A Rest From Sleeping

• 34 Dollar Saturday
• 
  
• The "One Percent" Jar

I have been trying to get regular sleep, lately, but today I am taking a break from it; taking a rest from sleeping, you might say. I'm going shopping, hopped up on coffee, instead.

The "one percent" jar is only current for the past week, having been wiped out before then.
It is easy to keep the jar up to date as one dollar equals one penny. I dropped 34 cents into the thing this morning.
The jar, at one point was up over 10 dollars, indicating that I had lived off of a thousand bucks that I had made, and been able, out of it to drop a penny for every dollar into the jar (which is actually a very tall plastic drink holder from one of the bars on Bourbon Street that has a bowl at the bottom, and a 3 foot neck which flares a bit like a horn at the very top. It makes a good one percent jar.
It should, in theory, be possible to go through ones entire life, dropping one percent off the top of one's earnings into a jar and never missing it.*
*And possibly not needing it -I have seen that, at most convenience stores, if I am short one percent of my purchase, the one percent will be forgiven, for example, my Arizona Energy drink rings up at $1.08.
If I have put a dollar on the counter, and have fished a nickel out of my pocket, but am still fishing around for the three cents in my pocket, the cashier is about 90% likely to say "don't worry about the pennies."
So, I would have saved almost 2 % off my purchase.
If I could regularly prearrange my change so that I am in the position of (making a show of) fishing for the last few cents, I figure that I could save an average of  5% off of all my purchases.
This would offset the sales tax, and is significant to a guy who has a 1% jar waiting to take from his earnings. Getting 5% off my purchases would be like robbing Peter AND Paul.
The drawback would be that I would have to purchase things individually, which would be a pain in the ass. But, in theory at least; I have discovered a way to save money.
Pulling keys, a pack of gum, etc. out of the pocket that you are searching for the coppers in is a suggestion.
And, if you were to do it at the same store, eventually the staff would come to know you as the guy who fishes for the pennies, and they may ask you to stop doing it.

After a Saturday that netted 34 bucks, it is Sunday and I need to go and get

• batteries for my little radio so I can keep up on Donald Trump and sports
• dirt for my thriving plant community
• peanut butter
• water
• cat food 
• the laundry done
• newspaper
• instant coffee
• honey
• 
  

Sunday should be a day of rest; and so I am taking a rest from the grueling schedule of being in bed by a certain hour.

A Change Of Medium

2 Nights Rained Out

After making 33 bucks on Wednesday night, I was behind schedule on Thursday, which was St. Patrick's Day, but was a rainy and windy occasion.
I stayed in and caught up on some musical things.
Friday was similar.
I stayed in and drew a cartoon...

Broken In

• 3 Dollar Sunday
• Monday Off
• 36 Dollar Tuesday
• 33 Dollar Wednesday
• 2nd Doctor Appointment missed -let me cover that here; I had my second appointment to see the doctor who, I believe is my "primary care" physician. As I recall, even though I was a veteran, my stint with the National Guard as a medic, back when I was 19 through 22, did not garner me enough accrued "active duty" time, so that I could see the VA medic and have the world of free, or drastically discounted care opened up for me.

Being as I was homeless, though, and the "Healthcare For The Homeless" doctor (now my primary care physician) was at the VA on that particular Tuesday, I think it was...Doctor K. was assigned to me, at that time, under that head. I think the idea is to see the guy every x months, even if you are feeling spiffy, so that he might diagnose something "early" and save you from it.

I only want to see the guy based upon the neck issues which, I have had my whole life, even through a period of time when I was seeing a chiropractor, who was stretching me and snapping my neck.

I found then, in my mid 20's, that the relief that comes with a freshly cracked neck in wonderful and rejuvenating; and yours to screw up.

As soon as you step out of the office, you see your car sitting there, three month behind on its payments, and your neck kind of reflexively tightens and you can almost feel it undoing the good doctor's work.

That is why I get the fact that chiropractors are usually also nutritionists and promoters of the stress free lifestyle that is going to keep your spine intact.

Now, I have stiff necks, and I know that if I eat chicken or soy that the stiff neck might extend to the right arm. There hasn't been any numbness that has impeded me playing the guitar, as playing it is kind of a way to work the numbness out....

But, I've missed the 2nd appointment; and the lady on the phone never seems to stress over it, as if she has a bunch of knucklehead clients who routinely miss their appointments. What else would you expect from a homeless person?

Tuesday night, I got to the Lilly Pad at around 10:30 PM, and realised that the one hour that the clocks were set ahead recently for daylight savings time* have me basically one hour behind schedule, making me believe that I go more by the sun than I do clocks.
*for the benefit of anyone reading this 10,000 years from now.

I played for 2 hours; on strings that I was ready to replace, but decided to get one more night out of, and that were not sounding as excellent as their newer selves.

The new harmonica in the key of C is broken in.

