21 Dollars and 90 Cents

Musical Blog Post

My latest idea is to do a musical blog post every Sunday, or so... Instead of writing it; I will sing it...
I got to the playing spot on 5th Street in Baton Rouge, Louisiana at about 10 p.m.

My goal had been to get there by about 9 p.m. and I had told Sherman so much.

If,for any reason I got there too late, and lost the spot to Gabriel, I would be extremely pissed and would have to have a serious discussion with myself about what went wrong and what could have been done differently.

The implication was clear. I would blame him.

I got to there and made about 8 bucks rather quickly.

It was only about 10:40 when I decided to make a dash to the beer store for one 24 oz. can of Huricane Lager.

Returning at 11, I saw no sign of Gabriel. It had been a calculated risk to take a break then. Gabriel usually shows up around midnight, having figured out perhaps that the money made between that hour and 3 a.m. is usually triple the money made in the 4 or 5 hours leading up to midnight.

Then Sherman showed up and stood by me as I played.

Sherman

The tip money stopped flowing at that point. I don't think I made one dollar in the 45 minutes or so that he stood there.

Then, I started to become distracted by him. I could almost read his mind ...you aren't doing so well...

"I think you need to move to your other spot," he eventually said, confirming my suspicions.

"...I'm not making anything because of the weird guy standing around..."

I felt like I was under his microscope and being judged by the lack of money going into my case. This was purely my own mind working against me and my own fault, but I was hoping he would say something like "I'm ruining your hustle standing here, I'll go.."

He mentioned that there hadn't been as much noise the previous night.

By then, the saxophone player had stationed himself on the opposite corner of the building, where Gabriel used to play before he discovered the excellent acoustics of my spot.

Sherman was getting on my nerves.

Rain Is In The Area

The Catch-22 
I understand that he was trying to be supportive, but the last thing a busker needs is someone to stand next to him as if interested in seeing how the busker is going to do money-wise but never having it occur to the person that the reason that nobody is tipping the busker may very well be because he is standing there trying to see how the guy is going to do money-wise.

There are several reasons for this.

Maybe most of my tip money comes from people who (correctly) see me as a guy who carries all his worldly possessions on his back and who comes into town to share songs about the life of being a busker, and maybe that whole image is compromised by a guy with an expensive bike, wearing a flashing helmet, standing there next to the guy...is he a roomate, is the guy not really homeless, are they gay, is the guy waiting to jump on his bike and go get a crack rock as soon as I throw 5 bucks in his case???

These and a ton of other questions are not even an issue when there is nobody standing next to you as you busk.

Then, I started to wonder if Sherman was thinking things like "He's playing the wrong music, he's not loud enough, he's not making eye contact" and  a slew of other criticisms that were becoming self fulfilling prophesies as my energy for playing the best possible music was being funneled into my growing resentment over the fact that he was standing there.
I Haven't Made A Cent Since You've Been Standing There

Finally, I just came out and said "I haven't made a cent the whole time that you've been standing there."

I thought that it was a rude thing to say as soon as it had come out of my mouth, but he seemed to take it pretty well, and got on his bike and left, but not before inviting me to crash at his place when I was done, rude comment not withstanding.

I managed to make a few more dollars, bringing my total up to the unimpressive amount of the title of this post.

Then, I walked the sidewalk, picking up butts.

A young lady in front of one of the bar/restaurants asked me if I was hungry.

I supposed that I was. She came out with a Styrofoam of fried seafood and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and gave them to me.

At least I didn't have to face the problem of weather or not to spend 4 bucks out of my 22 bucks on cigarettes.
Ventanas XP

This morning, Sherman and I went to Computer Heaven (where good computers go when they die, I suppose).

They plugged a good power supply into the Samsung and voila! it came to life, sporting a Spanish version of Windows (Ventanas?).

It is 9:22 p.m.
I have one goal in life; it is to beat Gabriel to the playing spot across the street from the hot dog cart guy, who seems to like his music more than he does mine.
I am at Shermans.
I had the unfortunate experience of having my laptops power converter die on me this morning.
I stepped out for a cigarette, and when I came back in, the laptop had shut down and the message was on the screen that my battery was critically low and that the thing was going to shut down.
I managed to fix it.
Sue Gives Me A Laptop
One of the things that Sue did when I was in New Orleans was to give me a Samsung laptop computer, which had been given to her and which she was sick of carrying around along with her pigeons and her cat.
I used the power converter from the Samsung and spliced the adaptor from my Acer onto it and fixed the problem; or you aren't reading this and I only hallucinated that I fixed the problem.
Now, I have a pretty good idea that the Samsung was not working only because of the same problem of a malfunctioning power supply.
Last night, I fell asleep in the courtyard of St. James church and missed out on busking entirely.
I hadn't slept very well in New Orleans, as Sue woke me up at 6 a.m. when I had only about 5 hours of sleep on that last morning there.
I caught up on sleep, but woke up at about 1:30 a.m. and never really recovered.
Of course Gabriel was on "my" spot playing by the time I got there.
I am determined to get there first tonight, but, the longer I work on this post, the more the chances diminish.

