Waste, As The Gravest Of Human Sin

• $12 Saturday
• Cold And Rain Invades
• Watching Patriots Game At Casino, Drinking Starbucks
• Preparing to Try To Send Christmas Cards Out

There we go, let a little light in...

I just returned from the casino where I had gone, hoping to see a broadcast of the Patriots/Broncos game, but discovering upon arriving there that the "Masquerade" (night club?) section of the casino had been set up for what appeared to be a Saints game-watching party, with every set at every angle tuned to a broadcast of that (ho) hum-dinger of a contest; that I really didn't care about.

I had a chance to glance around at some of the other people who were, in many cases, reacting to the action on the screen. "Why do any of us care about football?" I thought, before leaving.

Back out into the wind and the rain and the chill.

The rain was coming down moderately hard. Enough to soak a man in about 15 minutes, I would say.

I ran for the trolley, which I had taken to get to the casino, leaving my bike locked to the rack at the apartments in the wind and the rain and the chill.

It was raining too hard for me to consider hopping off at Broad Street, where I could avail myself to whatever is within a short walk from there, everything from Whole Foods at the extreme left, next to the Dollar General, and then the Family Dollar, across from the Walgreen's. An ambitious walker can extend in the other direction to get to the Ideal Market, which is clean and efficiently run, and then to the Banks Meat market diagonal from it, which is run.

The Ideal food is inexpensive, but comes with the caveat that it is basically ready to eat. Stocking up on produce from there is not wise as, even their mangoes can be eaten right out of the store. I've had to toss a jalapeño pepper or two out because of mold spots on them a few days after buying them.

Where Whole Foods customers come from...

The Whole Foods is at the other extreme in some sense that is hard to pinpoint.

They are over staffed, to say the least. They not only have cheese-guy, but cheese guy is back there (behind the cheese section) with assistant cheese guys. Almost every aisle has an employee or three, busily stocking shelves and directing people to the chia seeds.

All these people are being paid by the customers who don't mind paying the Whole Food prices. I have seen mangoes in there marked at 3 times the price of the ones in the Ideal Market, a couple blocks away.

I think the Whole Food customers are also happy to be able to shop without having to rub elbows with the peanut butter and jelly sandwich set.

Judging by how much food I have seen on display in that store at just about closing time, and being pretty sure that they are going to make fresh batches of it all the next morning (it won't take that long with 30 people working on it) I have to shake my head over just how much excellent food they must destroy at the end of each and every day.

They will make a pot of something exotic, like a lobster gumbo or something and it will be like 22 dollars per pound and I will walk by shortly before they are to close, and see 80% of what they had made fresh that day, sitting there, a few minutes away from its date with the dumpster.

I guess the thought of homeless guys spooning the delicacies into their lazy mouths and washing it down with Steel Reserve is repulsive enough to them so that they employ a sealed off dumpster/compactor at the back of the store. I'm sure that it keeps rodents away, as well as homeless people.

Together Forever And Never Two Part

Meanwhile (right) I am studying, once again, the Bach Invention that I have played thousands of times.
I'm giving them a much more intense study now, paying attention to every pick stroke and going for maximum "cleanness."

According to an employee I talked to, they aren't allowed to take home food that would otherwise go to waste, either.

That is a shame in the sense that such a supplement could stretch the paychecks that they issue to those same employees and so those same employees could have a higher quality of life. It is spawned of a tacit suspicion that employees won't really try hard to sell all of that delicious stuff if they are hoping to take some home with them at the end of the night.

And the further irony is that the typical "earthy crunchy" type of Whole Foods employee would probably list "waste" as the gravest of human sin. 

Sheep's Clothing Optional

I didn't draw these bikes..

• Some Weed Matters

(These are not my own drawings of bikes)

It was much warmer last (Friday) night. 67 degrees is what the TV "said" after I had knocked off at 2 AM.

Comment

But, first to answer a comment about drawing:

Ah, yes, the bike ...the two wheels can be in all kinds of relationships to one another, given that the front wheel pivots, plus the distance from the bike will determine how much larger the than the wheel further away will the wheel closer be; he has to draw each wheel in perspective and then place them in correct relation to each other; and then has to factor in the distance from the bike where he is.

I imagine, once the wheels were done, for better or worse, the artist would adjust his aspect slightly; like(virtually)step back from or closer to the bike, and would actually draw from the perspective of where a person, standing and looking at the bike would see it as perfect as possible.

Imagine doing a drawing of a bike that has mismatching wheels...a practical joke played on any artist who would then have to put "that's what the bike looked like" somewhere on it

One more bike drawing; for the road...

30 Dollar Friday

Friday night was the "teetering on the brink of depression" night where I had overcome whatever mood was threatening to overcome me by telling myself that I would ride my bike to the corner dollar store, a half mile into my journey and would purchase a mood elevating Monster Energy (zero calorie/zero carb) drink, and then would look for David the Water Jug player, to see if he had any weed.

I was comfortable in the assumption that, since I had brought Travis, the guy who crashed at my place for 10 days, to him (David) who had turned around and conducted the business of liquidating what for that particular block is good cash, on more than one occasion that, if I were to show up it was probable that I would be able to get a toke or two off of David the Water Jug player.

And, it seemed to have worked that way. I had a dollar and change on me, and would have to drop half of that on a can of food for Harold the cat.

A skinny little joint was all mine.

David had told me that it was "nothing special, just some 'reggie'*"

I got to the Quartermaster to pick up my milk crate and further inspected what felt like a rolled up paper with nothing in it.

I thought that David had been "had" by the guy who had rolled it up for him as a favor to myself who had brought Travis into their confidence. Or that it was intended to be a practical joke.

I wound up getting 2 or 3 lung-fulls of what had a very strong, almost laundry soap-like flavor, which I have tasted in the past and had always attributed to some smuggler somewhere who hides his shit inside laundry soap boxes to fool the dogs.

I then played for 2 hours and 45 minutes.

I had started out, thinking that I had just better to enjoy myself without the benefit of weed because I had only gotten 2 or 3 pulls off the skinny joint, that David had deprecated by calling "reggie."* and I kind of did a bit of both, getting lost in the music, at one point seeing a 20 dollar bill that had materialized and having to say "thank you" to nobody in particular.