• 86 Dollar Friday
• 65 Dollar Saturday

It is Sunday morning, I have played for a total of 5 and a half hours the past couple days; having miraculously rearranged my sleeping schedule so that I have woken up right as the sun was going down and had been rested enough so that a single energy drink had me soon on my way to the Lilly Pad.
The second (Saturday) night, I stayed at the spot and continued to play through the period when, for the past hundreds of nights, I would knock off in order to run to Rouses Market before their 1 AM closing.
This token of  a person living from hand to mouth, in the sense of a person buying one meal at a time has been costing me in the busking business.
Friday night, I ran there, making it with "7 minutes" to spare, and then, after packing my groceries into my pack, returned to the Lilly Pad, and played from about 1:20 AM, until about 2:30; and probably added another 20 bucks to my tip total.
It was good to have a decent Friday night, followed by a decent Saturday night, as, the two have seemed to be almost mutually exclusive in the past.
This was because; when I was drinking and I had a good Friday night, I was generally more drunk when I arrived on Saturday to play more sloppily and for less time.
And, might have something to do with tourists going hog wild with their spending on their first night in the Quarter (Friday) and then pulling the reigns in the next night "no more 20 dollar bills for street musicians..."
I am ripping a Linda Ronstadt CD onto my data stick so I can listen to it in my room.
I will compensate Linda for the piracy by having ready any number of her songs for female vocalists whom might come along at the Lily Pad in the mood to sing a song.
Buskerman can't live on "Me And Bobby McGee" alone.
Friday night, one of my disappointments at the end of the evening, was not having been able to pick out the exact chords by ear to "Killing Me Softly With His Song," as a young lady sang it. I was close enough to have gotten the 20 dollars that her group left me; but really felt like a musical idiot, something that the 65 dollars that I laid on my dresser at the end of the night couldn't completely take the sting out of.
The chords had been right at the tips of my fingers; and, minutes after the group walked off, I was playing the Roberta Flack song pretty much accurately...
Having such Linda Rondstadt classics, as Oh, Baby, Baby is also having Motown in your back pocket....

An Hour Well Spent

• 12 Dollar Wednesday
• Lilly On The Spot
• "I Know Mario"

I got into the Quarter last (Wednesday) night, after having taken 2 days off.

I was still concerned about the young black lady who had told me that I couldn't play on Lilly's stoop "anymore," on Sunday night.

I was down to about 6 dollars, and almost hesitant to spend any, pending the outcome of any confrontation with her.

If she called the police, then they might be put in the position of having to explain to the best of their ability exactly why it is that I have a right to play there; it would be one of the cops who occasionally ride past me, without bothering me; but it might be the black cop, and, even though that shouldn't matter, it could prompt him to try to seek some kind of compromise, maybe to ask me if I could stop playing at a certain time.

I got off the street car at Harrah's Casino, as it was a little past 9 PM, and I could get a coffee and then still walk to the Lilly Pad by 9:30. As it turned out, I didn't get there until 10:30 PM.

Coming out of Harrah's and walking up Canal Street, I was just about in front of Popeye's Chicken when, across the street and headed my way was none other than Lilly.

I had never seen her that far south before.

She looked a bit tired and/or as if she had lost some weight, under the harsh white neon light of The Hippie Gypsy storefront.

She was going into Popeye's "to get some mashed potatoes and...." and she invited me to sit with her.
After a time period that allowed me to step outside twice for cigarettes "...Gee, did they have to grow the potatoes?" she joined me at the table, laden with mashed potatoes, beans and rice and a huge container of chicken.

At first, I thought that she might have gotten extra on my account.

"Did you eat, she asked?" (by the way, I HATE the convention of putting the question mark after the statement part of a sentence which conveys a question, such as: "Where are we going, she asked, as she gazed out the window?" -were you wondering if she was actually gazing?).

"I ate some before I left the apartment, I'm pretty full," I assured her.

"I'm gonna eat real quick before I go get the girls."

Then, I think she tested me.

She pulled a bit of the skin off one of the pieces of fried chicken and offered it to me. It was mostly the breading (which is where most of the offending soybean oil seems to reside) and I only nibbled a bit and put the rest on the table in front of me.

"You don't like the skin?" asked Lilly.

"I like the skin, but I usually only eat a little of it; some people say that you shouldn't eat any at all, like that's where the bad cholesterol is, or something."

Lilly seemed satisfied. I think that if I had ravenously scarfed the skin down and then licked my fingers, she would have given me a whole piece.

Just like a chess grandmaster (I thought) is going to smoke you off the chessboard, Lilly seems to be light years ahead of mere mortals when it comes to strategic thinking in such social situations; I never would have thought about testing someone with the least popular part (you don't hear someone say "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse, and then go to work on the skin) to gauge how hungry they might be.

That is part of Lilly's nature though, to be concerned.

When I was homeless she frequently checked with me to make sure that I had enough blankets and would be somewhere out of the rain, etc.

Lilly's phone rang, and after answering it, she told the person on the other end: "I got you some chicken," and I was glad that I hadn't eaten a piece, she was going to bring Angelique and Chantilly some; that explained the huge amount of it.

The matter of the young black lady was pressing upon me, but, I thought that it would be less selfish of me to introduce a matter which is even closer to her heart.

"I saw Chantilly Sunday night, with Michael, from Belfast, Ireland..."

"You did? What did you think of him, was he nice?"

I told her that the young guy had been very polite.

It was Chantilly who had gotten my attention after they had stood and listened for a while and I hadn't looked up. She introduced me to Michael.

I told Lilly that he had just seemed a little bit impatient. I couldn't remember if it hadn't been a little chilly that night and if he wasn't kind of shifting his weight back in forth in order to stay warm.

I concluded that he acted like the typical 20 year old (Chantilly's age) these days.

"He's 30," Lilly corrected, and then added that Chantilly and he had gone out "3 nights in a row."

"Which direction were they headed when you saw them?" Again, a question from the mind of Lilly, who would make an excellent lawyer.

I knew that they were headed towards the crazy end of Bourbon Street, but wasn't sure that they hadn't gone into the house.

This seemed to perhaps jive with the account that she might have gotten from Chantilly, as she nodded, apparently satisfied.

Then, I brought up the incident with the young black lady.

I told her that she had come out and said: "Esscuse me, but this is residential, and I live here..."
"Does she own a home?" Lilly jumped in.

"I don't think so, and I hadn't seen her in like, 2 years, when she had done the same thing."

I related how she had told me that I couldn't play there anymore.

Lilly drew in her breath. "That bitch! She must be the one who took the cat! Point her out to me sometime,"

She wanted to know out of exactly which building she had come, and as much descriptive information that I could recall.