Get Along

Yesterday, after it became obvious that I wasn't going to be on the last bus to Baton Rouge, I went down towards my Bourbon Street spot.

Arriving there two hours before my curfew, I played for an hour and got about 5 bucks.

I am playing Kid Charlemagne, by Steely Dan, determined to make it one of my best songs.

One guy, who threw me a couple bucks said "You're playing good music." ...he didn't say "You're playing it well..."

and he must have been referring to the Steely Dan piece, because I was in "learning mode," and playing it repeatedly.

I knocked off and went to Sidneys for a Sierra Nevada Torpedo Triple IPA Ale, drank it behind the building across the street, out of the mere habit of hiding somewhere to drink a beer, which has been conditioned into me from living in other places, and then emerged back onto Decatur Street, to see none other than Sue, sitting on one of the benches in front of me.

We wound up walking all the way back to the sign spot and sleeping, not under the sign for fear of Southern Flannel Moths, but nearby.

It is Friday, and I am about to say my goodbyes to Sue and get on the bus for Baton Rouge, where I will busk tonight and tomorrow night, and then will finally hop the train to Shreveport, as soon as I score my photo ID out of the homelessness place.

A Wasted Trip So Far

I got off the bus last evening and walked down Canal Street.

I saw the brass band on the corner of Bourbon and Canal, and the drunken street people who were making a big show of dancing to the music, in order to sell the dance-ability of of it to the tourists and create artificial excitement, in exchange for a little bit of beer money out of their tip box. ...those people didn't throw their money in until I started dancing like a fool....so, let me get a buck...

It disgusted me.

Then I went to Unique's and saw the regular crew of beggars who all turned to me with that practiced look of "help me; help me!" on their faces, until they recognized me as the guitar player who never gives them anything for free, and then their expressions evinced their own form of disgust, or involved a slow shaking of the head, to indicate "Ain't it a shame; he make all that money playin' that guitar and he can't even come off of a dollar for a nigga' out here just like him!"

One Dollar

I found my way down onto Decatur Street at about nightfall, and decided to take a chance and busk for a while, as I was fortified with a couple beers and some medicinal herb.

I made one dollar in about an hour.

THen, the voice of reason got through to me and I decided that I wasn't making nearly enough to risk going to jail, should the wrong cop have come by.

I knocked off and got a pretty good nights sleep.

I haven't seen Sue.

I might leave tonight for Baton Rouge, or at least tomorrow morning (probably depending upon weather or not I see Sue).

Daring, Broad-Daylight Busking

Monday, I decided to leave Shermans apartment, as I wasn't getting anything done there of importance.

Sunday, I slept until past noon, having been up busking until almost 3 in the morning and then having waited for the hot dog cart guy to sell me a hot dog, which he never did.

Sunday, 3 a.m.

He was in an animated discussion with Gabriel about science fiction books when I approached and asked him if he had any hot dogs left.

He told me that he did, but then turned back to Gabriel and continued to talk to him.

Connie Willis

Had someone from the general public, i.e. a "customer" asked him for a hot dog, I'm sure that he would immediately have told Gabriel "Just a second," or held up the universal symbol of one finger, and gone to his cart, prepared a hot dog, asked the customer if he wanted chili or cheese, etc. and then gone back to Gabriel and asked "Where were we?"

After about 20 minutes of listening to their mildly fascinating discussion of the works of Shirley Jackson and Connie Willis, I decided that maybe I really didn't want a hot dog -not the most "healthy" food item- and walked off.

I was hungry, yet also aware that spending 3 dollars on one hot dog (when I could buy a dozen for half that and cook them behind the boarded up building) was going to something that I would regret should I ever run out of money in the future and wish that I had the 3 bucks back.

Gabriel has some kind of job somewhere and owns a vehicle, which he drives a considerable distance in order to busk on the weekends, adding about 100 dollars to his weekly income.

Garrison Keillor

He dresses in what I would call "Garrison Keillor" fashion.

He wears a shirt and a tie, yet it is a flamboyantly printed shirt and the tie is of a color that matches the colors of the shirt so well and hangs at an angle, pointed toward his hip, that one must look pretty closely to determine if he is actually wearing a tie or if there is the image of a tie printed in the pattern on the shirt.

This fashion statement sits atop slacks and canvas sneakers below, and a baseball cap above, and seems to "work" for him.

I suppose my "look" works for me at least as well, because, when we compare notes it seems that we earn about equal amounts through our busking endeavors.

Friday night, when I took a break a little after midnight to run to the store and back, Gabriel had moved into my spot across from the hot dog cart, like a hermit crab.

He relinquished it back to me when I returned.

I asked him why he was always playing at what I assumed was "his" spot on the opposite corner of the same building "if you like the acoustics better here..."

He explained that, years ago, when he first started busking in downtown Baton Rouge, the police had relegated him to that spot, saying that he was only allowed to play there.

"Then, when I saw you playing here and the cops not bothering you, I figured that I could play here, too. The acoustics are better and it helps me not strain my voice as much."

