5 Irons In The Fire

• Smartphone A Battery Guzzling Vibrating Pinball Machine
• Spare Bike Apparently Sold For $35
• $48 Dollar Friday Begins Before Sundown

I had to get up at one point and affix my spotlight to the vines overhead at the Lilly Pad, just about the time that the street lights were coming on, up and down the street, triggered by their light detectors.

I had started busking at around 6 PM, after having re-arranged my sleep schedule so that I was waking up, once again, at around 1:30 PM, and not 6 PM.

Sometime around 8 PM, I got a 20 dollar bill from a couple that I had played a couple songs for. They had just come from Las Vegas and I sensed that they were the kind of tourists who had money. I sang them the parts of my song: Hubert's Trip that were about Vegas.

It wound up being a 48 dollar night, after I played for 3 hours, took a break and then came back for another 45 minutes. My fingertips were stinging on my left hand for a couple hours after I stopped playing.

How Smart?

Sure, Google is now going to find ads trying to sell me a new set of golf clubs right? I may have even lost my 5 iron in a fire. As soon as the title of today's post is digested.

I say this because, I have accepted Google's "offer" to use my data in new ways that are going to improve my experience online.

But, they specifically mention that the feature will send "more relevant" ads my way.

How about more non-existent ads, that would be nice, Google.

But, I clicked and accepted, thinking in the back of my mind; what a coincidence that, a day after getting the first smartphone of my life, I get an offer to use a feature that will allow Google to do more with my search data and that which pertains to Youtube videos that I watch.

What a great job that would be for a creative software developer; to work on that algorithm...Gee, I'll bet a lot of girls watching this new Beyonce video would love to own a belt just like the one she is wearing in it; especially the ones that pause the video just past the shot of the belt, rewind it, and then watch the belt again...type of thing. If the subject views the belt more than 6 times, then link her to ads trying to sell tickets for the Beyonce concert closest to her "location."

I thought it funny about 5 years ago when, after, I informed Facebook that my new location was the city of McKenna, Washington, population nine hundred and something, I began to have things pop up, such as announcements about things that were going on in the McKenna area, and if I might like to attend them, etc.

Now, I guess it is all automatic and controlled by GPS. Will the new feature alert the FBI to anyone who gives a false location, as determined by the GPS tracker...this guy might be up to something...?

The New Smartphone

To avoid going into technical details, I will merely say that the smartphone rang like a chime Friday morning, 12 hours after I had followed the instructions to switch my old number to it.

I like my old number; it's easy to remember (333-4123) and is sort of musical sounding, so I wanted to keep it.

The smartphone otherwise would have come with its own number. I guess this is because its previous owner decided not to have it transfered over to another phone.

"You shouldn't have kept your old number!," said Bobby in Building C.
"That's gonna allow them to track you and start bugging you with a bunch of crap!"

I have blogged before about how it think that the whole "lifeline" program is a means for the Census Bureau to be able to count the homeless portion of our society, which comprises about 18%, I would say, as a wild guess. I would Google "what percentage of U.S. citizens are homeless?" but the figures I got might not take into account all of the lifeline phone holders.

Someone with the right data might discover that most of the "addresses" given by people signing up for the free phones are already occupied by people other than them. They are just not people who hold lifeline phones.

So, when the person who qualifies for the phone, based upon their being recipients of food stamps and/or medicare, gives the address of a dwelling in which nobody already has a lifeline phone, but one which is occupied by someone other than the lifeline phone holder, it could be assumed that the person is homeless.

It was kind of like playing the game Battleship, I recall, where the addresses I gave were checked by the guy under the free phone tent to see if they were a hit or a miss, as far as a lifeline phone holder already "living there," or not.

"Don't worry, I'm gonna find you an address," the guy had said, who then tried a few residences in a well-to-do area of the city where nobody would "qualify" for a Lifeline phone.

I'm sure the census count ballooned to something more accurate after all the Lifeline phone owners, who were blissfully surfing the mobile web, were figured in.

I picked up the thing that had invaded my apartment and saw "Will you take 20?" displayed upon its screen.

The night before, I had listed my second bike -the one Howard Westra had given me as a late Christmas gift- on Craigslist, with the price of $35 on it.

I guess the person who saw the ad had used their "messenger" application to send it, because the same application had popped open on my phone.

The phone gave me all kinds of suggestions for applications that I might find useful.

It turned into a pain in the ass in short order, chiming and vibrating every time one of my Facebook friends did anything, showing me videos that I might like, and worst of all, chewing up the battery.
The phone became physically warm like a hand heater from all the juice that was being drained by the thing as it connected automatically to any nearby wi-fi signal and then used that connection to bug me with stuff.
The epitome of it was when, earlier this afternoon, I was near Filipe's Mexican Taqueria and, honest to God, the phone chimed and vibrated and gave me a message to the effect of: There's Filippe's Mexican Taqueria, would you like to take a picture of it  and tag it?
So, the smartphone needs to be pared down, so that it is only a clock and a camera and a texting device that makes calls to my mom about 5 times a year, and that will hold a battery charge for more than the 5 hours that I seem to be getting now....
-people with good jobs, who own the house, don't need a lifeline phone

Smart Phone Arrives

This morning I had to shake off a bit of a depressed feeling; which I can most likely attribute to the video that I had been working on not having come out great. It came out pretty decently, but...

Part of the problem is that it was a Crosby, Stills and Nash song and their vocal harmonies are something that should probably have more than, a couple hours one evening, devoted to them.

Maybe I would work on them more tonight, except for the fact that I am broke again. I might as well practice them at the Lilly Pad. I've taken 3 nights off.

The smart phone came today, and I have just, I assume, activated it, though I haven't tried to place a call on it yet.

Having no money came as a surprise, as I hadn't been keeping track of each expenditure, but only knew that the balance on my green card was probably getting low...and, if they took out the monthly fee, then...
 

That kind of sucks. I want to stay in and work on some things.

I know that once I got set up and started playing I would wonder how I ever could have considered taking another night off; but getting from here to there is the problem.