"She must be the one who lives on the bottom floor on the right," was her conclusion.

"I'll catch up with her; I'll run into her, I know who you're talking about..."

Then, after about an hour, which I felt was well spent, I walked with her towards Mr. B's Restaurant, while she gave me the advice: "If she comes up to you again, call me or text me, and I'll come out," and then, perhaps in the contingency that she wouldn't be home: "Tell her....tell her you know Mario, the maintenance guy. Tell her you know him through the owner of the house..."

So now, I know Mario.

We got to the corner across from Mr. B's where Lilly told me that she needed to go inside and get her daughters, whom she would chaperone to the house, cutting a wide swath around the crazy end of Bourbon Street.

I took that as my cue to part company. I didn't see any point in my going in there with her and being the only person in the place wearing ripped jeans; and I thought that it might embarrass Lilly, who makes no bones about the fact that she has procured employment there for her daughters, in hopes of marrying them off to wealth.

She erased any such thoughts, by leaving me with a kiss, in full view of anyone, employee or other, who may have been gazing out a restaurant window (as well as Troy, another street musician on the opposite corner, and a few resident skeezers in front of the Unique Grocery store) before she crossed the street to go into the swank 5 star place, while I went the opposite way to go behind the Hotel Monteleone to pick their 5 star ashtray for snipes...

Respect is a funny thing, which seems to become magnified here in New Orleans. I wouldn't be surprised if I don't observe a change in the way I am treated by certain Unique Grocery skeezers, just because of being seen kissing a finely dressed lady.

So, that is how it stands. I got to the Lilly Pad at around 10:30 PM, an hour later than I would have, had I not seen Lilly, and played for just about 2 hours, only making 12 bucks, but making them off of not many more than 12 tourists, it seemed.

The cat thieving troublemaker never materialized.

It is Thursday evening; rain is threatening. I have gotten a little bit of weed and can stay in and put the finishing touches (hopefully) on a Bob Dylan song that I originally recorded about a year ago, and which I have redone in order to showcase how much better I have gotten in one year. I also decided to change the lyrics in a Weird Al Yankovich way...
It will be called "Unlike A Rolling Stone," and will appear in the sidebar of this blog as soon as I get around to putting it there....

   

Blog Neglect And The Resident

Two Nights Away From Much

I have not been entirely neglecting this blog; just not posting to it....
I have doodled around with some cartoons and added to some stories that might make featured posts about the past, etc.

France	1640
United States	664
Germany	55
Russia	38
China	32
United Kingdom	25
Canada	20
Ukraine	18
Poland	16
Italy	13

France

1640

United States

664

Germany

55

Russia

38

China

32

United Kingdom

25

Canada

20

Ukraine

18

Poland

16

Italy

13

My "month in review" shows that the surge of page viewers in France is more than just an ephemeral phenomenon....
Now I have to wonder is some hacker there has pirated my site to use as a portal to facilitate terrorism, or something.....

"You Can't Play Here Anymore, Did You Hear Me?"

Sunday night, I got to the Lilly Pad at the decent hour of about 9:30 PM, and played for a couple of hours, making probably about 12 bucks.

At a little past midnight, along came this young black lady, whom I haven't seen in 2 years. She hadn't changed much; as evidenced by the fact that she just about repeated verbatim what she had said the last time I encountered her.

She at first, made some kind of ostentatious reference to the fact that she lived "here," seeming to pause to let the information that any young black lady at all could ever live in the block...
Then she said "You've been playing all night, and you're loud," and this is residential, so if you keep playing, I'm gonna call the police..."

This is the same thing that had occurred about 2 years ago, and the solution then (which was before I had the blessing of Lillian) was to show up earlier; and make a decent amount of money before she came out to repeat her message almost verbatim.

Sunday night, I didn't say a thing. I was just starting to pack up, so I just mumbled something like "OK," and then continued to pack up.
She seemed almost disappointed, as if she had been hoping for some kind of confrontation which would give her another opportunity to identify herself as someone who lived there. I get the feeling that one of the perks of being able to live in such a "high rent" neighborhood, for her, is the chance to stoke her ego; and being able to run a musician off (and since so many black people seem to live in a black and white world, I must add: a white musician) off of the block.
After I had almost all my stuff silently packed up; she added "I don't want to listen to you all f***ing night!" It almost felt like my silence was making her uncomfortable.
"You can't play here anymore, do you hear me?"
I looked at her, but didn't respond.
She walked away.

She is perhaps going to repeat what she had done 2 years ago, by appearing again in a few days, to say something like "I thought I told you not to play here!" and then to await an opportunity to tell me where she lives and how much she pays for rent in order to expect that nobody will be playing music in her block.

I got to Rouses Market before they closed at 1 AM, where Treva, one of the cashiers, a heavy set middle aged woman who often teases customers, especially myself ("You got 5 minutes to pick out your stuff, Daniel; otherwise we're gonna lock you in here for the night!") asked me:
"What did you say to her?"
"I hardly said anything; I just packed up my stuff. I think she wanted me to argue, so she could make a big scene about how she lived there..."
"You should have told her 'this is how I make my living' -at least you're not breaking into her house- tell her to f*** off!"

So, I actually took Monday and Tuesday nights off.

I had gotten a letter from my mom, who had stuffed 20 dollars into it; and that money almost afforded me the opportunity to take them off, and maybe even make the lady think that she had succeeded in running me away (maybe giving her a chance to feel guilty over having taken away a guy's means of earning a living).

If she indeed has been living there, then she should know; especially if my harmonica is bleeding through the walls of her house and drowning out the TV, or waking her from a sound sleep from being so "loud," that I play there just about every night; and my absence will become conspicuous.