After I had finished playing that night and walked across the street to the hot dog cart, where Gabriel was talking to the hot dog cart guy; the hot dog cart guy took my arrival as an apparent cue to reach into his pocket and hand Gabriel a couple dollars, telling him "That was awesome. I see you playing all the time, but I could never hear you. With you right across the street, I could hear you loud and clear and you sounded great."

Gabriel is a fine musician and he has a repertoire of loud songs, or songs that can be done loudly, such as The Smashing Pumpkins song that has the chorus "Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage!!" That part can be sung at the top of ones lungs, and thus, has value as a busking song.

I have to complement Gabriel on his repertoire, as, most of it can be sung at the top of one's lungs. His selections are generally about 20 years more recent than mine, and he performs the works of artists that are recognizable by the 20-something crowd; of which class the hot dog cart guy is a member.

That being said; I still match Gabriel money-wise as I sit (he stands) and sing stuff like "Tears In Heaven," the Eric Clapton song, which is older and quieter than anything you might hear on the opposite corner of the building; or in my spot across from the cart on nights like Saturday when I don't arrive before him.

I think that it was rude of the hot dog cart guy to choose the time that I showed up to hand Gabriel a couple bucks and complement him, when he had had time to do that while I was still finishing my set up across the street.

"Am I that much worse than Gabriel?" I asked the hot dog cart guy after Gabriel had left.

"I can never hear you," he said.

There seemed to be some other undertones in the way he said it, and then walked away towards his cart. And, I recall asking him after the first time I ever played there, if he could hear me and he told me that the sound came right across the street and that he could.

Sherman surmised that it was because I had been seen associating with him.

Sherman (who is in his mid 40's, by the way) is apparently a well known figure in the downtown area of Baton Rouge.

He gets a "crazy check" which is why he "gets" to hang out in his apartment all day and never worry about punching a time clock anywhere.

He said that the checks started coming after he had trashed his mothers house over something that was said or done, and then was committed to a mental hospital for a brief period, where it was determined that he qualified for a check from the government every month.

Garth Brooks, What's It Going To Be?

Sherman has signs posted all around the downtown area which read "What's it going to be, Garth Brooks?" or something similar.

As much as I could glean from asking him about it was that; he worked on Garth Brooks stage crew about 15 years ago, and at about that time his girlfriend "disappeared."

He then joined a band and went to Austin, Texas with the band; but then became a victim of "an international blacklist," which prevents him, to this day even, from ever working anywhere.

Meathead Messing With Head

He claims that Rob Reiner (Garth Brooks manager, or the owner of Mr. Brooks "production company" or something, according to Sherman) is behind the blackballing.

Sherman has repeatedly said that he is posting the signs up, trying to get Garth to come to town to answer "just one question" that Sherman has for him. He hasn't told me what the question is and I haven't asked him.

I guess people that open their homes to you and let you use their equipment to record music and give you rides to the music store and Wal-Mart don't ever come without at least a little bit of "baggage." 

You don't really want to "look a gifthorse in the mouth" by "stirring the pot" too much, I suppose.

Sherman seems to have issues surrounding trust. He has mentioned that he looks at me "with sandy eyes" (I think was the phrase) because I have seen all his valuable equipment and he has to worry about me coming and stealing it sometime.

There is nothing that I can tell him to reassure him that I won't, because "Don't worry, I won't" is exactly what a thief might say to "reassure" someone. He will just have to judge my character as time goes along.

He had a habit of following me into his kitchen every time I went in there to rinse a cup out in the sink, or to put some sugar in my tea etc.

But, I could feel my "welcome" taking a little bit of wear and tear by Monday. I wanted to leave while our relationship was still good and unstrained, so I did.

At least he invited me to come back the next time I am in town...

Desperately Seeking Susan

I am going to New Orleans, even though my life is worthless there, and I will be on the lam.

I purposely took the rock and roll fake book here with me, knowing that I would have to go back to the Big Easy to return it to the library, and that I would have a chance to see Sue in doing so.

I will probably try to do a couple of daring broad-daylight busking sessions on Decatur Street, hoping that the cops working that shift will be different from the ones that ticketed me the last time I was there and who might have checked some kind of list of newly active warrants at the station and might have a picture of me in their minds, eating a dough nut.

I have perhaps one more week to stick around Baton Rouge so that I can avail myself to the assistance of the people at the One Stop Homelessness Center in obtaining a picture ID.

Then, I will take the train to check out Shreveport.

Howard had mentioned wanting to get to a cooler climate before the hottest part of the year was upon us, but, within a month we will be on the other side of that season, looking forward to a cooling trend right here.

Maybe A Lighthouse

I DO want to travel, though and maybe even settle down somewhere (i.e. stay there for more than one year) and I have chosen the Bay Area near San Francisco, as I have felt destined for there, probably since I was 5 years old, in some way; when I started to envision my dream-house as being on a cliff, overlooking the Pacific Ocean and with a huge orchard of fruit trees and maybe a lighthouse...if I can busk up enough money to buy one....

As far as ever visiting my friends and family in Massachusetts, I feel that I have better prospects of coming up with the money in the Bay Area required to fly all the way across the country than I do in the New Orleans area of coming up with the money to fly half way across the country...