J. Paul Getty Is Rolling In Money, He'll Be Alright!

60 Dollar Friday
E-Mail Account Reclaimed

It was 10:08 PM, when I left the Uxi Duxi and headed for the Lilly Pad.
I got there at 11:35 PM and played until about 1:30 AM, making about 55 bucks in that hour and a half.
When I hit the "wall" at that point (feeling like I had been wrung out of creativity like a towel) I took a walk to the Quartermaster, leaving my bike and my milk crate near the Lilly Pad, thinking that I might get a second wind, even though it didn't feel impending.
But, after the walk and a Monster Zero energy drink, I was setting back up to play, and was in the mood for doing so. Another half hour produced about 6 more dollars, and I knocked off around 2:15 AM after having about a 55 dollar night.
It was only Friday night, the last weekend of Jazzfest, and my goal was to position myself so as to capitalize upon Saturday night, the last weekend of Jazzfest, or "tonight," as some may refer to it.
It is 8:40 PM, and I would be an hour and a half ahead of last night's schedule were I to pack up now and head for the Lilly Pad.
Wedding Postponed
I had a feeling that Geo and Mindy Lee were going to wind up dead or something before their wedding day came.
Geo called me this morning to inform me that the wedding had been postponed due to close family members on each side being unable to attend "on such short notice."
Reading between the lines, I see this as a reflection upon Geo and Mindy Lee, with their close family members, who know them better than I, probably seeing the frivolity in the whole idea of their marriage in Jackson Square, and it being just a whim of theirs stemming from a tree having spoken to them when they were tripping on acid, telling them to get married, with the squirrels echoing the sentiment.
I was intending to call Geo before the day arrived to ask about the sound system that might or might not be available at the ceremony.
I told Geo that I was adamant about making that trip to New England that I have been talking about each of the past 12 summers or so, even if it meant taking off without having secured bus tickets, spending money, a new harmonica and guitar strings, and stuff like a light sleeping bag, in case I busk in one city and want to crash somewhere before going to the Greyhound station the next morning to pay for the next leg of the trip.
What had stalled me the past few years was the fact that it slowed down here so much in the summer that I never had those preparations made.
Buying about $30 worth of cat food to give to my neighbor Wayne, and leaving him the key to my apartment so he can let Harold in and out and feed him (and I suppose tend to his litter box) will be the only "must-do" thing that would keep me from going this time.
Geo then began to basically beg me to allow him and Mindy Lee to occupy my apartment while I was gone. "You would be doing God's work," he said, were I to allow them to do so, "So we can get some money together..."
They are a train-wreck waiting to happen. I would have laid odds of something like 2 to 1 against their May 7th wedding ever going down, after I first met them. See if you still want to get married when you wake up all hung over and coming down from a cocaine high in the morning, type of thing.
"How much is your rent?" Geo asked me.
First of all, the fact hadn't escaped me that, after he said that the wedding had been "postponed," and I had mentioned that I planned to be gone for a month or so this summer, he didn't seem so concerned about my not being able to play at the ceremony, but more about if they can stay in my apartment while I'm gone, as if they would trade my playing their first dance song for having a place to crash for a month or so, at what I am assuming would be a discount rate. Of course they would probably have some kind of hard-luck story ready when I got back and would probably try to use LSD as rent.
Not that I see any malice in them; they truly seem to be trying to live the "peace and love and acid" lifestyle but the fact that their close family members seem reluctant to come down here for what should be a momentous occasion speaks volumes to me.
I should have told Geo right off the bat that I can't sublet my place as per my lease agreement, but I had just woken up after only about 5 hours of sleep.
I am three times bitten, four times shy, about even telling anyone about my living arrangements.
From David the water jug player who expects me to be walking around with a big sack of weed all the time because my rent is paid and I get food stamps, to Louise, who reneged on the 20 bucks she had promised me when she came to get the last of her stuff out of my place after she had stayed for 10 days, after I opened a birthday card from my mother that had money stuffed in it.
"Oh, I don't get money from my mom on my birthday, I don't get shit!" she had said while stuffing the 20 back in her pocket.
To Travis Blaine who answered my inquiry about him giving me "a little bit of cash" as an advance on all the money he was promising me with: "Well, you sold your plasma this morning, and you're going out to busk tonight, so you'll be alright..."
I have become quite reluctant to tell anyone what "my rent" is.

I first encountered that mentality years ago after I had gotten a pretty good job and was robbed of what little stuff I had, right before my first check was to arrive. "He's getting his check tomorrow, he can replace his stuff; he'll be alright," was the implied philosophy.

And, he was right. I blew off the idea of going to find the guy whom I was 99% sure was the thief armed with a baseball bat, thinking that it could wind up costing me my job if I went to jail for it, and yeah, thinking that I was going to get a check the next day for something like $380.00 and I could replace my stuff and would be alright.

Do these same people fill their car's tanks with gas and then drive off, rebuking the attendant with: "J. Paul Getty is rolling in money, he'll be alright!?!"

The Whole Envy/Guilt Thing

I have been haunted by similar memories lately, like the time I was the big winner at a poker game between about a half dozen guys, having cleaned them out to the tune of about 110 bucks. Then, when we made a trip to the liquor store, it was implied that I should kick in and pay for the stuff. "It is for the girls," said one of them to another, loud enough for me to hear.

"Yeah, it is for the girls," echoed the other.

They each had a girlfriend waiting back at the house where the game had been (of course they would drink some too, so "the girls" wouldn't have to feel like they were drinking alone).

"Yeah, I wish I had a girlfriend to buy liquor for," I said as I stuffed the rest of my winnings back in my pocket.

I guess that is the demon I'm wrestling with lately, having had a 55 dollar night, and knowing that, were I to mention that fact to someone at Sacred Heart Apartments, their knee-jerk response would likely be: "Well, then give me 5 bucks so I can get some beer!" while knowing that holding that resentment within me is stealing joy from myself in the present moment.

"Um, my rent is $767.00 a month," I told Geo, as that is the amount that is stamped "paid" on my lease paperwork each year...

Funny how having a decent money night can put me in just as much of a "funk" as having had a zero dollar night. "I made almost 60 bucks last night in 3 hours of playing, so what, leave me alone!!" 
"

Hey, I'm Outside The Uxi Duxi

I had forgotten to think: "Yeah, I need 35 bucks" on my way out Thursday (last) night, after having had the $33.25 Wednesday, which is just as much notable for the tip of one quarter that a particular person had given me, which the total reminds me of, as anything else.

"Micha," who agreed to be in my "Hey, I'm outside the Uxi Duxi" photo is the same Micha who played her violin along with me at the Lilly Pad about a week ago, before she and a few other traveling kid types and her dog, Panda (shown) flopped down and used the spot to sleep. She didn't immediately recognize me such.

Thursday went just about like Wednesday had, minus the 3 tips that totaled 30 dollars that had gotten to make Wednesday night special. It was about a 15 dollar night and covered energy drinks, cat food, 6 bucks worth of kratom -the expenses of the day.

I had gotten "Baby I Love Your Way," in my head, after hearing the reggae (and not the Peter Frampton) version of it somewhere. I was thinking that I could do it using the D major harmonica, and maybe even do it reggae style. After about a minute of trying, though, I abandoned ship.

Friday Night

It is now Friday night and a Jazzfest Friday night to boot. I think my old calendars that I used to note my busking intakes upon show drastic upticks each year during the days of Jazzfest, but I'm trying not to let that put any stress or pressure on me, as I sit outside the Uxi Duxi just past 8 PM.
I woke up at 6:30 PM.

I knew when I finally felt sleepy this morning, that I wouldn't have 8 hours of sleep in me until about 5 PM, but still tried to cheat, by staying up upon waking a few times in the afternoon. I should have just set an alarm for 5 PM, because I wound up sleeping an hour and a half "too much."