Lilly (artist's rendition)

I am going to call Lilly and see if she has any advice for me.

Should I just pack up and leave and then give Lilly an opportunity to encounter the young lady?
Lilly would know anybody that lived on the block; her ex husband might even own the building...

Or should I tell the young lady that "my lady friend" owns the property where I play and that I have every right (as a family friend and thus and extension of the family) to sit on "my" front step and play a musical instrument.

Lily had been through such issues with the "quality of life committee" which, I guess exists, and has even smoothed things over on the issue with the police; maybe even gone so far as to suggest that I am keeping an eye on her property while I play, ect, and the police just roll past me, even after having just run off another group somewhere else on the street.

I could inform the young lady of all that; could wait for her to possibly call the police, who might tell her that I have permission of the owner, blah blah blah, and quiet the young lady down that way...

What I plan to do will probably change if and when I get Lily on the phone, but right now; I plan to play tonight, and to limit the harmonica after a certain hour, by playing it more softly after say, 11 PM..  

Does He Have Any Sense Of Smell?

I'm in the computer room, ripping a Linda Ronsadt CD, to my data stick. The movie wouldn't rip to a CD, at least not through the functionality of the built in DVD viewer. That sucks; I have an Elton John concert disc that would be cool to watch, but I would have to sit in the computer room to do it.
I am stuck in the 70's with those selections that I made in the library.

• 12 Dollar Friday
• 6 Dollar Saturday

Thursday night, I had packed up and went to the Quartermaster for an Arizona Energy concoction; then decided to play for another half hour or so; which netted about 25 of the 46 that I would make that night.
Friday night, things seemed to be going pretty much the same way, with the exception of the one 20 dollar tip which had come Thursday night; after I had sat back down to play some more...

Last (Saturday) night, I farted around the apartment, as the time got later, and as I saw each particular starting time at the Lilly Pad, in turn, become an impossibility.
I finally left, planning upon arriving there just before 11 PM, and seeing what happened.
I was almost broke.
I started out playing and the tips started flowing, then I broke a string and replaced it.
Then and older skeezer came along and sat next to me; after asking me if it would be alright if he did so.
I should have probably shoo-ed him away; I was soon hit with the nastiest of funky odors that was coming from his direction and, which was so strong that I could see it reaching a radius of up to 25 feet from around "us."
It was one of those instances when I wondered out loud: Does he have any sense of smell, himself? How can he stand his own stench. There was a definite smell of urine; but also more. Much more...
Then, the skeezer began talking about how he is a musician; of course he is; and how he lost his guitar somehow; of course he lost his guitar some how.
Then, I broke a second string, and it was one that I had no replacement for.
"We could tie it up!!" said the skeezer who plays guitar but doesn't have one.
At that point, I called it quits. I had made a quick 6 bucks in about 25 minutes; fixing the string would have taken about 10 minutes; and I could easily have done it; but the Rouses Market closing time was fast approaching; and the smell from the guy had already drawn a few looks from tourists, who were looking at me as much as at him; and I knew that I would not only have to "tie up" my string, but to get him to move along also, if I were to turn the night into a productive one.
I went to Rouses Market and got some food, leaving there just before 1 AM, and went by the Lilly Pad to see that the skeezer was still sitting on the same stoop.
He was probably skeezing, and probably succeeding, probably getting drinks from people so that he hadn't even had to think about getting up and walking to the store to spend his skeezings.
I think he had some kind of designs upon skeezing me some way.
First of all, he had told me that he had been laying down on the sidewalk across the street and "listening" to me.
Something made him want to come and sit next to me.
I didn't like the way that he said that "we" could tie the string up, after it had broken.
There was no "we" going on at all; only in his skeezing mind was there....
So, it is Sunday evening, and I have been giving some thought to playing the open mic night at Checkpoint Charlie.
I am down to 3 dollars and change, so I perhaps don't have the luxury to do so.
I eventually plan upon making a live recording in there, using their equipment; in an open mic environment; and it would be good to make a test run of it.

Waiting For Food

11 Dollar Tuesday Night


Mystery Of The Harmonica Solved


Yeah, 2 hours of playing netted 10 bucks, and again, I probably only saw 50 people walk past that weren't skeezers, residents, or employees of nearby establishments.


I haven't seen any official statistics (perhaps I can Google such) about the amount and/or "quality" of the tourists that are coming here.


I would imagine that the highly published accounts of mass shootings where innocent people have been slain have had a negative impact upon their numbers.


I can't remember there being such a slow season in the 4+ years that I have been here. I remember the problem of deciding when to quit playing, there still being masses of people swarming around Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern, after I had already played almost 5 hours, and feeling bad about walking away from potentially more money.


Thursday The Third

But, I woke up with only 3 dollars and change, bought an energy drink and a can of cat food and then rode the trolley into the Quarter with 53 cents in my pocket.


So, leaving the Lilly Pad with 11 dollars and 53 cents was good, given that there were stretches of up to 20 minutes that I went without seeing any tip money at all. A couple of people must have tipped more than a dollar because it's hard to recall more than 4 or 5 people approaching the tiposaurus.


But, Tuesday is in the books and I am now counting down (68 more hours now) until my food card will have money on it.


I bought a small jar of instant coffee, an energy drink, a few bananas, a jar of jelly (because I have oatmeal) and a can of food for Harold the cat, a couple of cigars for a dollar in lieu of cigarettes, and got off the trolley with just about the $1.25 needed to take the trolley back tomorrow.


I did make progress in getting to the spot at around 9:30 PM; an hour sooner than I had been managing the past week or so.


I got to Starbucks at around 7:30 PM. I had run out of coffee the night before, and so I was highly motivated to get there.


Mystery Solved

Using their wireless connection, I checked my e-mail for the first time in at least 2 weeks and discovered a message from the Lidgleys of London, telling me to be on the lookout for a package containing a harmonica.