Saturday Night Live

30 Bucks

Shermans parents came by in the evening and I had a pretty interesting conversation with his dad.

They are from a place in Iowa, not far from Cedar Falls, not to be confused with Cedar Rapids.

I told them about the busking life a bit, and we wound up talking about basketball, as that is a passion of people around Ames Iowa, and much excitement ensued when little ol' Roland High School, with only 100 students made it to the state finals and almost beat Davenport, which has 2,500 students.

They were very nice people as are most people that I have met from the mid-western states, like Iowa.

Sherman and I hung out pretty late and I didn't get downtown until almost midnight.

Gabriel, the other guitar busker was on my spot across from the hot dog cart.

I went to my alternate spot and wound up with about 30 bucks by about 2:30 in the morning.

The rest is not really noteworthy.

Now it is late and I must figure out what I am going to do when I wake up tomorrow with 72 bucks in my pocket.

I need to go to New Orleans to return the fake book to the library, but am wondering if I should go tomorrow or wait until Thursday, when I might be able to busk in order to recover the 10 bucks that I will have to spend to get there and back.

53 Bucks

I had to play in front of the Chevron in Scotlandville, just for 75 cents, so I didn't have to walk 8 miles carrying all my stuff to get downtown.

I didn't ask anyone for money but casually mentioned that I needed 75 cents more to get downtown, so I could try to make money.

Nobody in Scotlandville had any change, including Howard, who had saved 3 bucks on his 11:30 a.m. chicken because the guy who steals our cans came and gave him a piece. He gets it for free from the Chevron and seems to feel that giving Howard a piece after he is already full and doesn't want it; entitles him to our cans and to try to bum a cigarette from me every time he sees me.

I told the guys in front of the Chevron. "I can't wait to get out of Scotlandville,' and then added that "What I've learned from living here is that the races shouldn't try to mix with each other; there should be a black section of town and a white section; with no mixing"

"Why do you say that?" they asked.

"Because I see the way people look at me here; I'm not comfortable and they aren't comfortable" ...and as much as you talk about us all getting along together; you wouldn't even spare 75 cents so I could go downtown and make some money -especially you, the guy who is selling bootlegged CDs and DVD movies and has a stack of money as thick as a brick...

It has been an uphill battle being one of only two white guys in Scotlandville and much of the time I feel like I have a knot in the center of my back, due to stress.

I went to the other store and sat down and played the intro to "Didn't We Almost Have It All," by the late Whitney Houston. 

The first guy I saw came and handed me 75 cents.

I packed up and went straight to the bus stop.

I wound up making 53 bucks; a good chunk of it came when I had first sat down and took out the fake book and was noodling around with "Ain't No Woman Like The One I Got."

One guy actually leaned over and looked at the sheet to see what song it was and then threw me 5 bucks. I wished that I had learned it already and was playing a good version of it, instead of sightreading and doing on the job training.

Sherman came by and invited me to crash at his place.

I told him that it would be around 3 a.m. before I planned upon getting there.

"That's fine, I'll be awake," he said.

I got there at 3:30 or so and slept until noon.

Now I have enough money to go to New Orleans to return the fake book, so Sue doesn't get fined by the library.

The Song That Won't Die

Friday: The Carcass Song
It is Friday, and last night, I added the 5 gallon bucket to "The Carcass Song," which is about the last in the set of songs that I recorded at Shermans house last weekend. There are 2 more that I haven't posted yet, because of mistakes that can be fixed.
The bucket slid out from between my knees and I dropped the beat, during the electric guitar solo, of all times, but I didn't want to re-do it because Howard was trying to go to sleep a few feet away.
I suppose I am leaving room for improvement.
Sue Orleans

I miss Sue and am writing a song about her and if I can get with Sherman this weekend I hope to record the song about Sue, which ironically will keep me from going to New Orleans and actually seeing her.
Howard asked me this morning: "Does Sue want to come out here?" to which I could only reply that, as much as she complains about New Orleans, people there approach her and hand her money when they see her carrying all her bags, and animals.
If she came here, she would have to stay around the downtown area; or we (all) would have to hop the train to Shreveport in short order.

Eviction Notice

The brother of the lady who owns the boarded up building came to cut the grass and informed me that they are going to start to work on the building, eventually un-boarding it, and that they no longer wanted anyone camping there.

It may have had something to do with me running off the old black guy who takes our aluminum cans; or it may have something to do with all the empty beer bottles that the guy left laying around.

I told him that I was planning upon going to New Orleans this weekend for a short time, and then would be leaving Baton Rouge for Shreveport soon thereafter.
If we are not gone within the next couple of days, we may be hearing from him again.

Picture ID

During my first visit to the One Stop Homelessness Center here in Baton Rouge (which is their version of The Rebuild Center in New Orleans) yesterday morning, I filled out the paperwork requesting help in getting a picture ID.

The lady there said that they had their own lawyer and that there was no cost to the homeless person for his assistance.

They told me that it could take up to 2 weeks before I am scheduled to meet with the lawyer.