So, I concluded that, had a practical joke been played upon me, it was in actuality the fact that whatever weed was in that skinny joint was the "one pull wonder," or whatever it is that Travis has been trading in -the Travis, whom I had hooked them up with after having vetted him over the course of his stay at my place. He is the "white boy who stays at home behind a computer consuming almost a c-note of high grade weed per week who's definitely not a cop" customer of their dreams, I would imagine.

And, so, yes, I do believe that when I showed up and told David how embarrassing it was to me to have only a dollar and 66 cents on me, and that I was hoping that he had a couple pulls of weed, and then had tuned up his guitar (the storied blue one that I had given him more than 2 years ago, and that's stories were blogged about here) and then was given the skinny little joint, the shrug and apology for its slightness; was used as a means of lowering my expectations. So much better to prepare me to be ambushed by the "albeit small amount" of medicinal grade, east Afghanistan, loud, fire, Girlscout cookie, numbskull, chronic, gas, weed.

I'll have to thank David tonight if I see him, if just to let him know that I know my potions well and was appreciative of the "reggie" that he had scraped together.

And, of course, I remonstrated myself for being such a fiend as to have sought David out, looking for weed. This would be the same David whom I had grown impatient with in the past for asking me if I had any weed immediately upon encountering me on the street, every time.

Money

I made 30 dollars in 2 hours and 40 minutes of playing. This is right around 11 bucks per hour. This wage is down around 40% from what I had become "accustomed" to.

*reggie (or "Reggie") is a construction made from the word "regular," to denote your regular every day weed which is grown by the huge field lot, by people who don't have time to go through and talk to each plant. But, it also developed into the code name by which weed could be asked for, under the umbrella of "Hey, has anyone seen Reggie around?"
This was only until cops started going around asking if Reggie has made an appearance, and then arresting the individuals if he shows up.
 

Against My Mood

9 Dollar Thursday

It's Friday night.

The weather is good, warm and kind of humid, not quite foggy. 
 
The war I have been waging lately is against my mood.

It is more often than not lately that I don't feel like going out to busk.

It is kind of like "giving up" on one level. Isn't that what the "clinically" depressed people do, just give up and lay there, not even wanting to reach for a glass of water or take the next breath because, what's the use, to keep your shitty joyless life going?

 I don't feel like I'll make enough to save up for anything. Plus, my cost of living goes up when I go out to play. The coffee and chocolate when I take my break, the Monster Energy drink on the way to the spot, and then any food that I might grab on the way home, along with a newspaper, because I have worked up an appetite; all adds up, never mind the wear and tear on the strings and harmonicas..

I lot has to do with smoking weed, I am suspecting -getting a rush of "creativity;" grabbing my guitar and playing it out of my system, realizing in the aftermath that it wasn't as good as I had thought, and then dragging myself out to the Lilly Pad, still feeling like my stuff isn't as good as I think...

That's typical.

I suppose I used to play well and make good tips without weed or drink, the times that I had done so, like when I was water fasting. After about 20 minutes of playing it all feels the same.

I find myself pedaling lazily towards the Lilly Pad when, having made up my mind that, yes, I'm going to give it a shot and play, I should be racing to get there and set up and be playing my first note "25 minutes from now," as I leave the apartment.

There is a hidden danger in the fact that getting drunk used to be motivation enough for me to go out. And I haven't replaced it with a better purpose. It's the not knowing which bugs me the determination at the end of a given night that I would have been better off had I stayed home, and the recurrence of this over the course of two or three consecutive nights.

It makes me wonder about placing another ad for someone to crash at my place for 20 bucks a day.
Assuming I could go about my usual business and go out and busk for another 20 bucks on a typical day, that would supplement me up to the point where I could actually save for something that's a couple hundred bucks.

Travis used to encourage me not to go out and busk, I think so that he could have someone to talk at all night. "It's really a pretty crappy night. "There probably aren't that many people out, you've got the 20 I just gave you, and if you need a cigarette just help yourself from this pack...probably a good night to stay in. Anyway, as I was saying..."

The Root Of My Anxiety

Which brings me to the root canal procedures that I can have done for "only 94 bucks" each.

That is an amount of money that almost seems designed to weed out those who are below a certain level of abject poverty to the point where 94 bucks is beyond their means.

I used to know someone who would judge people using their teeth as the tell all.

I see a lot of black people from all walks of life who have "perfect" teeth.

Either they aren't a cavity prone race, or they place such a high value upon having all of their teeth intact that they will go the extra mile (make regular payments into some kind of dental "plan" even if it means cutting the electricity off periodically) to make sure they don't look "ghetto" by having teeth missing.

From my understanding, if I come up with the 94 bucks and have the root canals done before my next appointment at the other place, the other place will fill whatever cavities exist with tooth colored fillings, since they are the front teeth, and the teeth will have been "saved."

Otherwise, I forgot exactly what they said would happen. They would probably let the front teeth sit there in their present condition.

I was told by the dental worker at LSU School of dentistry that dentures are uncomfortable, they never fit right, people hate them, and that they could bring a singing career to an end and make you sound like Elmer Fudd, compromising your ability to have a serious discussion with anyone.

So, my mood teeters right around the border between good and bad.

I'm out of weed and out of money to get any. This is a good thing?

I Have Cigarettes And Cat Food

The Jinx

I jinxed myself Tuesday night.

After having run into Bongo who sold me some medicinal bud, thereby reducing my cash on hand to the amount of 2 dollars and
5 cents, I went back to my place, preparing to go out and busk on a chilly night when rain was threatening.

There was a knock at my door, preceded by a cough which I recognized to be the cough of Rose.

Since the sound of the cough penetrated the thin walls of the apartment, and was as loud as the subsequent knock, I was sure that Rose had wanted to let me know, that way, who was knocking; lest I play dead and not answer the door.

She and Ed wanted to borrow 2 dollars, to put gas in their vehicle before making some kind of important run (probably to pick up medication) in the morning. "We probably have enough, but just want to put a little more in to be on the safe side.." said Ed.

Thinking about the fact that I had only 2 bucks on me, I told them that I didn't have it.

I could see an incredulous look pass over their faces as if they were thinking "I'm sure he's got at least 2 bucks..."