I sent them an mp3 of the first song that I recorded using it.


It is 4 AM, Wednesday, March 2nd, and I suppose I just need either one good night, or to keep making 11 bucks a night for the next couple days, and then I will have to see if I can avoid another food debacle the next month, which has 31 days.



You've just read: 478 words.

I Catch Up On Sleep

France	50
United States	23
China	3
Germany	2
United Kingdom	2
Mexico	1

France

50

United States

23

China

3

Germany

2

United Kingdom

2

Mexico

1

I seem to have some readers in France, lately.

More upon this particular day than in the USA....

Look how dark a shade of green their country is. Perhaps a wave of buskers are planning to hit the streets of the French Quarter and are reading up upon at least one guy's experiences...

Wednesday, I had stayed up into the morning, getting a lot of things done on the music studio which didn't require making a lot of noise (adding new vocals or the snare drum was out).

I then fell asleep in the tub, as I have done before; waking up when the temperature of the water fell to a certain point where it would feel warmer to get out into the air than to stay in the water.


I had set the alarm for the evening at around 5 PM, knowing that I was almost broke, having only around 3 bucks left from the 11 that I had made Tuesday night.


Thursday, March 3rd

I smell food...


Tonight should be that last night in a while that I go out there to busk, knowing that I am playing for, first, the trolley fare home, and second, food.


Time seems to be marching at a fast pace, as I have noted recently.


Sure, it is cool that I have only about 32 hours (right now) to wait before my food card is charged with $194, but it seems like only yesterday when I had 14 days to wait, with a zero balance on the card, and was pressed to find a way to eat during the interim; avoiding hydrogenated oils in the process.


I have had a few meals of beans in cheap tomato sauce, and pasta and beans in tomato sauce, when feeling extravagant.


One $2.17 can of coconut milk has something like 700 calories in it, and can have rice added to it, making a delicious soup, seasoned with ginger, salt and pepper, and will support almost anything else that you throw in with it, such as meats and vegetables and even fish.


The advice of Tony, the night manager at Rouses Market on Royal Street, where I wind up often, right before closing time; was "Just get a loaf of bread, and some peanut butter and jelly..."


I can see his logic. "How many meals will that make?" he asked...


My problem with that is that I would have to buy the peanut butter that has only its natural oil, which I would stir into it, rather than the peanut butter that is "spreadable" right out of the jar.


I read an article about that kind, once.


The article stated that, in order to integrate the oil into the peanuts, so that it would be creamy and spreadable, they add some chemical, which turns the fledgling peanut butter a sickly shade of peanut color. So they then add an artificial color.


That makes the peanut butter too dry; so they add a moisturizer.


That makes the peanut butter nice and moist, along with being the right color, but makes it too tart...


So they add something to make it less tart, which is alright, but that combination of ingredients tends to spoil faster once the air hits it, and so they add a preservative...


But preservative will just float on the top and not mix thoroughly, unless they.....etc., etc...


I'm paraphrasing from memory, but the point is that I have to buy the $5 per jar kind (I don't mind stirring the oil in, before each use) along with the "fruit only" jam, which is expensive; and then, I don't eat just any kind of bread (believe me, I've tried; and have yet to wade through the whole paragraph of ingredients listed on the sides of the cheaper loaves, to figure out which one aggravates my eczema) and will buy only the ones that are literally made from just whole grains.


These are easy to spot, because they crumble easily, and are apt to fall apart when used for sandwiches. Now, there is a way to make them more elastic; but that dries them out, so they have to add.....


So, Tony's heart was in the right place when he made his suggestion, but those sandwiches at 40 cents a piece, or whatever, would mess up my skin. Is it any wonder that they are a staple in jails nationwide, where the cheapest food available is served?


A whole sleeve of beans ($1.29) along with a ($1.29) can of tomato sauce and a ($1.29) bag of rice will get you through the night, I find, and will actually make 2 meals for someone who is less of a pig than I am.


There is always some anxiety when the date comes for the food card to be charged as, they seem to love to send letters advising that certain actions must be taken or the account will be closed; and they seem to love to send them to a prior address, or to send them when they will arrive only a few days before the action must be taken.


I check my mail only about once per week, and I have just checked my e-mail for the first time in 3 weeks, and so they prey upon me.


"We sent you a letter on the 26th, saying that you had to come in and fill out a ...but the letter came back...you need to re-apply..." type of thing.


I am going to have to pay for 60% of my food with the card and then pay the rest in cash in order to stretch it for a whole month, I have calculated.


That will keep me from having those days when I make a good amount and wake up with the whole thing, minus just trolley fare and maybe a newspaper, sitting on my bureau; but it will also eliminate days like Tuesday, when I made 11 dollars and then spent the lion's share of it on food...



You've just read: 1,069 words

One Of My Longest Posts

• 3,000+ Word Post, This
• $28.28 Friday
• Clock Management Woes
• Saturday Night Off (yikes)

Time has been a pain in the ass lately.

Oh, Lord, look at the time!!

It seems that every clock that I look at reveals it to be later than I had been hoping it would be.


It has been especially problematic when I only have a certain amount of it before catching the trolley which is scheduled to arrive at Starbucks long enough before it closes to make lugging along this laptop worthwhile.


The other night, it was almost 8 PM, and I stood there pondering whether or not to take it along, knowing that I would arrive with less than an hour to sip coffee and go online.


The more I pondered, the less worthwhile it began to seem, until I had thought about it long enough to make the determination that I should just leave the thing at home.


Getting a large cup of strong coffee, spiked with a shot of espresso, to bring with me to the Lilly Pad was the priority -more important than whatever I might  accomplish  in a half hour online -probably a scant blog post which would be prefaced with: "I only have 20 minutes to post, but..."