Off And Running

I threw my laptop in my bag, and headed for the dollar stores, inside of the first of which I wasted time checking to see if they had one dollar bags of kitty litter.
Inside the second one, I bought a one dollar bag of kitty litter.

I then noticed that it was 7:40 PM, and my chances of making "last call" at the Uxi Duxi were nil.

So, I called a person who turned out to be Dom, and told him that I could be there before 8 PM on my bike and asked him if he would grind me a double shot of Yellow Borneo kratom upon hanging up the phone. Then he could rinse out the kratom grinder and wipe it down as part of his closing procedure -the ones that precipitate the "need" for a last call in the first place.

Exodus-itis

Like so many places that I have worked at, the Uxi Duxi has been infected with the disease (that needs a sniglett to describe it) which makes employees compulsively driven to leave their job site at the earliest possible second.

I worked with a manager at a Dominoes Pizza who, an hour before closing time, would break down the entire "make line," putting all the food ingredients in small containers in the walk-in cooler, so that he could wipe down all the stainless steel, sweep and mop the floor, etc.

If someone ordered a pizza right before closing time, he would make it in the cramped confines of the cooler, freezing his ass in the process, using a make-shift setup of crates and boxes. A pain in the ass, but a hell of a lot better than leaving work at 10:23 PM instead of 20 seconds after 10 o' clock, right?
Dom would just have to ring up my purchase and take my money. Then, he could still get out at the earliest possible second and get right to being a gay man in his free time.
"Umm, this is bordering upon ridiculous!," crackled Dom's voice over the phone that I'm replacing with a smart phone at earliest possible second, as I stood outside the Dollar General, its employees inside, crouching in sprinters blocks facing the door and watching the clock...

I actually had to explain to Dom that what I was doing was going to make it easier on him. He sounded like he thought it would be easier on him if he didn't even have to grind the double shot at all. I forgot to mention that it had been the suggestion of one of the other baristas, Lane, I think, that: "You can always call ahead, tell us you're on your way, that way we can make your shot before last call..." -smart man, that Lane, or whomever...

"If you're not here by eight, I can't make it," said Dom, making me feel like he perhaps was only amenable to doing it if he could retain some sense of "control" in the situation.

"Well, you would be grinding it right after we hang up, then you could have the grinder cleaned before I even show up...The worst thing that can happen is I never make it there, I get hit by a car or something, and then the double shot would go to waste...and I would be dead.

"Ok, but you'll have to be here by eight!" -the control issue again.

I then realized, after having talked to Dom for almost 2 minutes, that I could have been pedaling my way towards him while talking. I arrived there at 7:54 PM.
I tipped Dom 50 cents.
His tip jar for the day appeared to have maybe 40 bucks in it.

A New Way

I had jumped on Bienville Street, right across from the Dollar General and put the Specialized bike in high gear.

I learned that that particular street is a much better ride on a bike than Canal Street would have been. (All of the bikes that have been spray-painted white and propped up on display along Canal Street, surrounded by flowers and next to signs that say "Check twice for bicycles" could have told me that).

I'm sure I shaved a few seconds off my trip by going that way (and taking it like it was a leg of the Tour de France). It even had the "bike trail" bikes painted in the right lane and was one of the smoothest, most pothole free stretches I have encountered anywhere in NOLA -no white bikes on display at the intersections, either.

It was a great discovery, and if I ever have to race from the vicinity of the Dollar General to the vicinity of the Uxi Duxi then I'll take Bienville Street again...

As I sit here with 9 PM upon me, the GNC will be closing shortly, so I will miss out on a creatine monohydrate energy drink tonight.

This is the time for me to flip a switch and become an ambitious and motivated, happy, peaceful and content busker for at least the next 6 hours or so.
I need to do it out of love and not be fixated upon my tip jar -so I can make as much money as possible, of course...

I am off to pick up a 2 dollar box of Harold's favorite blend of dry cat food, to go with the 2 cans of wet that I snagged at Dollar General while getting the litter.

Then, I guess I'll pluck my first note at the Lilly Pad after having put new strings on the Epiphone; hopefully by 11 PM. It is 10:08 PM right now...

Where's George?

"Yeah, I need 35 dollars," I had said to the old black man who held the door open for me at Sacred Heart Apartments.
"Goin' out to get it, huh?" he had asked.

The Eckhart Tolle "living in the present moment" stuff has been embroiled lately by the experiments with the LSD that has come to me through Geo and Mindy Lee, who want me to play their "first dance" song at their wedding, which is less than 4 days away as I write this.

"You can bring a speaker, or whatever," said Geo the last time I saw him when he (skip the rest of this paragraph, mom) sold me a hit of acid for 7 dollars, but also handed me a fat pouch of weed, saying: "Get your weed from me," as he did, as if that was a free sample.

I don't have "a speaker," and, if Geo and Mindy haven't made arrangements to have a sound system at their wedding in Jackson Square this coming Sunday, then I guess I will have to be "unplugged" and they will have to dance 8 feet in front of me within a group of other guests, circled closely enough to be able to hear the song that they are dancing to.

But, in that case, neither will the preacher have a speaker, and will be barking out his "in sickness and in health"s using whatever lung capacity he has, so the "drop-off" in sound level once "the song" starts will be negligible.

I don't even know what religion a couple who has basically been tripping on acid and painting the French Quarter red these past couple weeks, eating and drinking at some good establishments and apparently financing the whole thing by selling weed, would be, and what excuse for a good ol' Catholic priest might arrive in the park Sunday morning to perform the ceremony.

I imagine that, in order for the union to be "legally binding" and all that, the holy man would have to be legally certified to form legally binding unions.

I don't know, can it be someone like "'Trey,' this really cool guy that they met at a  show who wears a bird costume and whom they wound up hanging out with for like 3 weeks in the desert tripping on acid until there was a sign in the heavens that said that he was the man who should marry them?"

"Here's a fat sack of weed, and we're gonna give you a hundred dollars for playing at the wedding," said Geo.

He still needed some cash and asked me how much I had to spend on a hit of acid.

It was a Sunday night, and I had started the day with something like 35 dollars that had been whittled down to something like 14.

"I don't know...I figured I would go as high as 7 bucks for a dose.."

"Seven is a good number," said Geo as he handed me a piece of what looked like paper, about half the size of the paper handle on a tea bag.

As he had done the first time, two weeks prior, he told me that it was a nice, hefty, dose, and that I should, thus, enjoy it.

Once again I took this as a sign that I should only do half of it. This is because I have allowed for a discrepancy between what a nice and sufficient dose was, in the mind of Geo, who might have built up some kind of tolerance of the stuff, compared to what might be right for me, to quote pharmaceutical ads.

My goal is to be able to produce something in this world.

This is a goal that comes with a caveat from Eckart Tolle, who points out the impermanence of everything in the world (and that you lose nothing when you "leave" it).