I really didn't want to say that I only had 2 dollars and 5 cents, fearing a rejoinder of "Well, can we have it?" from them.

At the same time, I didn't technically need the 2 bucks; I could start my tip jar off with fake money.
Then, I made what I now think was a mistake. I picked up my house phone and rang up Rose and Ed's room.

"Hey, I'm just on my way out to play, I'm sure that when I get back at 2 in the morning, I can slide something under your door..."

Then, I started to pedal towards the Quarter. I was thinking that, if I didn't make anything at all, I could slide the 2 dollars and 5 cents under their door.

I played and made only a dollar. It was cold and threatening rain and I had the misfortune of having 3 young Indian guys stop and listen and offer complements upon  my music; and tell me that they were starting a Youtube "channel" which was to feature local New Orleans musicians like myself. They had taken my e-mail address from me and my phone number and had shaken my hand and thanked me for having played for them and then left without putting anything at all in my tip jar.

They had to have known that I was out there hoping to make some money; or had they?

So, I then learned my lesson about jinxing myself by having counted my chickens before my eggs had hatched. I considered sliding a note of apology under the door of Rose and Ed, explaining that I had only made a dollar "and had to get cat food."

I decided to just let it go.

Learning To Use Charcoal...

I wondered if my phone would ring at 3 AM and it would be Ed, seeing if I were back yet and if I could lend them the money (the amount probably having grown based upon how I reported the night having gone) or if it would ring in the morning, before they were about to embark.

They never called and I figured that ours was not an unusual occurrence here at Sacred Heart Apartments -having "promised" someone something and then just not even gotten back to them about it; probably happens all the time around here... 

Last night, Wednesday; I went out and made about 9 bucks off of just a few tippers. The streets were pretty dead, making one think about the most recent highly publicized shooting. That happened a full 7 blocks away from me, as I was packing up my stuff.

Travis Blaine (the guy who crashed at my place for 10 days) showed up at a certain point.
He didn't tip me a cent, but hung out for a while; eventually leaving to take a walk after I basically asked him if I could sit there by myself and play for a while, as that seems to be my "hustle" at the Lilly Pad.

He wanted me to bring him to where David the Water Jug Player hangs out, so he could spend almost 50 bucks on weed off the Jamaicans there, after not tipping me a cent.
He did smoke me up before I left for home, but that just made it harder to focus my energy upon breaking off from him; as it put him in talk mode. He was actually talking away and saying things like "more on that in a minute," whetting my appetite for further discourse from him, I guess he thought...

It is now Thursday and pretty chilly out (50 degrees). I suppose I'll go out and play.
I have cigarettes and cat food.

Here's Hoping

• Portrait Mailed Off
• Two Nights Off For Football Watching

Tonight, if I go out and play -and it is Tuesday- I would do so with the expectation that I might make "just" 20 dollars.

But, I also think that the Christmas song that I have been doing on the guitar and harmonica with a bit of vocals splashed in (I can't bring myself so far as to wish random people a "merry" Christmas, and so usually sing the amended title shown) might be a cash cow. It had done well Saturday night.

Now that I have copied the "actual" melody onto the sheet shown, I can fine tune the harmonica part, since I now have pretty good command over the notes used in the song. It is the harmony that is the spice on this particular carol and, as I play the melody, I'll be trying to add some by jazzing up the chords as much as possible.

Here's hoping I'm in the mood to saddle up and go get 'em a couple hours from right now...

Boy, do I feel lazy. Like staying in to cook and eat something and then reading enough so I can use the excuse that I had stayed in to enrich myself by catching up on my reading.

It was sprinkling earlier. It's pretty warm, about 62.

Mailing The Portrait

• Harmonica Book Huge
• 45 Dollar Saturday Follows 1 Dollar Friday
• First Attempts Made With New Art Supplies

...just trying to see what the pens and pencils are capable of -not claiming this to be art...

Last night, I had that same feeling as if I might not make a cent and that same emptiness and lack of inspiration inside, that I have had before, as I rode the bike trail into the quarter; telling myself that I could just turn around and go back home if I didn't like the look of things. No obligations, no stress, no dire need of money.

But, I had spent myself down to about 4 dollars; not enough to cover postage on the portrait that I want to mail to Jennifer in Aurora, Illinois. I had spent it on cigarettes and weed. Thus, I actually did have the pressure to make back enough money to send the thing.

After having shown up at to post office without the address on me Friday, and then having gotten there too late on this Saturday, I knew I couldn't mail it until Monday, which would give me Saturday night and Sunday (if necessary) to make enough to cover the postage on a 4 ounce? package. I used to think that I was setting myself up for failure by doing this. Now I feel like I was setting the stage for myself to shine; to play inspired music because I was playing for postage money for sending a gift. It would hover around me like an aura; my purpose that is. All I know is that is better than feeling like I'm setting myself up for failure.

Like other times when I had that insecure feeling on my way out, it crossed my mind to stay in and try to conserve the 11 dollars that I had, which should have been enough to cover the postage; but not much else...

Portrait Still Not Sent

I had overslept and had missed the closing of the post office at 1 PM. I woke up at 1:30 PM., having not thought that I needed an alarm to wake me up so I could go and mail the portrait.

The portrait is looming large in importance to me; representing almost a year of sobriety and my ability to conceive of a project, and follow through with it.

I had thought that I had reached a plateau after a few months sober, where things wouldn't get any easier just by dint of my having quit drinking. But, there are some things that seem to be only "coming back" to me at this point of almost a year sober.

My attitude, stress level and musical ability have all appreciated slightly in just the past couple of months.

Can I get a "that's passable for your first ever attempt at using these materials" from someone?

Everything worked together in symphony.

Even Travis having crashed at my place for 10 days had a positive effect on my music, as he is about 20 years younger than I and, in my musical probings into what seemed to entertain him as I sat and played in my living room over a bowl, I found myself more comfortable with the tourists in his age group that walked past me.

Travis is from New York, which is kind of like the other New Orleans, as far as art and culture and all that; San Francisco being the other one.

I feel confident that I could busk alright in San Fran, however, not if the gays of which a big chunk of that population are as oblivious to tipping as they are when they come here for the Decadence Festival...

I guess I felt more "cosmopolitan" after having hung out with a New Yorker.