I usually figure that, if I could get at least an hour at Starbucks, then it would make up for being burdened with an extra 7 pounds the rest of the night, beginning with a 10 block trek to the Lilly Pad.


Then, I would have to be extra concerned about a punk running off with it, along with the backpack that it is in -enough so that I would tie one of its straps to the gate behind me.


And then, I would have its weight hindering me along the 3 block walk to Rouses Market.


This brings up another instance of time being a nuisance.


It seems that, I can start a song shortly after midnight, knowing that I have almost an hour to get to the store, and then after what seems like 15 minutes of playing; recheck the time to see that it is suddenly 6 minutes before 1 AM. and that I must jog there. The weight of the laptop then becomes a factor.


Once at the store, I must be careful about packing my groceries in the bag so  that they will put the minimal amount of pressure on the thing, as I have discovered that a gallon of water pressing upon a harmonica in its harness which is, in turn, pressing upon the laptop can put a crack in its screen. Jogging to catch the trolley increases that risk.


$28.28 In 2 Hours And 15 Minutes

So, as it turned out Friday the 26th, I stepped outside the apartment, after having packed all my stuff up and donned the appropriate clothing for the 44 degrees that was forecast, and saw a trolley pass, which would have definitely gotten me to that coffee in time. The next one along would come with no such assurance.


As I had been preparing to leave, I actually had been glancing at the clock every couple of minutes or so, just to make sure that it was not playing tricks on me; half expecting to catch the hands lurching forward; whereupon I would exclaim: "Aha! I knew something was up!!"


As I stood there waiting for a trolley which would turn out to have 11 minutes to make it to the corner of St. Charles and Canal Streets and a large cup of strong coffee spiked with espresso, all I could think about was how I had started my preparations to leave with a little more than an hour to spare, and here I was with only a 50% chance of arriving on time.


Barrister Draws The Line

I was hoping that Starbucks would have been busy enough -with several people having come in just before 9 PM, who would still be standing in a line that I could sneak into the rear of.


What I had working in my favor, I thought, was the fact that the Starbucks barristers have come to know me as a guy who only gets a cup of black coffee, sometimes with a shot of espresso, made by a machine which is easy to clean; just rinses out, and they would be less prone to tell me: "Sorry, we're closed."


As it was, I was planning to come in through the back door which is left open, ostensibly to allow people to leave, as the front door would probably already be locked with a "Sorry, we're closed" sign hanging.


It was Harold, that damned cat, I thought.

When I first stepped outside, he was meowing at the door, and I had brought him inside and put some food out for him. That is what had made me miss the first trolley which would have made it on time.


I got off the trolley one block before Starbucks, with 3 minutes to get there, thinking that I could cover that block on foot faster than the trolley could; which had to load about a half dozen people there whom, I felt pretty sure, would each not have the exact change and would each have to call out to any one of the passengers that might have 4 quarters for a dollar and then have to deal with one of the street types whose hustle is to sit at certain stops asking people who are getting off if they are done riding for the day and, if so, if they can have their all day passes, so they can turn around and sell them (the correct term for them is "trolley skeezers," by the way) who would say: "I got 2 quarters for a dollar," giving the tourist pause to think about that for a few more agonizing seconds.


Then each would, in turn, ask the driver if this was the trolley going to Harrah's Casino; or ask if it was the one going down St. Charles Street, and after learning that it wasn't, would stand there jotting down the directions to the one that does, from the driver, who would repeat them, as per that special courtesy that is extended to anyone who looks and acts -through asking that question- like a wealthy tourist.


By then the light ahead would be red, and the trolley would sit there an additional one of the 3 minutes that I had at my disposal, waiting for it to change.


De-Clawing The Trash Bins

I got to Starbucks at exactly 9 PM, went in through the back door, and was informed that they were closed, and had already "closed out the register." And dumped out the last of the coffee, I guess, or given it to one of the Starbucks skeezers, yes we have them -they know that Starbucks is one of those "caring" establishments (that only buys their beans from suppliers that pay their bean pickers a decent wage, for example) whose policy might just be that if there arrives a homeless person at the end of the evening who really needs a "pick me up," and there is left over coffee and left over scones and/or bear claws, then give them away, rather than toss them in the trash. This provides the side benefit of keeping the trash cans from being dumped out onto the sidewalk to be "de-clawed" each night.


That particular location has a few regulars whom one can smell as soon as one walks in towards the end of a given evening.


Tonight?

Still wanting that coffee and having only a dollar and 38 cents on me, I headed towards the Starbucks at Harrah's Casino, mentally preparing myself for a possible encounter with the young black security "officer," at the entrance who, it seems, has carte blanche in turning away (with a smirk on his face, and the words: "Not tonight," repeatedly uttered, at the request for any explanation) anyone whom he can get away with deeming homeless with the presence of a backpack seeming to suffice in that regard.


As I walked the 5 blocks to the casino, I took inventory of myself, noting that I was wearing my nice shiny black shoes and my newest black jeans.


I took my nice black jacket out of my backpack and put it on, so as to make the pack even smaller, and appearing less like I was carrying "my whole world" on my back -no sleeping bag here- and then took my Starbucks gift card out of my wallet, so that it would be visible in my hand and might imply an affiliation with people who are not homeless, and the plastic card carrying world that they exist in.


I didn't have to worry, as the young smart ass was not on duty.


Instead it was the young black lady, who almost seems to welcome the appearance of me, as I look old enough, I guess, to save her the trouble of having to check my ID; a task which I'm sure is the bane of her working life, as it stands in the way of her receiving a paycheck for "just standing there," or, more accurately, "just leaning on the podium" taking as much weight as possible off of her feet.