But, it seems almost selfish to curl up in a fetal position on the couch and "take a trip to the land inside of your mind" perhaps becoming aware of the space between the atoms that make up the body and watching those atoms become separated further and further until the whole body is like the Milky Way, floating in nothingness and you feel that you understand without understanding, everything.

Selfish when, on a little smaller of a dose you can hold it together enough to produce an awesome finger-painting, maybe on the wall of your apartment, or, in my case, a 25 minute jam, that has stood the test of coming down off of acid and remaining interesting.

One of the tracks, the acoustic guitar, I had started out by testing the microphone placement and playing along with my track in order to check levels and maybe come up with melodies, etc.

Wanting just to make sure it was recording, I started to play along and soon became lost in doing so and the musical equivalent of automatic writing ensued, whereby I became mesmerized, listening to the whole thing and detaching my ego from the part that I was adding at the time.

Once I added "bathroom" reverberation and other effects to it and played it back, it sounded good, but went for 25 minutes. I would have to listen to it section by section and pick out the "best" 16 or 32 bar stretch of it, to use as "the acoustic guitar solo," something I have already started doing.

The New Approach to music is to proceed under the assumption that "everything can be repeated," which happens to be the mantra of that approach.

This is a total refutation of the belief that "I just caught lightning in a bottle and I could never play that part again in the same way."

After a 12 hour recording session, I took a break and listened to some other music.

I developed a fresh appreciation for the bass playing of Jaco Pastorius. He was doing stuff on the bass similar to what I had been trying to do on my fake bass, only about twice as fast...

Jaco Pastorius,
died from wounds inflicted by a bouncer

at a club in Florida...

I developed a fresh appreciation for the group Yes. They were doing a lot of things that I had been trying to do, with rhythm and melody and harmony...only about twice as fast.

The over-all effect was that the Yes music just sounded "complicated," and after having listened to the whole "Ladder" (1999) album, I shut them off about 3 quarters of the way through their "Relayer" (1974) one.

They are cool enough, but I have trouble trying to not analyze their stuff as I listen, like once I determine that a piece is in a 10/4 time signature, I will find myself counting to 10 over and over instead of just letting my mind go... 

I then put on Pink Floyd's "Meddle" album and, like Goldilocks (when she was on acid) found it to be "just right."

33 Dollar Wednesday

I had played for the better part of an hour and had no money in my basket. I had 11 cents in my pocket. I started at 10:40 PM.

I had resigned myself to having a zero dollar Sunday night, even picturing the modified route that I would ride my bike home on, cutting out any stops to purchase anything. I would have to bust open the can of salmon that Rose and Ed had given me to feed Harold the Cat.

I guy came along and offered me "a dollar" if he could play my guitar.

I accepted the offer, telling him "That's a can of cat food."

He played a song that he said he had written himself, which contained the same chords as "Knocking On Heaven's Door," by Bob Dylan, but had no words. "I'm not a word guy," he said. I played the harmonica along with him.

Just as he was handing the guitar back to me his 2 friends showed up.

He offered me a second dollar if we could repeat the performance for them.

"Come on, throw him a tip!" he said to those same friends, and 6 more dollars went into the basket.

I then got pretty lost in the music, practicing "being in the present moment," and really feeling at rest in the knowledge that I had money for cat food.

Then, over then next hour or so, a few more bills went into the basket, as I struggled to realize that I had everything I needed right then and there, and thinking about getting home was not helping me, nor was thinking that I was playing only for a few parked cars and maybe a cat hidden under one of them.

When I went to scoop out a few of the bills, to leave only 3 or 4 in the basket, I found another 5, and then a 20, about a half hour later.

My going out the door hoping to make 35 dollars had turned into a $33.25 night on a Wednesday.

It was also May 2nd, and the folks at Sacred Heart Apartments weren't doing a good job of concealing the fact that there was a lot of crack being smoked, using money from the government.

"Dude, Come On, George Is Here!!"

They had gotten their 743 dollars and "George" was here.

I knew that because, Gary, one of the residents had been frantically knocking on the door of Carlos, a neighbor on my floor to deliver him the news that "Dude, George is here!!" in a tone of voice so agitated and delivered with so much gravity that I knew that "George" just had to be the crack dealer, and he was here. Drop everything and run to George before he leaves, or before he sells out.
Gary appeared nervous, kind of shaky, and kind of sweaty.

Yeah, George is the name that the dope guy goes by, kind of an inside joke to himself, as, by the time he is done with some of the residents who get 742 bucks on the first of the month, they will be lucky if they have one bill left with George Washington on it.

I can remember crack heads who, if they ran into a dealer and bought some crack, would then rush to wherever they were going to smoke it as if it was going to evaporate if they didn't smoke it within 10 minutes. There was a similar "Out of my way, dude, you're blocking me, why are you so slow?" manner about Gary after he had wound up behind me as I pushed my bike out the front door. I guess I was keeping George waiting.

I wonder if those residents view me differently when they see me on my way out, hoping to make 35 dollars, when they have 742 dollars on them. "It must suck being him," they might think.

Then on, say, the 18th of the month when they are down to a couple George Washingtons until the first of the month, what do they then think of me?

It is Thursday, May 3rd. It is my mothers birthday. I left a message on her phone, having failed to get anything in the mail in time for it to have gotten there by now. It usually takes 3 or 4 days to get to Massachusetts (While, it would take about a week for something I mailed to Wayne, my next door neighbor, to get to him).

It is about 9 PM, and time to go out to busk. He who doesn't work's cat doesn't eat...

I need to refresh my memory on all the lyrics to the song that I'm going to play at the wedding; and probably to call Geo to ask if they will indeed have some kind of sound system set up.
I would like to hit the dollar store for dish soap, kitty litter, a can of cat food, and I guess a 20 pack of batteries for my spotlight, though that can wait one more night.

A Retrospective

My blog seems that have gotten its wheels stuck in the mud, lately, so I think I will click on the "add image" icon and the "from Google archive" and browse photos which go back almost 20 years; maybe that will put things in perspective, on May 1st, 2018.

Well, here is a picture from probably 2006. When I see the homeless people under the bridges and on pieces of cardboard on the sidewalk, I can't help recall the morning when I took this picture. I was making an omelet over the fire, had honey and maple syrup as part of a huge supply of condiments that were on site.
I got on my bike every weekday morning at about 4:55 AM and pedaled to the Workforce labor pool 3.1 miles away, where I was able to get out each day and do various menial jobs, and would return to this campsite, after having cashed my check of $49.63, bought fish and vegetables and a bottle of wine.
Most of the other stuff came out of dumpsters, where it was easy to find things like a 10 dollar bottle of honey that had gotten some honey on its outside from another bottle that had broken, perhaps.

Were you to have asked me then: "Where do you think you will be in 12 years?," I probably would have answered:
"I'll probably have put a down payment on some acreage, maybe up in Georgia or Virginia, in the piedmont, and I'll be living just like I am now, only on my own land that I can put a fence around, have a mean dog chained up at, and gradually build my own house on, digging the basement by hand with shovel and pickax, having my own large garden, maybe some chickens...solar panels, maybe a windmill..."