I left them my mothers phone number in Massachusetts. She will have to e-mail me to let me know when to go to the One Stop center to get the thing done.

It will be a Louisiana ID, but will be better than none at all, especially if I am overtaken with the urge to pick cucumbers for money at any time in the near future.

The Guitar Center is having a sale on a certain Fender acoustic guitar for $99.95, which I played and which sounds better than the beat up Jasmine that I now play. That would probably be only a couple thousand cucumbers... 

Guitar Lessons

At the same time, I had run into a guy there who asked me if I gave guitar lessons, to which I said that I did, and told him that 20 dollars per lesson would be my fee.
I used to pay 10 bucks per lesson, but that was in 1987.
He gave me his card, and I gave him Shermans number, in case he called that same evening. Now it's up to me to contact him, I guess. 
I will start him off with the C major scale in all 5 positions, the way my teacher started me off. I had to practice 36 hours one week in order to get them down well enough to satisfy him so that he would give me the next set of scales: the harmonic minor scales in all 4 positions.
There are no shortcuts. If I only practiced 12 hours a particular week, my teacher would know... 

Two More Weeks

The two weeks that I might wind up waiting to get my ID would give me a chance to give the guy a couple of lessons, at least. I don't know if he expects to stick with the same teacher for a year or so; I'll have to make it clear that I could start him out and give him a months worth of practice material; but that I am trying to move on from here.
It might give me time for another recording session or two at Shermans, also.
By then, it will be the hottest time of the year

Eventually, when I get somewhere that I might like to settle down, I can see about maybe joining a church and giving group lessons there at maybe 10 bucks per student.

A dozen or so Christian youths, all playing The Merry Men in unison; music to my ears!

Raining Cats And Dogs

It is raining hard outside right now.
I am a dollar short of my bus fare to get downtown, but it is only 3:17 p.m., and I have another 6 hours before the last bus leaves here, to come up with one dollar, busking in front of the Chevron station.

Me And My Uncle / Mexicali Blues

.....shot me another, well damn it won't grow old...

(click there to hear)
I am posting the above song, before I risk screwing it up by adding either "bass guitar" which would be my acoustic run through the octave divider to lower it into the bass range, or 5-gallon-bucket-hit-with-stick drums.

Or both.

Or both, plus harmonica, backup vocals, and motor vehicle sounds.

There are little snippets of Shermans electric guitar that I threw in; because it was plugged in and I grabbed it, thinking that I would put a solo in, but then realized that it would be a good idea to at least work a solo out instead of making one up out of thin air; at least this time... 

Sherman thinks that I should stick closely to my street sound, in case someone hears me on this blog and then comes out to hear me on the street and becomes disappointed when the 5 gallon bucket hit with a stick is missing from my sound.

This is also one of my "Top 20 Busking songs," and probably benefits from being a song that the Grateful Dead performed, yet I don't think they wrote.

Put a hat on him (Bob Weir) and it could be me...

The Dead did songs by the likes of Johnny Cash, Merl Haggard and other artists who are beloved by many. I never know if people are tipping me because they are happy to hear Hank Williams (or whomever wrote it -will Google it in a minute) or the Grateful Dead, or if they think that it's one of my originals, about the time that I rode my horse all the way from Bakersfield to Mexicali and wound up killing a man over a young girl

This is the double blessing that comes with a good cover version..

Or take a hat off me...

Ok, it (Me & My Uncle) was written by John Phillips* of The Mamas and the Papas.

There seems to be a little more activity about now. Maybe there will be some kind of July 4th extravaganza here, after all. There are planes flying overhead and dropping fake bombs over the Mississippi River.

At least I hope they are fake bombs and that the planes aren't being flown by guys with names like Abdul Massamaad Hussien 
Inbreeding
*John Phillips is like the father of McKenzie Phillips, who co-starred in the sitcom "One Day At A Time," alongside Valerie Bertinelli, who married Eddie Van Halen.
The group Wilson Phillips ("Hold On") is related somehow to both the same Phillips, and I believe Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys and Rikki Lake (the talk show host) is related to the Wilsons, and I'm not sure about Ann and Nancy Wilson of the group Heart, who wrote "Magic Man," about Charles Manson.
I just need to marry into that family and I'll be all set.
Why, Brian Wilson also knows Charles Manson, who might be looking for someone to collaborate with on some songs.... 

Question:

Why can I be sitting here with my headphones on, and my head bobbing to the music and some mooch will interrupt me with a tap on the shoulder, whereupon I will take the headphones off and look at him with a "This better be good" expression, only to have him ask for one of my cigarettes, while at the same time a well dressed businessman can sit one table over with an even more expensive pack of cigarettes in front of him, talking on his phone and saying things like "I faxed the quarterly earnings report to them last night and I'm waiting for them to get back to me..." and the mooch won't disturb him?

We Were Here First

"Tears In Heaven," by Eric Clapton has been very good to me, since I learned it in 2007,and will certainly make my "Top 20" list.
I played it over and over in Jacksonville Beach once, when I was learning it. 
It was during spring break, and a steady flow of college kids were walking past me.