Pedaling Wares

I had my strong coffee, sipping most of it down while talking with one of the pedicab drivers out front, who was complaining that it was a slow night.


His name was Gothier (Go-tee-ay) and he spoke rather broken English, with a French accent.


He told me that the drivers paid $120 to take out the pedal powered cabs for 24 hours, and that, on a night such as this, they could make "barely anything," but that, on a good night, they could "quadruple that."


So, I could drive a pedicab with the potential of making almost 500 bucks a night, rather than busking for $212 on my one best night, about 2 years ago, which was probably one of the "quadruple it" ones for him, I thought.

I also couldn't help thinking that, with my "chatting the passengers up" skills, that potential might be even higher than Gothier's, him being saddled with broken English.


I Save 75 Dollars

I went in for a refill, and then set out for the Lilly Pad, which was about 15 blocks from there (or a 75 dollar pedicab ride) noticing that it was just shy of 11 PM, when I passed the "Jesus shadow" clock.


Time has been a pain in the ass, I again thought.


I had been kicking myself over my recent string of 10:30 PM starts, and here I was on a Friday night (albeit a "slow" one, according to Gothier) at 11 PM.


I played for about 2 hours and 15 minutes, making $28.28, according to my accounting later on that evening.


NOLA On 14 Dollars A Day

$1.08 for an energy drink, $5.29 for cigarettes, $1 for a lottery ticket, $3 for an all day bus pass to save myself 75 cents on my daily rides, a gallon of water, some instant coffee and a newspaper later, I got home with about 14 bucks to lay on my bureau, where $2.60 had been when I had left.


A Gift Harp In The Mouth

The new harmonica sounds great.


The only problem has been that, it being a deluxe model, it doesn't fit in the harness that goes around my neck and so I have had to tie it on with strings made from plastic bags.


This is an advantage, in that, it makes me appear even more like a homeless street musician trying to make do -a hinderance at Starbucks turning into an asset at the Lilly Pad; and a disadvantage in that it has changed the angle at which the harp sits and I need to crane my neck a little differently to get a clean sound.


I will also have to work on tying it on tighter, so it remains stationary, as I struggle enough as a harmonica novice without having the thing moving around on me. This can be done by making the plastic loops smaller than the circumference of the harp and then shoehorning it through them so that they are stretched (...or by just saving up and buying a 20 dollar harness that fits it...).



I still don't know the origin of the anonymously sent harmonica, the fact that it came through Amazon hints at my mother, as she used to send me books through them whenever I had been in jail; and she is a blog reader.


But, the fact that the travails that I outlined concerning harmonicas in this blog had to do with musical technicalities, such as being out of pitch with the piano player in Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern, leads me to think that it is from another musician.


The country of origin (U.S.) seems to rule out The Lidgeleys of London -and they usually give me a "heads up" to check my mailbox in the coming weeks.


It was Tim, my caseworker, whom about a month ago assessed that I seemed to be spending a lot of money on harmonicas, to which I replied that that was because I was buying the 12 dollar ones; and added that a Marine Band (the brand that it is) would last me a lot longer.


Still, it is a mystery.


It might have come from Lee Rumbley, a sometimes blog reader from Mobile, Alabama, who is a paramedic and also a musician, and one who had commented upon a video that I posted to my Facebook page of me doing part of my "Bum Suite" on guitar and harmonica. I think he plays with a band called "The Last Walz." I would check, but I'm offline.


The curse of time once again reared its head, and I wound up missing Saturday (last) night, having not gotten to sleep until a little after noon, and having set my alarm 5 hours ahead (I had fallen asleep in the bathtub for probably about and hour in the late morning and was counting that against the "at least 6 hours" of sleep that I seem to need in order to feel fully awake the next day).


I had gotten in on the last trolley, about 3 AM, then, cooked beans and liver, worked a bit on a jigsaw puzzle, recorded a rhythm guitar part to go under a harmonica melody, which I then set to repeat infinitely while I soaked in the tub, seeing if any lyrics came to me (they usually don't; I have to write the lyrics when it is silent, so that I am not constrained by the rhythm of the music and can use whatever meter fits the words, and then put them to the beat later...).


I read a little bit of "Chronicle of America," a year by year, day by day history of the United States.


I'm up to 1841, and President Harrison has just died, 31 days into his term, after becoming ill probably from giving a 2 hour inaugural speech in the cold. John Tyler will take over from there.


I woke up with the alarm, feeling dead tired, wondering if the huge pot of beans and chicken liver (that I had eaten a couple hours before going to sleep) needed to be added to my "do not eat" list -maybe just without so much liver, and feeling kind of depressed, and having had a dream in which I was chasing after a skeezer that had stolen something from me, and whom I knew I could have whipped in a fight, but whom I couldn't catch, even though he and another skeezer were just nonchalantly strolling along the sidewalk.


I tried to run but was just floating as if up to my shoulders in water.

I guess I should have been relieved, upon waking,to see that I hadn't fallen asleep and left the bath water running.


Even after setting the alarm ahead and waking up again, I still felt like one does after eating a huge Thanksgiving dinner; like sleeping.


I woke up at 11:05 PM, and thought that I could still be at the Lilly Pad by midnight and play for 2 and a half hours (my quota, recently) and make who knows how much money, and still catch the trolley back on my 24 hour pass.


Leaving Money Out There

The decision not to was based upon my stepping outside to put Harold out, and discovering that the temperature was in the low 40's.


It is forecast to warm up over the next few days, and so I used that as rationale for waiting until the next (to)day.


Missing a Saturday night, though, makes me feel ashamed of myself. That is something that had never happened when I was homeless. The apartment enables me to be more lazy; something I need to guard against.


Now, it is 9:08, Sunday morning.