Guava Paste Hangover

No, that's not the name of a band that's playing Jazzfest, it's what I might have felt upon arising at 2:30 PM, an hour past my usual wake up.

I had had probably a 20 dollar night, but it felt like more as I had scooped a couple handfuls of bills out of the basket, after having seen a couple young African Americans seem to suddenly take an interest in the Lynyrd Skynyrd song that I was doing, after having stared at my basket as they walked past, and then stopped a few feet further down the sidewalk to seemingly debate something.

On the other stoop sat Lilly and her newest tenant, David.

David spends as much time sitting on his front stoop (as if to tell the world that he lives there) as he does wherever he stays in the back.

He came up to me as I was setting up and was picking up whatever little bits of trash had been left by whomever had been skeezing there.

"I don't mind them begging, but their leaving trash behind is not acceptable," said David.

"I always leave my spot spotless," I assured him, in an attempt to use word-play and to cater to his apparent issues surrounding his feeling that it is his house that people are dropping trash in front of, making that a personal thing.

Lilly has reacted similarly to graffiti having been sprayed on the front of the house, or to having eaves (?) broken off the shutters, but her main concern had been whether it had been done by the neighbors that she has been feuding with, looking for intelligence to that effect in the grafitti, type of thing. A neighbor who would throw a grapefruit in a pool might do anything; even spray "homophobe!" in colorful paint on the front of her house...

But, David, I suspect would be happier if I didn't in fact know Lilly (who would probably evict him before asking me not to play there) because then I would have to kiss his ass, like the skeezers that are being "allowed" to beg there, through his "grace," but to not leave their trash behind.

While sitting on the other stoop the entire 3 hours that I wound up playing, David was joined by Lilly for a good portion of it.

He seems to welcome, and enjoy interacting with, the skeezers who can't seem to let a resident sit on his front step without running their: "Things are pretty rough for me right now, I'll be honest with you. I'm hungry and living on the street..." skeezes on them.

It's the: "You got all this; and I ain't got nothin'" skeeze.

Barnaby used to sit with the door of his place open behind him, revealing the chandelier that hung in the front room which made for a great conversation piece: "That's a beautiful chandelier, there...Listen, things are pretty rough for me right now, I'll be honest with you...etc."

David must be at least an interesting conversationalist for Lilly to have sat for almost 2 hours with him. I'll have to try to talk to him at length at some point. You never know, I might wind up getting a job through him, or something, if I keep my mind open.

The Videos

I'm trying to work on videos while at the same time becoming sick of hearing the same song a hundred times while editing.

I have learned that it is hard to match my voice to a phrase that has already been sung in such a way as it doesn't look like I am lip-syncing. One spot where the mouth is closed when it should be open is enough to destroy the "effect" of it.

It has to be done in stretches of, like, 3 words at a time, paying attention to breathing, syllables and accentuation, and even the facial expression should match the emotion of it.

Lyrics that are "ad libbed" are especially difficult as they may have been used to exhale the last of the air in my lungs and squeezed in to fit the beat, maybe using 5 syllables over 4 beats of music type of thing.

These need to be mimicked, as if the guy in the video, also, just had the phrase pop into his head and decided to throw it in, even if it's his 84th take and he has forgotten what the song was about in the first place by then...

It will be easier to record the music first and then to actually lip sync over it, rather than try to match the output of a guy who is making things up as he goes along. I guess that's why it seems "the professionals" do it that way.

I need to take the next couple of days to lay down rhythm tracks with the metronome, play the guitar perfectly through on whole verse, and then use the "repeat" effect to extend it to multiple verses.

I shied away from this at first, thinking that it would better if different verses had slightly different accompaniment, to "move" the song along, but now realize that the static guitar part that just repeats is going to be buried under the subsequent layers of other instruments and voices and cat meows and that most people are really only paying attention to "the singer" and "the words."

I also thought that using a click track was going to make things sound more stiff and regulated, but it's possible to fall slightly behind or to anticipate slightly the next click and to make the rhythm swing despite the monotony of the click-click-click-ing.

As long as the metronome tempo is adhered to then it can be used as the glue to keep every subsequent thing together.

So, why am I sitting in front of the Uxi Duxi at 8:53 PM on a Sunday night, when I should be laying down click tracks with bare-boned rhythm guitar parts along with them, to guide a forthcoming vocal rendition? The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.

The Smart Phone

I got a third letter from Assurance Wireless, telling me that someone at my address already is signed up for a lifeline phone. Yeah, probably about 119 people at 3222 Canal Street are.

I now have to send them proof that nobody else in apartment A 110 is already signed up. This will require a visit to Tim, my caseworker, tomorrow morning to procure some paperwork to that point.

The "Bongo" video that I posted here last week was originally going to be sent to him alone via e-mail, as I thought he might get a kick out of it. I will have to ask him if he saw it on this blog yet.

Tim is a type C musician himself. He plays the acoustic guitar and 12 string one.
"Type C" is a term that I just made up to describe the left brained, or more "cerebral" musicians who are technically very savvy, usually like to play ragtime or stride guitar where there is basically only one way to execute the piece, and it is either played correctly or with a few mistakes -not a lot of room for "interpretation."

Whereas I might have 10 songs begun, though not finished, with titles like: "A Heart Shaped Raisin On Mars," the type C musician would have a few already composed and set in stone, but with names like: "Untitled #1," and "Untitled #2" and probably the most interesting one, "Untitled #3."

Back in 1988, I was talking to guitarist Vinnie Moore in Albany, New York, who was considering hiring me as a "lyricist" because he had all of these songs, intricate flashy technically advanced pieces, but couldn't compose lyrics to save his career. I might wish that I had pursued that, Vinnie went on to become Deep Purple's 19th guitarist, after Ritchie Blackmore left the fold.

He had just released his album, bearing the left-brained title of: "Time Odyssey" and so, yeah, he needed a word man. So does Joe ("Time Machine") Satriani, for that matter.

I just got a text from Geo, who is going to marry Mindy Lee in Jackson Square on May 7th, with the first dance song played by myself for a fee of 50 dollars (I Googled: "How much do you tip wedding musicians?") who said that he would be at the Lilly Pad about an hour and ten minutes from now, with another hit of acid to give (sell?) to me. I won't pay more than, say, 7 dollars for one. I still need kitty litter, potting soil and dish soap, not to mention weed and kratom...

To Measure Success In Guava Paste

• 25 Dollar Friday Follows 24 Dollar Thursday
• Rose And Ed Evicted

A distraught Rose called me at noon.


I had been asleep for maybe a half night's worth by then.

I remember laying down and snapping the lamp off to find that nearly as much light was spilling through the blinds from the outside as had been coming from it.

I am living a charmed life; to be able to wake up in beautiful Louisiana with nowhere to go, nothing to do, I keep thinking.