One girl, I recall, sat down next to me and cried, while I played it.

Was I playing that badly?
Hear For Yourself 

"Go!"
Last night, I was able to get online at the boarded up building, after having run off the old black guy who steals our aluminum cans, and more, according to Howard, who was sleeping on the concrete on the other side of the building, exposed to the elements.

The black guy was lying on Howards usual spot, on his piece of plywood. He had the fan of the guy who washes cars plugged in and aimed at himself.

I ran him off by becoming violent; kicking the 5 gallon bucket so that it sailed over his head, barely missing him, and then standing over him, wielding a two foot long piece of 2 x 4 lumber.

I had told him that I wouldn't be able to sleep with him there; worrying every time I went around the back of the building to use the "restroom" or to wash up that I would return to find him and all my stuff gone.

"Go sleep in the woods, then," he said, and that is when I grabbed the stick.

I don't know why he made me so angry, except for the fact that I arrived and found him basically sleeping in my bed, with no inclination to move.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he said, after the bucket almost hit him.

"Go!," I said.

I accused him of stealing some of Howards stuff.

He vehemently denied even being a thief; much less stealing Howards allergy medication.

As he walked off, he pointed out that I was one of a handful of white people in Scotlandville, and said that I had "a lot of balls" to have treated him as I had; as if I would have had no problem with a strange person of another race sleeping right where I intended to and using the electrical outlet that I had permission to use, and planned to plug my laptop into.

Howard moved back over to our side of the building, after I told him that the guy was gone.
Morning Music Mix

In the morning, I was up and working on the music that I had recorded at Shermans, mostly deleting sections of the electric guitar track, which was riddled with mistakes. I haven't played one for more than 10 minutes in the past 10 years...

My cash is low, as is usual on a Tuesday. 

My food card is low, but will become re-charged this Thursday at 5 a.m. with 200 bucks.

My goal will be to get downtown on Friday and then to New Orleans, on Saturday or Sunday, to return the library book that Sue lent me, and to see her one (last?) time.

Sherman mentioned that he wanted to go to New Orleans.
Other than that, I am trying to wash my clothes and my body and to eat the rice and pasta that wasn't stolen by the guy who isn't a thief.

Skill And Grace

You Sped It Up A Bit; That's Ok,

Since You've bought a few of my albums...

Then, we woke up at about noon, and got right back to recording...
All of the tracks that I had done the previous day were all there waiting. I listened to them, hoping that I would respect them in this morning. 

My newfound friend, Sherman, wants to learn the guitar. 

He was very intrigued by one of my choice of songs, "Your Song," by Elton John. Listen Here, isn't the Internet lovely?

I had taken it at a breakneck speed, several beats per minute faster than Reginald Dwight, had recorded it in 1971. 

Upon listening back to it, I had to smile. I thought that I sounded nasal. 

Alex in California had criticized me in the past for having nasal sounding vocals.
I even thought this one sounded nasal.

I attributed the other ones to the on board microphone on the laptop and its ability to capture only the nasal frequencies on the sound spectrum (of course, it probably didn't help; the fact that, for some reason I chose to put my nose flush against the microphone). 

But, all these songs were recorded in one take; no rewinding, no fixing "mistakes."  We set up the equipment (why did we ever break it down in the first place, if we knew that we were going to use it again as soon as we woke up??) 

I got on Shermans electric guitar. He started to scroll through the menu of preset guitar sounds that were indigenous to an effect pedal that he had, one which also supplied drum beats -I have a 5 gallon bucket and a stick, thank you very much, but no thank you... 

We chose a few presets that I thought might be appropriate for the songs that I had recorded the day before and then, I sat and played the electric guitar along with the tracks. 

I haven't played an electric guitar since 1998. 

His guitar had minor intonation issues, although it was a fancy looking thing. 

I am now back in Scotlandville. 

Sherman gave me a ride here, since our recording session ran past the time of the departure of the last #10 Scotlandville bus. 

He dropped me off in front of the boarded up building where I thought that I saw Howard sleeping in his usual spot, but upon approaching, I realized that it was the guy who steals our cans. 

I was pretty angry. I wound up snapping and came just short of hitting him with all my might with a 2x4; and I wasn't even drunk. 

He left. 

Now, I go to listen back to all the tracks that were recorded, with the addition of the electric guitar which had intonation issues; and maybe I will post a short sample from them; or maybe I will wait until I have added 5 gallon bucket and backup vocals and possibly more; yet; I hesitate because my guitar sounds like crap and a 5 gallon bucket hit with a stick although by nature can never sound bad, would have to be struck with skill and grace...

40 Minutes Of Music

Saturday night, I managed to make about 32 bucks,

in between replacing strings, which were snapping like a doo wop group.

I was totally sober up until I did the "stash and dash," putting my stuff in the bag of the hot dog cart guys truck, and jogging off to the hood store for one 24 oz. Natty High Gravity Lager, and back.

I had made less than 5 bucks at that point but, as has been the case here on Friday nights, made another 27 bucks between 1 a.m. and 2:45 a.m. 