A couple of improvements that come to mind: A. Buy my food at Rouses Market before going to the Lilly Pad (whenever I have the money) so that I can play past 12:40 AM. It might be reassuring to know that dinner is already in the bag next to me as I play.


B: Adjust my thinking to where I really don't consider an hour a whole lot of time to get somewhere.


C: Take a glance at the trolley schedule some time and memorize the times that the ones that pertain to my schedule leave from across the street -maybe even glance out my window to ascertain whether or not they run pretty much as scheduled. A lot of people would have already done so, but, I get a D- in "self management."


If I was wealthy, I would actually hire a personal assistant that would do things like that for me.


Me: "Where's my pick?"


P.A. (from the couch in the living room) "The gray one is on the bureau next to your cigarettes, and the orange one is in your left breast pocket; you put it there before you went into the bathroom."


Me: "O.K., Thanks."


You've just read: 3,018 words

Home Studio LivingIN

My Favorite Mule Short Excerpt-click here to hear

The hat out of a backpack that David the water jug player

is having me store at my place...

• Harmonica In My Mailbox
• 10 Dollar Wednesday

I am going to keep pace with my last year's outputting of music by re-doing and re-releasing it on the anniversary of last years date; that way I only have to keep up with the less than manic pace that I set last year.

In that spirit, I am posting a "one year later" bit of the mule song above.

This is, by no means the final production of "My Favorite Mule," it is only about a minute and a half, but goes through the first verse sloppily and then gets to the last part, where I worked out the multi-voiced harmonies that will ultimately go on the finished song.

It is also an experiment with using wooden blocks to play a percussion part that is meant to represent the sound of a mule trotting.

When I deem the songs to be complete enough, I will put them on the "Snowball Era" sidebar, replacing, in many cases the "Crappy Recordings Made Outdoors," that have been there for a while and, which sound so bad that I can't even listen to them myself; but had just wanted to use the technology at my disposal to post something; anything; on this blog.

Bye To Lo-Fi, Hi To Hi-Fi

According to the "statistics" on the mp3 hosting site, and a follow up investigation into who had listened and downloaded; I have discovered that I have actually attracted the attention of a handful (out of a billion) of "Lo-FI" affectionados.

I guess they enjoy recordings made on a shoestring; stuff like the sound of someone singing over a payphone line, recorded onto cassette and then used as the vocal track of a song -the crappier sounding, the better.


I have to make a recording, using my phone's "voice recorder" feature, of one of the mules clopping by so that I can use that cantor as a percussion track for the song. What is heard on the above version, if it is the right one, was myself using wood blocks to play the mule, but not actually knowing the exact rhythm of their hooves. Horses give a "triplet" beat, and music students are often advised to count out the triplets that they encounter on sheet music as "gal-lop-ping," as in ONE-Gal-lop-ping-THREE-FOUR.

But mules might have like a double beat where the front and rear hooves impact basically together, but at slightly staggered intervals, giving it a "flammed" effect, which, to a drummer is akin to hitting a skin with both sticks, but slightly out of time with each other, so that the two impacts sound like one "fat" one.  

10 Dollar Wednesday

Last night, I went into the Quarter around 7:30 PM, with my laptop in my bag, and stayed in Starbucks, drinking coffee off of one of the gift cards that The Lidgeleys of London.
Leaving there at their closing time of 9 PM, had me on pace to actually arrive at the Lilly Pad earlier than I have in the past week or so.

I got there at about 9:40 and played until I had 7 dollar bills and some change in my jar. I was having fun, but kind of got sick of playing, especially after the guitar went out of tune and I discovered that I had left the tuner at home. I guess I am spoiled by the thing, which gives an accurate reading, despite any loud background music. 

When I was tuning to the C major harmonica, I could use the notes from the piano player in Laffit's Blacksmith Shop Tavern to fine tune, but, now that I am tuning down a half step to accommodate the E flat harp, it is rare that the guy in there is playing in the same key.
I guess that, just like any other instrument, it is easier to know "a million" songs, if you know them all in the same few keys of C, G and their minors of Am and E minor.

Working On Music

"Like A Rolling Stone," is the song that I "released" on 2/21/2015, and so I now go to lay down the vocals in the next hour.
My focus is going to be on vocals, since that is what most listeners focus upon.

When I Should Be Busking

I will then take a trolley into the Quarter with only 2 dollars and change on me.

My food card balance is 0 for the next 8 days; such is life.

I figured out that the way to make my card last for the whole month would be to pay 40% of my purchases in cash, and put the other 60% on the card. The card has been consistently running out around 60% of the way through each month.

Mystery Harp

I decided to check my mailbox, earlier today. I do this because, if a resident lets too much of the junk mail pile up in the box, then someone might be dispatched to his apartment to see if he is still alive.
There was a good deal of advertisements for things targeted at apartment dwellers, pizza delivery and Satellite TV, as well as furniture to sit on while you eat pizza and watch TV.

There was also a small package from UPS; but, beyond that, I don't know where it was from.
Squeezing the bubble wrapped contents inside on the way to my apartment, it felt like there was a harmonica box inside.

I was hoping this was so as, before leaving the apartment to go check the mail, I had blown into my E Flat harp, shook my head in dismay and said out loud: "No wonder it sounds out of tune on the recordings."

I opened the package to reveal a very nice Marine Band harmonica, in the key of C. There was no note, and I couldn't find any clues as to its origin in the cryptic codes of the UPS label.

It is larger than the ones that I have been playing and I will have to modify my harness in order to have it held while I play guitar, but I can do that by using plastic bags, twisted into a spiral until they form a slightly flexible string which I can use to tie the thing down tightly on the harness.

I am also breaking it in by playing it softly. All the notes sound clearly and musically and the bigger size is going to be easier to play, I can tell already. 

It is a "soloist" type of Marine Band.