"It all has to do with child support and certification and we had to get something notarized and we didn't have the money to get it notarized and we asked them if we could have until Monday but they said 'No, the eviction notice goes in Monday morning,' and then we would have to go to court, so we're just going to leave and stay at my sister's..."

Soon the distraught couple were at my door, pulling a cart behind them that they had apparently borrowed from Wayne, my neighbor who is a Mardi Gras "vendor," and uses it once a year for that. It was laden with food.

Rose unpacked, and explained, each item as she handed them to me...
"This is guava paste, it's kinda sweet. This is already open so be careful, but I didn't stick my hand in it, I just poured some out when I made my chili. These drinks are cold, do you want them in your fridge? This is some really good coffee, but you need a grinder, do you have a grinder; do you still want it?"

"I have the Crown Royal bag and hammer type of coffee grinder."

Ed began to speak, but Rose cut him off: "I'm talking to Daniel right now, Ed!!" The latter visibly shrunk, as if struck on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and, for perhaps the first time in my life, I could smell anger and fear and frustration on another person. I could hear Ed counting to ten in his head.

I could see that the eviction was a tense situation, bringing about some turmoil in the relationship between Rose and Ed. Ed had always been such a good provider, with his disability checks and the sale-able narcotics that are byproducts of his dozen or so yearly "surgeries," and it was sad to see him so humbled by these recent developments.

He had probably wanted to talk to me about the furniture, while Rose had probably wanted to dispose of the food matter first.

As soon as I had drifted off to sleep again, secure in the knowledge that I would have guava paste waiting for me when I awoke, the phone rang again.

It was Rose again, calling about the wooden kitchen table and the sofa that is in the room that her now 13 year old daughter occupies over the weekends when they have custody of her; something they are no longer certified to do, I guess.

I really didn't want any more furniture. As it is, I am stacking smaller tables on top of larger ones in an effort to reduce the clutter of my living space.

It crossed my mind that it would be easier for them to give furniture away (and then have the people they gave it to help them drag it to their respective apartments) than to haul it all the way outside to the waiting U-haul.

They were probably hoping that I would take the stuff to my place, even if I was going to set it outside by the dumpster as soon as their U-haul disappeared down the road.

But, I'm sure Rose will pop in for an unannounced visit at some point in the future, when, like a dog to its vomit, they come back to visit their "old friends" here, and "Oh,....where's the table and the sofa I gave you...I was looking forward to seeing them in their new environment...?" might be the first thing out of her.

They returned the bike that I had sold them almost a couple months ago, now, and that is now a piece of clutter that will always seem to be in the way, no matter where I try to shove it. And I no longer have 30 dollars to look forward to "the first of the month."

I suppose I can list the thing on Craigslist and offer to ride it to anywhere within the zip code to deliver it -included in the 30 dollar purchase price, 40 if I have to leave the state, type of thing....

"Oh, we're 'Chocolate Milk Heads' -been following them around the country in a minivan for years now..."

25 Dollar Friday

I suppose I earned every penny of what I made Friday night.
The "Jesus" clock was almost at 10:30 PM, as I realized once again that I can't seem, for the life of me, to be able to arrive at the Lilly Pad at my target time of 9:30 PM, which is when the piano bar guy starts playing inside Lafitt's.
If, in his professional sensibility, he deems that time to be when the dinners have been digested enough and enough Hurricanes have been swilled down to have put them in the mood to sing along with "Piano Man," by Billy Joel, then I suppose that might mean that they are likewise in the mood to hear "Guitar Man," (an adaptation of a song by Billy Joel) out of me.

This time, I had been waiting upon Bobby to return to his place with some weed. He had just "re-upped" and would soon be back, like Santa Claus with a big transparent bag full of a green leafy substance in his "sleigh" instead of one full of toys.

I thought to myself: "I can leave now, and be at the Lilly Pad by 10 PM without a bowl to smoke while I tune up, or I can wait for Bobby.

I was leery about it turning into a situation where, if he wasn't back by a certain time, I would have to man up and go out to perform my duties without the added luxury of an experience enhancing hallucinagenic. And, yeah, it seemed like I was being tested in some way.

After a reasonable amount of time, I decided that I would just ride through the parking lot of Banks Meat Store, ready to spend 5 bucks on a nickel of their regular bud, but a call to Bobby before I left resulted in him telling me to "hurry" to his place, where I had to take my place in line behind guys who buy from him and then sell it in the Quarter. They all arrive in vehicles, so they can't be doing all that bad.

I got to the Lilly Pad to find a beggar sitting on the stoop, who cleared off of it as soon as he saw me arrive on my bike. I was almost ready to offer him a puff off my tune-up joint.

It felt like the night was successful after group after group of people walked past with almost all of them throwing me at least a dollar; or more like: with almost all of them throwing only a dollar.

But, there were 21 of them, along with a 5 that had evaded my notice, along with about a pound of change in my basket when I knocked off for the second time, after having run out of motivation and talent and ambition at 1:03 AM, then having taken a break to smoke another bud and drink a Monster "Zero" energy drink.

I hit the stoop with renewed vigor at about 1:20 AM and played for about another 45 minutes. That was probably when the 5 dollar bill went into the basket, making for a 25 dollar night, give or take a pound of change.

This is a good sign. The small tip amounts are in line with the fact that this was the second night of a Jazzfest which spans 2 consecutive weekends, and tourists aren't going to come out of the gate throwing 20 dollar bills at every street musician, even if he is singing about carcasses. They will hold on to their money until the second weekend.

Then, after feeling as if they had seen all the performers at least once and had walked the gauntlet of Bourbon Street and been skeezed enough so they are starting to recognize the difference between them and someone who actually has something to offer, they will give larger tips to those few who were their favorites.

This is why it is important for me to be present at the Lilly Pad and biding my time, happy with the 25 dollar Friday night for the time being.
And, I guess the positive energy that I aligned myself with has caused blessings to flow my way. I just have to measure success in guava paste, that's all...
 
I slept with my song "Computer Geek Blues," looping continuously on my stereo. At one point, I woke up and could hear horn parts in my head that would fit -I almost was going to turn the microphone on and mouth the parts ala Peter Cetera, of the band Chicago, just to capture them; but I didn't and fell back asleep.

Left; Where was this "oldie but goodie" photo from 2012 when I was pasting together my "Cavorting With Amy," video? Next time I edit it, this one, along with a few others will be inserted. It should take me only about a half hour to do so.
Then, I'll have to delete the previous version from Youtube and replace it...I'll probably wait until I've finished the music to it... 

Later, I woke up and could hear a snare drum part in my head, implied by the rhythm I was strumming on the guitar, but fell back to sleep. The rest of the wakings up had to do with Rose calling on the house phone, giving away food and furniture.

I am going to take the best parts of the song and make them repeat, deleting the verses where I sang off key, and then play an additional guitar along with it, to use as a guide for singing the missing verses.