45 Dollar Saturday

Saturday night, I was at the Lilly Pad at the incredibly, for me, early hour of 8:09 PM.
My biggest fear was that I was going to be spent at 9:30, around the time I usually arrive, and that the traffic would be only picking up by then.

Blown Away By Harmonica Book

I tuned up and played "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas," on the guitar and harmonica.
Having pored through just the first few chapters of the Mel Bay harmonica book that Alex in California had sent me, gave me the full C major scale, and in a way that I could picture it, in regards to the written note. I was already "sounding out" the same notes but, somehow seeing the music written on a staff satisfies "that" portion of the brain, or something.

I guess the book reminds me that those are "musical" notes that are coming out of the harmonica and that it isn't (all) mumbo jumbo, and that a simple melody like the "Have Yourself..." song, over the "right" chords can sound nice to people.

The book is going to become very useful; I can tell. When I first opened it, I went to the very last page. As long as I have been using method books, the very last page seems to usually have on it a piece of music that is intended to weave together all the lessons and present them into kind of a "graduation recital" piece, or a final exam. This is especially true if the there are subsequent volumes of method books. It is usually a beautiful piece of music that is a reward to the student for having persevered, as well as a "make sure you can play this before going on to grade x," type of thing.

It was also a quick way for me to ascertain if the book was going to be too easy for me. If "Jingle Bells" had been on the last page this might have been the case. But there was some advanced chord melody studies of the type that I had just been getting into as a 4th year self taught harp player; the stuff that I had been intending to sit down and make sense out of. Some day.

Plus, there is a wealth of music that is known worldwide. The book puts into context the little insert that comes with every harmonica which basically tells you which notes come out of which holes. By setting setting them against chordal accompaniment, it does this.

Playing along on the guitar, I can get instant feedback as to whether or not I'm blowing into the right hole, for example. I can't say enough about the Mel Bay book. Plus,it's fun!

Tips seemed to be coming in steadily, with several people telling me that I sounded good, and just as many telling me to "keep playing,"or "keep doing what you're doing."

Friday night had been 43 degrees, and I had only made a dollar. There were a good amount of people out, despite the cold, but they just weren't the tipping kind. And I had no malice towards them, at all. 

I wonder if it is evident from watching me that I am trying my ass off just to hold it all (guitar chords, harmonica notes, lyrics, improvisations) together. Maybe it seems like I might be on to something, but the only way to know would be for me to keep at it...

I Play For A Near Record 4 And A Half Hours

Lynda DePanicis, a resident who, along with her husband, owns the house that Barnaby had been renting one side of, came over and gave me a 10 dollar bill and a hug. This was after maybe 45 minutes of playing.

Just hours before hugging me...

I was glad that I was playing the Christmas song, and it might have been that which impelled her to bless me that way.

I guess I could say it would have only been a 35 dollar night if not for her tip, but it was a product of my having played in her neighborhood almost every night for 3 years, and so I will count it among my nightly earnings.

Being seen getting a hug from Lynda, in all her finery, may have had something to do with the very next group of tourists stopping to listen to me. Things like that just elevate one's status in the eyes of the world. "I guess this guy isn't a nuisance, if the residents are hugging him...."

The Quartermaster people have been nice to me, giving me free coffee and a little piece of chocolate, during my nightly visit after I return the milk crate that I sit on, to them.

Things have really been coming my way, I must say.

Alex In California sent the art supplies. Ben my friend in Boston has sent some tee shirts. Bongo the resident here gave me some tee shirts. The Lidgleys have said that a Christmas parcel is to come.

I'm trying to allow myself to feel happy, rather than like something bad has got to happen eventually, to even things out.

May Your Noise Be White

I slept with music looping continuously in the background.

I have always suspected that the highest "quality" of sleep is to be obtained surrounded by the closest thing to absolute silence possible, and not by the sound of a radio, or especially a TV.

That is, of course, limited by the sounds of your own heart, breathing, and blood flowing in the area of the ear drum, etc.

Closely behind this would be having any noise be "white" noise, such as was the case when I used to sleep on the grounds of a machine shop, and the steady howl of the machinery became something that I could block out, because any noise other than it would stand out, such as the sound of a machine shop employee approaching, who might tell me that I can't sleep there.

But, I had gone to sleep relatively early (2 AM) with "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" by J.S. Bach on repeat. It repeated, and I slept, monitoring my state of rest each time I did wake up during the early morning, for signs that I might not be getting a good rest because of the Bach playing in the background.

Harold the cat slept like a baby, with nary a twitch of his ears, as his recommendation of Johann's music.

Thumbs down (on the music to sleep to thing...)

 
After a pretty restful 6 hours or so, I pushed the track button on my CD player, and  David Bowie began to sing "Life On Mars" over and over.

During the next couple hours of sleep, after it had become light outside, I had a dream that I was working in like a supermarket and had found some money (a hundred and a fifty) while I was cleaning way under the registers, which looked like they hadn't been cleaned in ages, with thick dust stuck to God knows what on the floor, electrical wiring, and a crisp fresh hundred and fi'tty bucks!

In the dream, I pocketed it and then felt guilty. I felt like I had tainted myself and made a choice that was going to render inconsequential every act of honesty and truth throughout my entire life up until then. I thought that I was no better than all the skeezers that, in the dream, also worked at that supermarket.

Then, I was transported by dream rail to a spot where I was busking.

I was doing "Life On Mars," by David Bowie, and had nailed the first verse and discovered that the notes were comfortably in my range, and then, suddenly I was standing in front of a huge black pickup truck as I busked, and just then, as I was gathering up my energy to try to nail the next verse in the song, a young lady, wearing leather boots, having a scarf around her neck and a long tweed coat threw 2 large bills, which were caught by the wind before they landed in what might have been my tiposaurus jar and instead, they blew into these square stainless steel accessories on the back of the truck. They could have been the female ends of a trailer hitch.

They were side by side, about 3 feet apart, a foot off the ground and just basically attached to the back of the truck, chrome and polished. One bill fluttered into each of them, coming to rest in my view at the back of the "tubes." I reached in and took them. It was a lot of dream money. Then, it gets hazy, as I might have tried to thank the young lady...

I woke up, and shut the CD player with David Bowie singing "Life on Mars" over and over, off, and then decided to get up and drink some coffee and start my day, should the coffee be worth its salt.