Sherman, previously referred to as The Photographer Guy, showed up at my spot and invited me to crash at his place once again, and then to record music the following day, which was today. 

We woke up at about 11 a.m., and then decided to go to The Guitar Center where I would get new strings and pegs for my guitar, and Sherman would actually buy 3 microphones and cables. 

He asked me to refrain from drinking beer during the recording session, and I had a notion to return to Scotlandville, but decided that it would be foolish to pass up an opportunity to record in an air conditioned room, using brand new "Digital Reference" microphones and his Ibanez guitar which makes mine sound like it's made out of a cereal box with rubber bands for strings. 

After a frantic session of setting things up and deciding what signal would go where -metronome to the left headphone but not to the computer; voice, but not guitar, to the monitor etc. -we were finally ready to record. 

I had a mic for the guitar and one for my voice and could hear the metronome in my left ear. I chose a few songs that fit the tempo of the metronome and just played and sang; busker style; picking the songs randomly and even choosing to do "Your Song," by Elton John at the blistering speed of 138 beats per minute. 

Then, with the "tape" still running, we put the metronome up to 180 beats per minute for the last medley of Me And My Uncle into Mexicali Blues, by The Grateful Dead, which may have come out the best of the half dozen songs that were recorded. Now, they reside on my hard drive; just acoustic guitar and vocal, guided by an unheard metronome.  
The sound quality is vastly superior to anything that I had managed to achieve using the on-board microphone on the laptop and recording by the side of a highway. I wanted to post a sample, but will be patient and put the icing on the cake tomorrow, which is today, since it is already 6 a.m., by adding electric guitar and simulated electric bass guitar and perhaps harmonica. The only thing that I might add in Scotlandville would be the 5 gallon bucket drum; which should be possible, given that I stuck to the metronome pretty strictly. 
I'm tired now and still have recording to do later on, so off to sleep with me...

One Nickel

Friday morning, I was in so much pain after laying my hand down upon the Southern Flannel Moth at about 4 a.m. that I never fell back to sleep.

At about 7 a.m., I walked over to the Walgreens on Tulane, to get some Goody's Powder. It didn't open until 7:30, and I was told so by the vendor with the dollys loaded with soft drinks, who was waiting to get in and who spoke with a heavy New Orleans accent.

A heavy New Orleans accent sounds like someone talking with a heavy New Jersey accent with a crawfish in his mouth. 

He told me to take Benadryl instead of aspirin for the nasty infection caused by the moth.

He also told me that the other nearby Walgreens on Canal Street was open, but after I walked there and discovered that it too didn't open until 7:30, I figured he was most likely wrong about the Benadryl too, and so, went in and got some Advil type stuff and took 4 of them.

Listed on the back of the box were its applications; fever, body aches, toothaches, Southern Flannel Moth bites.

I'll Be Back Once More, To Return The Fake Book

Then, I headed for the Westin Hotel, to post yesterday's post and then to run into Sue, who was sitting at one of the outside tables, talking to a guitar player dude and his friend, who were telling her that they had only been in New Orleans for a couple days and couldn't wait to get out of there, because "something is wrong with the place," something they couldn't put their fingers on, unlike a note on a fretboard.

Sue and I talked for a while.

It turns out that she reads this blog (oops!) and has been doing so for a while, at least long enough so that she knew to expect my arrival the previous Friday.

Then, the whacky farce began.

She walked with me to the bus stop at the library, where I was just a few minutes too late to catch the 3:25 p.m. bus.

I decided to use the time before the 4:25 p.m. departure to run to the music store on Decatur, where I discovered that the price of Martin SP extra light gauge strings, at $9.80 per set, after tax was 20 cents more than I had, after taking out 5 bucks for the ride to Baton Rouge.

I was regretting buying the pack of cigarettes and the beer the night before.

$9.80 A Set, What Are You, Crazy??

I would have to take the bus to Baton Rouge and then busk using the rusty, dingy strings that I had on, and then hope to get a fresh set the next day.

I got back to Tulane Street to see the bus already sitting at the stop, and Sue (who had been watching my stuff so that I could run to the store and back faster) talking to the driver, trying to delay her.

I gave Sue a hug, threw my stuff in the underneath compartment and got on the bus.

The bus wasn't very crowded at all. The bus arriving FROM Baton Rouge had been packed. 

It pulled away.

Kicked Off In Sorrento 

The driver never gave the usual spiel about "no smoking, no alcohol, no illegal drugs, no weapons."

I started to read, as we pulled away from New Orleans, but soon found myself falling asleep.

I decided that I would recline upon the seat and sleep, since I had it all to myself.

First I wanted to use the restroom, so that I could sleep without being uninterrupted by the urge later on.

I don't know if it was lack of sleep, which made me feel groggy, or being bitten by a venomous moth that made me feel disoriented, or having been out most of the day in the 100 degree heat that made me kind of dopey, or the fact that, every other time that I had ridden the LA Swift, I had taken a few drags off a cigarette in the restroom about half way through the trip; and had gotten away with it; but; I decided to take a few drags off a cigarette while in there.