I will wind up with a song with the verses having been rearranged from the order that I sang them. All I have to do is cut and paste and I can move the 4th verse to be the 2nd verse, etc. It will be cool to listen to the finished song knowing that that was the case.

It must be equally cool when bands send a tape to one of its members, who takes it into a nearby studio and adds his part to it, before sending it back. "The guy playing the tambourine was in Australia, the piano parts were recorded in California and the rest of the band laid down the basic tracks in New York," type of thing.

The painstaking part will be to match the clips of me singing in the park to wherever those verses are heard, and then I guess to switch to a still shot of Leslie Thompson during those sections when I sang entirely different lyrics at a different spot.

When I get my smartphone, I will be able to play the song through an mp3 player or something and then walk around the Quarter shooting a video of myself singing (or mouthing) along with it, with all kinds of French Quarter scenes in the background and I'm looking forward to that.

Some bands talk about having come up with the idea for a video before the idea for a song came. I'm hoping that, once I get started making these videos I will come up with "...You know what would have been even better there?!?" types of ideas.

I think if I just walked around filming whatever I saw in the Quarter and just let clips of those run in the background while one of my random songs played, it would at least hold a viewers interest.

And, should I capture any "rare" moments, like one of the mules spooking and bolting down the street with a terrified load of tourists in the carriage, then I could even modify the lyrics with a line such as, oh I don't know: "But, you ran from me like a scared mule, woman!" or...something...

Spell Checker, ignore all occurrences of "skeezer."

The point, though, is that sometimes the scene might inspire lyrics, and vice versa.
If I'm recording a song about Lilly, then I can visit the botanical garden in City Park to capture images of her namesake flower, but if a cross-dressing old geezer walks past while I'm doing that, well, that might inspire a whole new song!

Jake Shimabukuro, Anyone?

• 24 Dollar Thursday
• More Videos On The Way

A lady walked up, who appeared to be in her late 40's and who appeared to be a bartender (she just looked like one; I could picture her saying: "It's last call, you need anything? as she wiped a bar in front of me) and probably a pack a day for the past 25 years smoker, and handed me a 20 dollar bill around midnight last night.

The bottom half of today's (Friday) lineup at the Jazzfest (above).
I look at these things (scheduled performers at big-time events) usually with a couple of regular thoughts in my head.

One of them has to do with my feeling that I have fallen behind the times, still listening to 1960's era music (or Sting, for that matter) while the whole world has moved on, with all the performers who might have played at Woodstock having been supplanted by the likes of the above. "I'm going to have to Google all these artists, check out their music, and in doing so, bring myself up to date..." I might think.

The second thought is usually: "I'm going to be so jealous if I see any musicians that I know on here."

Jake Shimabukuro, I Googled, after throwing an imaginary dart at the schedule from 15 feet away, and there he is (left).

The sight of him reminds me that, if you play a weird instrument, not only do you have less competition for being one of the best in the world at that particular weird instrument; you have a better chance of finding a niche in the Jazzfest lineup.

Sturgill Simpson is another "who?" who appears to the left.

He is kind of an anti-establishment country artist (if that's not too much of an oxymoron). A "You can shove that Country Music Association award up your ass, because it's all politics!" type of country music artist.

Is "Sturgill" a special snowflake name, or what??

Bartender Looking Lady, Cont.

"Here, put this in your pocket," said the lady from 3 paragraphs ago.

"Wow, thanks. You must work a job that pays better than mine!," I said.

"No, I'm poor, but you just made my night," she replied.

I then thought that, perhaps, she had in turn, just made my night, and since my night was already made, why not call it a night?


That tip had brought my total for the night to 24 dollars. Not bad for a guy who went out with only $1.42 on him, and who needs toilet paper, cat litter and kratom.

Oh, I see how Shimabukuro does it!

She had hidden herself somewhere, and I had thought that I was playing for nobody, and decided to just free-style.


I had mentally prepared myself for making only something like 9 dollars, before going out.

It was the cerebral: "If you have less than 20 dollars in cash, you must go out to busk!" thing that drove me out there.

"Wow, and I had actually considered staying in!," I have said to myself after similar nights, especially after the 175 dollar ones.

On my way past the Lilly Pad after having dropped my milk crate back at The Quartermaster and gotten coffee and cat food, I saw Brett the cello player just sitting down on Lilly's stoop. Wow, he's just starting at 1:30 AM, and here I am taking my 24 dollars and getting the hell out of Dodge... I thought.

"Oh, wow," he said upon seeing me, and started to grab his cello case as a prelude to leaving.

"Oh, I already played -did pretty well with the key of A minor," I said and rode on.

Brett has an understanding with Lilly that I have dibs on the spot. It wouldn't be right for me to try to keep other people from playing there during the 23 and a half hours when I might not be there on such a day.

It being Jazzfest, it behooves me to try to get there at 9:30 PM tonight, and to play straight through until 4 in the morning. I do still need toilet paper and kitty litter...
I suppose that, when he hadn't seen me there by almost midnight, Brett might have thought that I wasn't going to arrive.

The Next Video

The next video that will come out of the session in the park will be a version of "Computer Geek Blues," that I managed to sing most of the verses of almost well enough to go on the final production.
This one will involve cutting and pasting to make the song and video repeat, so as to accommodate the extra verses, solos, etc. something I haven't tried yet but which seems to work "on paper," at least.

A Little Boy Named Milo

12 Dollar Wednesday
After having ushered the sun to a spot below the horizon, shooting what turned out to be a 15 minute video, about 4 and a half minutes of which appear above, I went out and made 12 bucks in order to cover the kratom and cat food that keeps me going.

The song, "Cavorting With Amy," I wrote when I was staying with Leslie Thompson in 2014, and he had left Thanksgiving morning to go to The House of Blues for their free Thanksgiving catered meal that they offer to the public each year.
About a dozen restaurants send a diplomat to the place to take their place in the line and cater to people from all walks of life, from important people, all the way down to Leslie Thompson...
The song, is at "Level 1," which means that I have separated the audio track from the video, added compression and delay and reverberation as appropriate (though that is a matter of taste) to it, mixed a couple of background voices in, then put it back on the video.
I can add any number of additional instruments to it and, just as importantly, cause sections of the music to repeat, so I can eventually have the full set of lyrics represented on it.
As far as being creative with the placement of images, so as to match the lyrics, for example after the line: "She was standing in her unique spot in front of the Unique store," it would be cool to have that particular image of her fade in at that point. However, this is the kind of stuff that makes Openshot crash-prone, and so there is less of that kind of thing than I would desire. I make a few simple changes, just making sure all the pictures appear at some point in the video, and that is an accomplishment, with the Openshot free video editor.
It is an incredible piece of software, still, and if the next 5, or so, years see the fixing of its bugs then I foresee the time when I might make a video of myself playing in front of the Eiffel Tower, or Big Ben, with tourists seen milling about and cartoon David The Water Jug players walking up and saying "Pleeeze tell me you're smoking on somethin' Daniel!"
I can dream.
The Bigger Picture
The more important issue is that, as heard in the video, the brand new Epiphone guitar that Bobby bought for me, sounds a little less grand than the Takamine, which needs probably about a 20 dollar repair job done unto it.
This sound that you hear on the video was improved upon by putting the new set of strings on it, replacing the ones that had been put on at the factory maybe 5 years ago.
So, the next video that the Epiphone is used in will sound, say 8% better as far as the guitar track is concerned.
I can go back and replace the tracks with ones done on the Takamine, but that will only be a concern when I am attempting to polish off a song after having added drums and bass and maybe a piano, if I ever go back to Baton Rouge and use the one that is in a little chapel that nobody ever seems to be praying in...