It was a big day. I was going to mail the portrait off to Jennifer in Aurora, Illinois.

Sure, I was.

...To Wrap Around Your Dreams...

But, first the dream interpretation.

The large bills were the ones that the couple from Ohio had tipped me on Wednesday night. The guy had spread them out in his hand to show me that they were a 10 and a 5. These became the 100 and the 50 in my dream. I guess when I dream big I magnify them times 10.

The guilt over having pocketed it and becoming just like the skeezers that I worked with, was the guilt that I felt after a skeezer tried to skeeze me at the Lilly Pad after the couple had tipped me 25 bucks, which I had pocketed.

As I pedaled home that night, I told myself something like: "You know, when you get a 25 dollar tip, it probably wouldn't kill you to give a skeezer a dollar and say "Merry Christmas," or something. And that was the guilt.

The fact that I had had to lift the heavy cash register console and slide it over (which represented the trash can that I often have to lift and slide over at the Lilly Pad when its right in front of where I sit) represented my feeling that I was working hard and had nothing to feel guilty over
.
The lady throwing the tip was a combination of the wife of the guy who tipped me 25 bucks and my friend Becca from Mobile, Alabama who is coming here to run in the "Rock and Roll Marathon," and who, like the wife of the guy, likes "The Carcass Song," one of my originals.

The truck was Dave Matthews' (The Dave Matthews Band) truck.

He came into the gas station where I worked overnight in Charlottesville, Virginia, one night.

I didn't recognize him, and, only later found out that it was he, after I had seen a poster at the record store.

He had gotten out of his truck and walked around it, buffing and shining it.

We had had a pretty good conversation. He was probably glad that I was talking about normal things, and not gushing: "Oh, my god, I have all your CD's!"

And that is why the truck in the dream was so shiny, and represented the element whereby I had gotten a good tip from some people whom I had conversed with at length in addition to playing music for them; it kind of ties in to Dave, who had told me during our conversation: "One thing's for sure, you won't starve to death here (Charlottesville)." The truck represented me putting effort into polishing up my craft, as well as the (cash) value of conversation.

I counted it as a plus that I had risen after just the required amount of sleep, rather than lazing about, getting superfluous rest. I set about working on the problem of mailing the portrait.

Murphy's Jacket Law

I rode my bike down to the dollar store, thinking that I would buy some packing tape for a dollar and then would search their dumpster for a couple pieces of stiff cardboard. I already had the bubble wrap.

Then, I remembered that I had some packing tape at the apartment that just needed un-mangling.

I have really taken an interest in getting this portrait sent in time for Christmas, and there is no need to wait another day.

I soon had the thing secured and ready to mail. The project was so close to completion, with only that step remaining to be done.

I had about 15 bucks. This, after having had a 25 dollar night, but then stayed in the following night, purchasing only cigarettes and cat food in the process.

Carrying the package, I stepped outside.

It was then that I determined that I could use even one more jacket or sweatshirt to go with the layers that I was already wearing. It was about 45 degrees, but felt like zero.

I went back into the apartment, where I made the critical error of switching the top jacket I had on with a heavier, goose down type one. It wasn't made any heavier, though, by the tiny slip of paper upon which I had written Jennifer's address. That was still in a pocket of the original jacket.

Unencumbered by its weight I practically flew to the post office with the portrait, making it there just before they were to close.

Realizing my blunder, I decided not to try to guess the zip code of Aurora, Illinois (..it's 605 something; does that help you, Mr. postman?) and returned to the apartment, planning upon returning to try again tomorrow, between 10:30 AM, and 1:30 PM.

Package In, Package Out

I was informed by security that I had gotten a package, upon arriving back.

I was handed a box that felt like it was full of bricks. It was the package from Alex in California, a blog reader, to be sure. He had mentioned that it was to be about 10 pounds of "art supplies."

I opened it right there, which prompted a discussion about art in general and I would up showing the portrait of Jennifer and Jasmine to the front desk security lady, Charisse, or Chavelle, or Charelle.

She asked me if I drew stuff for money.

I wound up telling her that I would draw a picture for 20 bucks.

It wasn't until later that I realized I should have qualified that by specifying: "not a big one like this, but maybe a computer paper sized one." I will, the next time I see her. Then I will further have to tell her that I would draw a picture for her for 20 bucks, but for everyone else it would be 50.

I got back to my room and thought about a couple things.

First, I value hard and honest work and think that 10 bucks an hour is decent money for a couple hours of work on a drawing like that (small). But then, I thought that someone who just paid me 50 bucks for a drawing can feel better about hanging it on his wall and thinking that it was done by an artist whose stuff is worth 50 bucks.

If he were to tell someone "yeah, I only paid the guy 20 bucks to draw it," then the person looking at it would begin to do so with an eye for anything that might account for such a low price and suddenly the nose would start looking a little too pudgy, or something.

So, I need to tell Charelle that tomorrow, as I am on my way to the post office after having gone out and busked on this cold Friday night, or having stayed in and not spent the money that is earmarked for postage.

Art Aid From Alex In California

"Alex"

So, I got back to my room after having made a verbal contract to draw a picture for money, with a box full of art related materials.

There was an amount of paper which sat there and said; "You should draw more; a lot more. You should like do a ton of drawings!"

But there were very neat things like a black "sketching crayon" which could definitely fill the void created by the fact that pencil really only gets "so" dark when you apply it thickly. It doesn't really come near "absolute" black.

Neither does anything in nature (except unconsciousness) but, I try to use the technique of laying down a dark background and then basically using an eraser to draw; adding to the picture by taking away. This worked a bit on the last portrait; but I couldn't get things as dark as I wanted. They are definitely sitting out in the sun in the picture...

There were a couple of highly reflective neon green Velcro straps to tie my pant legs and keep them from jamming the chain on my bike as I ride. Cool.

And there was a bag containing fake money.

"OK, punk running off with

musician's money scene, take one!"

No note of explanation was needed on it. When I am busking, I can stuff my jar with the fake stuff, which looks real enough from a distance to encourage people to come over and add to it (this guy must be good) and fake enough up close so tourists wont think that I have already made a few hundred bucks and their 10 bucks won't be appreciated.