I actually took a few more drags than usual, and that might be what set off some kind of cigarette detector which probably caused the symbol of a cigarette to start flashing red on the dash board of the driver, but, after I came out, and before I even had gotten to my seat, which I had all to myself, she called me "You, sir!" to the front of the bus.

She said "You know there's no smoking on the bus, and so, this next exit coming up is where you will be getting off."

I was too tired and dopey and groggy to argue, although I could have played ignorant; mentioned the fact that she never gave the spiel about smoking, told her that I had never ridden the LA Swift bus before (I had actually attempted to slide my 5 dollars into the wrong slot, before being corrected by her) or even told her that that was my last 5 dollars and that my 12 year old daughter, whom I have custody of over the weekends was all alone at the terminal in downtown Baton Rouge, expecting me to arrive on the bus, and if I didn't she was going to freak out and become terrified. ...and if anything happens to her there in cracktown while she is waiting into the night hoping that there will be another bus and that I will be on it; I will sue Hotard Bus Lines for all they are worth, and name her as a defendant and will find a witness to testify that the warning about smoking was never given.

I got off the bus, and found myself in a bleak and barren spot where there were a couple of gas stations, a McDonalds and a Hotard Bus stop.

I had 7 dollars and change on me.

I went into the nearest store with my bus schedule to see if the last bus through actually stopped there. Not every bus stops at each stop.

I was informed that the last bus did stop there, and would do so in another 20 minutes.

About 15 minutes later, a bus stopped there, catching me by surprise.

I started to run towards it, taking a shortcut through a patch of tall grass, which turned out to be a patch of tall grass growing out of a puddle of mud and water into which I sank up to my knees, but managed to make it through.

I checked myself for southern flannel moths and then ran to the open door at the front of the bus, and saw none other than the same driver who had kicked me off the same bus.

I started to tell her that I needed to get to Baton Rouge and had rehearsed my story about my 14 year old daughter, who had had a couple birthdays since I first concocted the story, because what kind of father leaves a mere 12 year old alone at a bus terminal?

"Get on!" the driver, a 30 something year old black lady, said, before I could get another word out of my mouth.

"That stuff has to go underneath."

I got back on and started towards my seat, which I previously had all to myself.

"Wait a minute," the driver said, pointing to the money accepter.

I put my last 5 dollar bill into the correct slot ...what if I had been out of money? and went back to my seat.

I got to Baton Rouge, spent the rest of the money that I had on a Natural Ice 24 oz. beer out of disgust and a desire to say "f*** it all," drank it behind the trunk of a huge oak tree about half way downtown, and then proceeded to my spot.

I stopped and talked to the hot dog cart guy.

The topic of conversation was the outrageous volume with which the band that sucked in the club up the street was playing.

I went to the spot, unpacked and then found it hard to even hear myself playing over them.

Soon, the guy who had taken a couple of pictures of me and e-mailed them to me a couple weeks earlier showed up, riding a bicycle.

"Remember me?" he asked.

We talked for a while, as I packed up to move to the other spot up the street, where he joined me and we talked a while longer.

The topic of that conversation was the volume with which the other club near the other spot was cranking their prerecorded Hip Hop music.

I was tired, and hadn't made a dime, yet, took him up on his offer to eat and sleep at his place, which was about a mile away.

Along with being a photographer, I gathered from looking around his place that he was also a fisherman, a model rocket builder, a golfer, and a musician, as evidenced by his amplifiers, guitars -both electric and acoustic- and sundry other musical equipment, enough to start a band.

He let me play his electric guitar and I was able to impress him with my command of the key of E minor, and further amaze him by picking out some of the solo in the song "Freebird," by Lynyrd Skynyrd, and delight him by finding the chords in a Smashing Pumpkins song about a rat in a cage, after listening to it once.

Eating was forgotten about and I was soon very asleep on his couch, until well into the morning when he himself arose and began to make coffee.

I hung out there most of the day, talking about music and playing music and plugging in this laptop, so that he could read Alex in Californias comments about my recordings, and then hear a few of them, so he could see what the fuss was all about.

"To be honest with you; you need to modernize your sound. This stuff sounds kind of 70's -ish," he said, but then added that the "whistle" (Ocinero) in The Ballad of Richard Corey sounded pretty cool.

He let me play his acoustic guitar, which was an Ibanez and was bigger and heavier than mine, easier to tune than mine and sounded better than mine.

After I handed it back to him and resumed playing mine, I noticed right away that mine sounded like garbage by comparison. The tuning machines rattled; and the top buzzed where I had put tape over the spot that had become damaged. And there is some "play" in the bridge, when the strings are struck.

I left at about sundown (an hour ago) and got a Rock Star energy drink at the store and then came here, across the street from Community Coffee to do this post.

I will shortly go to the playing spot where, starting out with one nickel, I will busk.

Air Conditioned Recording Studio Complete With Golf Clubs
The photographer guy, whose name I never got, talked about me working with him on recording some music, and said that I could use his guitars and whatever other equipment that he had, notably a microphone, to record some stuff and to add myself to his recordings.