The Beatles; both with harp solos.
Last night was the real Wednesday night, the notoriously slow one, and I made about 21 bucks in three sets of almost an hour each.
I thought I played like crap, though, as there were a few things on my mind.
One of them was the fact that the painter guy was out on the steps across from me, playing his guitar.
Brooding And Disturbing
I think that he was trying to busk for some money, and, if that was the case, it was a faux pas for me to sit right across from him. He was probably too proud to ask to sit in with me, probably having gotten the message that I had taken off a couple of nights prior, because I felt that I could make more money if I didn't have to split it with someone who wasn't matching my "intensity"...
He is a decent player, but there is something about his music that makes it seem like he is too shy to say something with it, if that makes sense.
One of the compliments that I got from Lawrence, who plays with Dorreen's Jazz Band was "I can tell; you've got something to say on that guitar." The painter guys music seems to say, I'm a quiet yet deeply complex person and you would never understand me, just like this minor 9th flat 5 chord, which sounds brooding and disturbing.
My goal when I started was to play "nice" music.
I had a creepy feeling that the gentleman in the condo behind me was still hosting his guest, the one that goes to bed at 10:30 p.m., and even though it was early (before sundown) my intuition told me to stick to nice songs, "smooth, light and easy so you can relax" tunes, or to make myself vulnerable by improvising lyrically intensive stuff about love lost and heartaches i.e. sing about Karrie, (the girl who was supposed to follow me to Mobile, Alabama almost three years ago and who never showed up...)
I didn't want to go balls-to-the-wall, full tilt boogie with the painter guy across the street trying to make a buck, if that was the case. Again, communication would have been a valuable tool. I stopped to listen to him during one of my breaks, but didn't think to appologise for the way I took off on him Sunday night..

Paul, the guitarist (far right) has become a good friend of mine;
"Yeah, San Francisco?...I don't know...you should probably stay around here,"
was his reaction when I told him that I was leaving.

This morning, I woke up about 8 dollars richer than I had started the day with; the second consequetive positive gain, after having come up about 40 bucks Tuesday night.
Tonight will be Thursday night and I intend to "behave" by avoiding Decatur Street and staying within the "6 p.m. until 10 p.m." Bourbon Street Residential Area guidelines..
Frantically Turning Knobs
I really seems like I have doubled my income by adding the harmonica, and in fact I rarely sing much at all now; or play guitar solos -unless they are "double solos" between the harp and guitar. That will hopefully change after I get a microphone. It is good to have a balance between singing and harp playing, but, right now the harp is louder than my singing voice on all but the "loud" songs, like "Have You Ever Seen The Rain," by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
When I switch from harp to vocals, it reminds me of when a band has "technical difficulties" and the soundmen are frantically turning knobs on the board, trying to bring the vocals up LOL!

Two Steps Forward

Let me see if I can connect to my GPS Daniel-Finder
application and see where he's jamming...

Last night I made my earliest arrival
at the Bourbon Street spot. It was still daylight.
The condo owner across the street was sitting on his steps and greeted me.
I played for about 45 minutes and 8 bucks, then took a break and came back twice more, with another break in between.
At one point a pedi-cab (a little cart pulled by a guy on a bike; similar to the "harness racing" rigs) stopped in front of me. A guy and a lady were riding in it.
The guy got out and approached me, asking me to play something.
I played a couple choruses of "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan, with a harp solo thrown in, during which, he threw a bill in my case. When I stopped, he said "That's all we get? For twenty bucks?!?"
They got more, while the cab peddler rested his legs. I played a request for the lady "For another twenty bucks," which turned into another 15 bucks, as she had nothing else smaller than a hundred (See; the wealthy have problems just like the rest of us).
Soon thereafter, the gentleman told the cab peddler "Come on, I want to hear some others," and off they went.

I think I would just put the tourist in the seat,
and then give the horse a little crack
of the whip; and let 'em go!

Harder To Leave
All in all, it was a 50 dollar night, and on a Wednesday; which is deemed to be one of the slowest days of the week, in the estimation of many performers that I talked to.
It makes it that much harder to leave New Orleans, now that I have been making decent money; but not as hard as it would be to leave New Orleans flat broke and picking half smoked cigarette butts off the ground...
We are only waiting on Howards "high blood pressure" medication to be ready for him at the VA Hospital, either today or tomorrow. It is hoped that it will help his headaches.

Back Peddling

I am off, working on a ghost story,
to hopefully be ready for Friday

• Move Delayed Another Day
• Cash Reserve Takes Hit

Last night, I was back out there, peddling
my "wares" on Bourbon Street.
The nice gentleman in the condo behind me asked me if I would stop playing at 10:30 p.m. because he had a guest who would be trying to sleep at that time; someone who isn't used to being lulled to slumberland by a blues harmonica player, I assume.
I was able to make some money, but not enough to stem the flow of outgoing funds.
I finished the day about 15 bucks poorer than I had started it, with more-expensive-than-usual beer being one of the culprits, and then things like the silly, frivolous purchase of a lottery ticket an example of another...shouldn't drinking better beer help me make "better" decisions?

Howard, taking every opportunity to
inform the ladies of his marital status...

Maybe Next Monday?
It almost seems prudent to stay through one more weekend, to tie up some loose ends (like how is Howard going to tote his blankets and quilt; under his arm, all the way to Texas?!?).
I need to talk to Howard, to see if he is actually dragging his feet (figuratively, I mean -he has literally been dragging them a little since I met him) over the pending move. Part of the problem is that we only speak for a few minutes each morning before we launch into our individual routines.
It being Monday, I resolved to avoid Decatur Street entirely, except to walk its length looking for a certain Rastafarian guy, or to run into the punk with the dog of a girlfriend and the dog (as an aid to helping me get "off the fence" and end the procrastination over leaving here, hitting the guy in the face with pepper spray then not hanging around to give him a chance to retaliate, might be "motivational" -and the police consider the spray to be a "defensive" weapon, and assume the sprayee to have been the aggressor, I am told -plus, it will help flush out his mucous membranes.
But...what if the punk and his girlfriend are leaving here soon, to move out to the Bay Area of California, after a brief sojourn in San Antonio, Texas?!? *twilight theme plays*)