And funny enough that the little punk that grabs my jar and runs off can have a good chuckle when he discovers it. "Man, I thought I had my dope money but, I guess not, hee hee hee...that's funny"
I can pull the real money out and pocket it at intervals.

There was a Mel Bay harmonica method book which was up to Mel Bay standards, and I have learned something from it already...

I'm speechless with gratitude; and thinking that I can't be making nearly as much as Alex in California if he can drop almost 14 bucks on sending a package and I am pulling cardboard out of the dumpster to send mine. LOL
It's been a good day, and it is now 8 PM on a very cold Friday night. I need to at least go to the Lilly Pad and blow on my fingers a few times and see what happens....

Night Moves

335 Days Without A Drink

11 months and a couple days sober, and I am looking forward to getting up tomorrow and mailing off the picture that I drew to Jennifer.

I just got back from the dollar store, where I bought, for one dollar, an amount of bubble wrap. It is a slick enough plastic that I can't see it smearing the drawing, especially if I pack it so that there is no wiggle room for the drawing to rub against it every time the Fed Ex truck hits a pothole.

This marks some kind of milestone in my sobriety.

The ability to become inspired to do something: "I should make a drawing off of one of Jennifers's Facebook pictures and send it to her as a Christmas gift," then to actually follow through on it by being awake and sober enough to complete it.

Then, to be able to go out on a night like last (Wednesday) night, needing to make money to cover postage, plus bubble wrap, and to do so.

"These are baby steps, but they are very important in your recovery," a counselor that I was paying 80 bucks per session would tell me before giving me a congratulatory hug; if I had one.

25 Dollar Wednesday

Travis, the guy who had crashed at my place for 10 days, called, just as I was preparing to go out and busk. He said that he had "cabin fever" because he had been in his apartment, working, for a few contiguous days, and that he had to get out.
More accurately, he had to get out and have some sort of human interaction, I read between the lines. The fact that he had been "working" also implied that he would have money, and most likely would want to get some weed.

I was on guard against having my time usurped in any way. I didn't want to meet him anywhere except at my busking spot. So I gave him the exact address (933 Bourbon Street) where I told him I would be sitting and busking and "hopefully I'll be plucking my first note there in 45 minutes."
I got to the spot at 9:40 PM, and began to play. 

It was very dead, as there was the slight threat of rain, and it was chilly in the esteem of a lot of people, at 53 degrees or so. It would be Canadian or Scandinavian tourists whom I would hope to see the arrival of; wearing light sweaters and talking about how beautiful a night it was

 I had made only a couple bucks when Travis arrived and sat on Lilly's stoop. I hadn't turned my head to see who it was when he first sat down, but rather kept playing, trying to push away thoughts that it was a skeezer who was waiting for me to stop playing so he could try to beg for one or both of the dollars that I had made.

Travis hung out for a while as I played mostly for his benefit. At about 11:30, when some tourist traffic began, he was open to the suggestion that he leave for about 45 minutes and take a stroll, while I tried to attract someone to sit where he was sitting and listen to me.

It worked out well. After Travis walked off, a couple who were from Ohio sat and listened and then tipped me 10 bucks.

Then, after requesting a couple of songs that I told them I didn't play, but were on my short list of stuff to learn, the guy conjured up the chords and lyrics to them on his phone. Then, with him scrolling through with his thumb, I sightread and performed "Turn The Page," by Bob Seger, followed by "Down On Main Street," also by him, and then "Wild Horses," by the Rolling Stones.
"You did really good for reading it off a phone," said the guy, before handing me another 15 bucks.
Travis returned while they were still there, and stood nearby.

Having reeled in the big tuna, I decided not to troll any more for minnows. With that 25 bucks, plus 2 other singles, I called it a night; thankful to have made 27 bucks off of just 3 tips. And happy to have pretty much cemented those 3 songs into my repertoire (I was intrigued by seeing what the actually words were to the Stone's song that I have heard a million times; it has quite a few verses to it...).

Then, Travis did indeed want to find some weed.

We walked to the spot where he had bought some through David the water jug player, to find that person standing in the very same spot.

Your Move, David

I was amused by how David had gotten the weed. 

After Travis handed him the money -"He's not going anywhere" being my answer to the tacit question posed by his flicking his eyes to mine after David said "Let me have the money"- David went and sat down at one of the "street chess' player's tables to "play chess" with him.

They were hunched over the board, studying it, while a large black cop with Sergent stripes on his sleeves stood 10 feet away; their hands out of sight under the table.

In short order, the chess guy moved a piece and said "checkmate!" loudly. David exclaimed "Oh, you got me. You got me fair and square! Here you go!" and then handed him the money, before returning to us with the weed. I thought that was very clever, and Davids stock went up in my esteem. The officer was never the wiser.

Up At Exactly Noon

• Harp In Tune
• Waking Up; The Lilly Call
• The Dental Thing
• The Jennifer Drawing
• Cigarettes, The Weed Guy And The Perpetual Financial Friction Within

Last night, I rode the bike trail into the Quarter.

The hit of Bongo's medicinal marijuana, having run its course with myself having grabbed the guitar and flipped on my phone's voice recorder to capture the music that I was suddenly dying to play; and then having struggled through that music, unable to focus upon in and block out distractions, such as an almost paranoia based feeling that some of the skeezer residents were outside my door, listening.
Someone who is as quiet as myself around them most of the time draws attention to himself when he disturbs the air with any kind of sound. It is the lack of interaction with them that accounts for what they think makes me "quiet."I don't speak to them because they are mainly vacuous souls and if you get too close to them, it is like when a low pressure air system is parked in the nearby atmosphere which causes the wind to pick up, as it rushes to fill the void, and you wind up hanging on to your hat so it won't be blown off your head, and everything else.

One can't relax and just converse free form without giving away information that might be used against one.

Hell, if any of the residents here were technically facile enough to read this blog, I would be getting knocks on my door by supplicants for "just a couple bucks out of that 85 that you made last night."

So, I was playing in a guarded way, which I hate doing.

Part of me was realizing that the whole idea of playing music is to create something that sounds good enough so that skeezers getting off the elevator on their way out to the recreation area to see if anyone down there has a cigarette, are going to stop and listen.

Dorise Blackmon looked at me once, after I had laid a similar concern out to her. She shrugged and asked: "So what?"

So what if I open my door to go out and see if Harold the cat wants to come in; and there is a group of a half dozen skeezers sitting in lawn chairs, who put their beers down and applaud me as soon as I step out, and say "That was one hell of a concert!"

Well, part of the problem is when I want to play stuff that I am experimenting upon in a way that I wouldn't experiment at the Lilly Pad, because the terrain would be fraught with musical peril. For example: What kind of exotic scales and harmonies can I get by playing the C major harmonica over an E flat minor tonality? I'm not really sure, even as I sit here now (but I can guess "educated-ly" that it would sound bluesey) and I sure don't want to sit at the Lilly Pad and say, well, here goes...let's see if this sounds like a cat on a lath or not, when I might be making a steady 20 bucks per hour playing over "Golden Slumbers," by The Beatles...save that stuff for home.
Which goes back to Dorise's point.

Why should I care if other residents walk by and think, that guy sounds like shit, you mean to say he makes money out in the Quarter? That would actually make them think that I probably just barely scraped enough cigarette money for myself up and they would be wasting their breath skeezing me for one.

But, the opposite is true. If I'm kicking ass on the harmonica in C, over an E flat Major tonality, realizing that it sounded just like a ZZ Top song, and that's probably what they did to write it, then it might suggest to the skeezers that I was a selfish, greedy uncaring individual to not even give away cigarettes when I must make a killing in the Quarter, because "the ones that are good make bank!"*
I can pretty much say that it is the "legends" of a handful of buskers, Tanya and Dorise, and Doreen's Jazz band being in that subgroup, that have become disseminated far and wide and distorted in such a way that playing on Royal Street and making baskets full of money are the only two elements of the tale that survive the retellings.

But, if I was just kicking ass and throwing it down and breaking a sweat as I jammed out in my apartment, it would do for me almost as would using large amounts of cash to buy money orders from the corner store every day, in that regard.

I can understand the other few residents who are also buskers, or who have aspirations of parlaying any talent that they might posses in that direction "as soon as I get a guitar," asking me how much money I make out there, after having stood outside my door with an ear pressed to it in order to assess my talent level and then hash it with the amount of money I make after comparing their own abilities to mine. These few, I will be more frank with. I always translate it into "about 18 bucks an hour," and then head their awe off at the pass by interjecting "but after a couple of hours, I've played all my songs and my fingers are starting to get sore," whatever.

So, I must conclude that weed makes me unreasonably paranoid. Skeezers outside my door? C'mon!

But the good news is that I am growing to see the Lilly Pad as the place where I can really enjoy myself playing, like my green pasture. It has an almost insatiable appetite for ebullience, and there is no danger of seeming like I am overdoing it, showing off, trying to disturb my neighbor, etc. You can "give your all" there and might just barely stand out from the fray of everything else.

So, I look forward, more and more each evening, to getting to the Lilly Pad, like a guy with a nice motorcycle that can't wait to get to the Interstate so he can open her up a little. I especially feel more comfortable doing my song "The Guy In Apartment A109 Is Really Starting To Get On My Nerves" there. (LOL)

So, that is cool. Even at the Lilly Pad, if I smoke weed and feel the same paranoia, I can just tell myself that I am being paranoid, and get past it.

The Call Of Lilly

Lilly called and woke me at noon, give or take a few seconds. I think that timing was coincidental.
It was fortuitous in that, while shaking off the sleep and coming too, deducing that she had found the note that I had left on her Navigator the night before, I recalled my dental appointment at 3 PM.

I left the note, which I had written a week before, telling her that I missed seeing her as, between taking time off while Travis was crashing at my place, and arriving there after she was already in and taking the bad weather days off, I hadn't seen her much in about a month.

I mentioned the Airbnb renters and their speakers; and how I hadn't chosen to sic her upon them; and expressed my sadness over Barnaby Chancellor having moved out of his condo across from where I play.

Lilly hadn't heard about Barnaby's move and asked rhetorically "Why didn't he rent from me?"
She told me that I could leave her a note or call or text her anytime, and that if we have a hurricane and we all have to evacuate, to get in touch with her and she will take me with her and the girls.

$21 Tuesday

I had played the brand new out of the box harmonica.

Within minutes of starting, a guy came and tipped me 5 bucks, saying "You sound good."
That kicked me into a higher gear, and I shook off the last of Bongos medicinal weed that had already run its coarse, and was able to jam on the brand new harmonica to the tune of 21 bucks in a little over an hour.

There were so few people on Bourbon that I felt like they had each tipped me, as I packed up and made it to Rouses Market five minutes before they were to close and grabbed a little food. I splurged on cat food for Harold. He has been eating the same exact food for a week after I got a deal from another resident on 2 cases (48 cans) of it. He had only wanted 2 dollars and 50 cents.

I had tested a can on Harold, who ate it, though not enthusiastically, and then coughed up the money, even though I had only like 7 bucks to my name at the time.

I arrived at 3:09 for my 3 'o clock dental appointment. It's going to cost me 97 dollars for each of 2 root canals. This is the cheapest price in the land, and is for work done by LSU graduate students.

Healthcare the purple way

It would run me $375 to have it done by the surgeon who I consulted with, a bright looking lady in her late 20's who was wearing a shade of blue. The graduate students wear purple.

"It would cost you in time, because the graduate students have to go much more slowly and check every step with..." she said.

97 bucks sounds cheap, and would be quite manageable if I had any kind of 40 hour per week job.
I left there thinking that I would have to do just that; manage a way to get work through the temp place read: pass the drug test, and then get the 2 root canals done. They are only the tip of the iceberg, as far as all the work they have recommended done, but they must be at the top of the list of: "If you could have only one procedure done, what would it be?"

"I'm gonna work here in the day and busk at night..."

I know that I'm not going to spend almost 200 bucks on root canals, if and when I have it. Not before getting a new laptop. So, the 40 hour a week job seems to be the way to go. Or to figure out a way to busk for 40 hours a week, even if I'm just sitting there a lot....

Drawing Upon My Resources

I sent a message to Jennifer, asking if there was an address where I could send a Christmas gift.

"Christmas gifts, is this something new?" came back.

"I've come up a bit in the world. It's not a lobster."

The last Christmas gift I gave her, 20 years ago, when she was 11 years old, was a cooked one of those crustaceans, and an umbrella.

"Just don't show up in a box, LOL"

"The postage would be too much, I weigh 140 pounds. I think I can go by freight car on the New Orleans & Illinois Central Railroad"

"Scary, LOL"

"If you get a huge cake and it's giggling, don't open it..."


She eventually sent me her address. She was probably wondering why she has apparently been singled out by me to be a recipient of a Christmas gift, or if I have come up a bit in the world enough to be lavishing gifts on friends, far and wide. I suppose when she gets the drawing she will understand that it just wouldn't make as good a gift to any other random person.

Instant Harm(onic)a

So, I went out with my 20 dollars on me, bought Harold some food, and then bought a pack of American Spirit cigarettes, telling myself that I would sell some of them for 50 cents each to defray their cost.

Then I spent 5 bucks on a little sack of weed, telling myself that, at least it would make busking more fun and that it might pay for itself that way, through a tip thrown by someone who wouldn't have even heard me had I already left due to things being slow, rather than being baked and having a good ol' time with the new harmonica.  

Harmonica Here

The harmonica came in very undramatic fashion, 6 days after I was notified that it had shipped and would be here "in 2 to 3 days."

It was sitting on the desk in front of the security guard, whom I was approaching to ask if my jump drive had been turned in. It hadn't. But the package was here.
Tee Time
I had just gotten a text from my friend Ben Lambie in Massachusetts.

He has sent a few tee shirts to me, which, he was told would be here in about 7 days. A Patriots one, and a couple of "rock band" ones.

Given that Alex in California has just sent me some art supplies, it seems that my horoscope should read: "You will be showered with gifts from diverse places..."

Teeth Time

Having been rained out of busking the past couple days, and, not in consequence of because I could have been up all night doing other things, have been getting to sleep and waking up much earlier than "normal."

I decided to knock out one of the nagging things that I had been procrastinating over; namely the dental appointment that I missed.

I checked the address online and then started pedaling that way, hoping that they didn't close at 4 'o clock, because that was the time that I started.

They were open, it was the LSU dental school related place. The lady told me that the appointment that I had missed was for a "consultation" over a root canal. She said that it involved my front teeth. Then she mentioned money a couple times, told me that they didn't take any "private insurance," went on to say that the card that I showed her was private insurance, and then I left.
I left without probing her with further money questions.

She had said that x-rays were to be taken and then I would consult with the endodontist.
I couldn't help scoring a couple brownie points with the middle aged black woman who had regarded me suspiciously when I had first walked up.

"She'll be able to answer any other questions I have?" I asked.

She smiled and answered in the affirmative, and I could pretty much tell by the timing of the smile that it was a reaction to my having applied a feminine appellation to the oral surgeon, without my having met him or her.

I figure that, if they are going to do x-rays and she hadn't told me to arrive bearing any certain amount of cash to pay for them, then I am going to be billed for the consultation.

This made me wonder how much dental work they will go ahead and do while sending off bills to a somewhat underachieving street musician. Will I eventually have a nice smile that will disappear from my face as soon as I think about the 7 grand that I owe the LSU dental school place?

Or, will the LSU people eventually report the account as being in default and be reimbursed for the balance out of some kind of educational fund, should I fall way behind on the payments? Is that basically the only way poor people can get dental work done, other than waiting until teeth become abscessed and arriving at the emergency room in that state to have them pulled, and to repeat that process, leaving each time with a parting gift of Oxycontin, until the teeth are all gone, and the only further care that is needed is a cheap set of dentures?

I guess what a dentist is to wealthy people is like what O.J. Simpson's lawyers were to him; while I will have a public defender working on my mouth...

Then, I hit the Walgreen's to see if I could straighten out my "bonus points" situation. They have the wrong zip code in the computer for me, or my phone number, or something and I can never use my available bonus points, and they are up over 5 bucks by now.

The Sacred Heart Quartet

The cabaret is under way...

Then, I got back to Sacred Heart a little late for chorus practice, but I joined them anyways. All 3 of them.

Yes, there are now 3 people in the Sacred Heart Chorus, besides myself.

It was a fight or flee situation for me. Part of me thought that I was going to have to bring it hard and put as much into the music as I could, but I found it almost impossible to do that.

As soon as I got there, "Bongo," another resident who is a man in his 50's whose fingernails are painted purple and who goes out into the Quarter looking very much like a peacock, was playing a Liza Minnelli song through his phone and portable speaker.

It was a version of "All That Jazz," and, though it sounded like Liza was singing her heart out, it was depressing to me. All I could think was that either Bongo was being self indulgent and somehow suggesting that the chorus do such a song for our Christmas concert in a couple weeks; or what? I didn't ask why the whole chorus was sitting and listening to a live show tune sung by the daughter of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, and Bongo along with her. I just sunk into despair, confusion and ultimately, melancholy.

We sang "Silent Night," and "Joy To The World." I could feel a coldness from the other chorus members. My spotty attendance of previous practices, coupled with the total lack of enthusiasm that I felt for singing those two numbers, probably had them thinking: "If you don't want to sing, why show up?" But, for me to just get up and leave and take a quarter of the chorus with me seemed almost mean spirited.

I believe in trying to make something better. Next practice (the one right before our "recital" somewhere) if I go, I'll bring my guitar and at least be able to pick a key to put everybody in. Right now, we just pick a pitch and then go with it. It isn't until a voice cracks somewhere in the middle of a song that we realize we should have begun lower.

Why Liza Minelli? Why?

That's all I have to say about Sacred Heart Chorus practice this evening.

It's pretty cold, and I have no money and it is 9 PM and about time for me to go out to busk, if I am. Bongo gave me a hit of his medicinal weed after practice, after inviting me to his apartment to give me a few tee shirts which he had offered me a while ago, now.

They were all in bright, peacock colors, but that kind of goes with the theme of the day, getting free tee shirts, I guess. That was the first time I had smoked in a couple days, and I'm really not liking the feeling it is giving me. It's a feeling like getting to the Lilly Pad will involve a chilling ride across a desolate wind-swept wasteland, for a night that will have me concluding: "I could have stayed in the warm apartment and made nothing at all." I guess I'm going to have to quit that stuff, too?