On A Friday Night, I Would Mind

Oh, About A 14 Dollar Tuesday

Following the 16 dollar Monday night with the above amount, has been keeping me going, making me feel like a junkie, as I pedal my bike with a highly caffein-ated (sp?) energy drink on my mind, picking up half smoked cigarettes along the way, blaming the bowl of weed that I just smoked at Bobby's for turning me into a fiend, and a self conscious, paranoid one who can feel the eyes of all those around me upon me, and hear their thoughts: "Look at that fiend, looking for tobacco on his way to get an energy drink to mix with a shot of kratom that he will soon take! He probably drank like 4 coffees before leaving his place!"
And the cloud of knowledge hangs over my head, which could be called "The knowledge of to what constructive purpose the same 30 dollars made over the coarse of 2 nights could be put to."
Hubert Borg
My friend in Massachusetts, Hubert Borg, whom I last saw in 2004, is my role model in that regard.
He worked for a couple months over the summer of 1988, in order to save "money for college."
That fall, he was a roommate of mine at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst.
He had made around $2,200 working that summer, and, over the course of the 10 weeks of it, had spent $90 of it.

I repeat, he spent $90 the whole summer.

I think he said that he put 5 dollars of gas into his car each of those weeks.

The other 4 dollars went for things like art supplies, violin strings, maybe a used paperback book or two, and a 75 cent can of Coke-a-Cola on a warm day when he might be doing yard work and gardening around the house.

He still lived in his parents house, at the age of 44 when I last saw him, and did all the yard work and gardening as part of what could be seen as paying "room and board," but would do them anyways, out of enjoyment.

He enjoyed listening to free AM talk radio, playing the free piano in their living room, drawing or sculpting, and holding long, free conversations.

My song, "Hubert's Trip," (a recording and/or video of which is forthcoming, as I have been revisiting it a lot lately, due partly to having a D major harmonica) is about Hubert.

He gassed up his 1978 Plymouth Grand Fury with 428,000 miles on the odometer and embarked upon "a circumnavigation of the nation," as my song puts it.

But, yeah, I dream of being able to get by on 4 dollars a week.

Of course, there are a couple verses that address Hubert's frugality in that song:

"He goes to Vegas and he walks the strip -walks it like he owns it and in fact in his mind it is Hubert's strip.
He's approached by a couple ladies and they are really lookers.
Hubert soon realizes though that they are really hookers.
They make Hubert a proposition that will have to stay in Vegas.
Concerning a business that has been going on for ages.
He's doing some math as he looks over their figures.
Making some calculations as they push his buttons..."

Hubert chintzes out in the song (after determining that sex without love is over-rated) which shouldn't have surprised the ladies had they known they were talking to someone who once spent only 90 bucks an entire summer...

It is getting dark.

Even though the breezes have stopped blowing outside, I blew off the idea of shooting another video in the park. I have enough work to do on the existing ones, as soon as I find a spot where I can spruce up the vocals at.

I need to grab my headphones from the apartment so I can do the vocals off camera, and then paste them back onto the video, so it will appear that I'm singing (even) better on the finished product.

16 Dollar Monday cont.

Monday night, along came a girl with a violin, who asked if I would play with her.
We did play, with myself concentrating upon the thought of Tanya Huang.
It was an excellent exercise for me in that regard (seeing that I can keep a steady beat and can use chord changes that hinge upon moving bass notes, etc.) and the girl must have thought that I was an ambitious musician indeed after I had played about 20 minutes of straight accompaniment on the chords to "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."

No Tanya Huang on the violin was Mischa, as that was the name she introduced herself as.

She confirmed my suspicion that that wasn't her real, but rather her "traveling kid," moniker by staring at me blankly after I had asked: "Like the Russian version of Michelle?" Anyone whose birth name had been Mischa, would have found out at some point in her life that her name was the Russian version of Michelle. I mean, I know that Daniel means "judge" and that there is a Daniel in the bible and about the lion's den etc.

At the first pause in "our" music, Micha said that she was tired and reclined on Lilly's stoop.

While we had been playing (and no tourists had been walking past, so I didn't feel like I was missing anything)   a gaggle of her traveling kid type companions and a dog had arrived. They all followed suit and Lilly's front yard became a crash pad for them all.

I was ready to leave anyways, and didn't really care. It (her wanting to jam) had been a ploy to gain the spot as a place to sleep, I am thinking.

"The lady who owns the house loves dogs, so she won't say anything about you chilling here," I assured them as I left. This was partly to communicate to them that I knew the lady that owned the house, as a preemptive strike against them trying to make a habit of sleeping there. On a Friday night, I would mind.

Super intelligent puppet shows

outside the Uxi Duxi, coming soon!!

Harold Has Fleas

I discovered a certain number of fleas on the body of Harold the cat last night.

Last year, Wayne my neighbor who also has a cat had treated Harold with some of that stuff that costs 110 dollars for a 6 month treatment.

At least I'm pretty sure that he did.
Harold just one day stopped having any fleas on him whatsoever after being outside "all day," and it was not hard to put 2 and 2 together. Wayne had kind of hinted to me that he did that.

Some owners might become enraged over someone else having doctored their pet. My only ancillary concern would be about just what kind of new-fangled chemical can be used to ward fleas off of a cat for 6 months, while leaving the pet and its owner totally unharmed.

Maybe I'm petting Harold and then eating with my fingers, ingesting some of the stuff and it is causing me to become super-intelligent, making my brain function at 10 times its previous speed. I mean there is some evidence that might support that theory, right?

But that, I'm sure, is why Wayne never "admitted" to having hooked Harold up. Maybe he's not sure that I'm cool with the increased intelligence, and all.

Harold Has Ear Wax

I have regularly been going into Harold's ears with a Q-tip coated in olive oil and/or vinegar and removing a very dark brown tar.

When I manage to get the tip of the Q-tip near what I'm guessing is his ear canal, his rear leg on the same side of his body will go into a scratching motion towards the ear, often lacerating the skin of the hand that is holding the Q-tip.
This is a blood sacrifice that I am amenable to making, as there is a satisfaction that comes with knowing that I have gotten right to the spot where the mites, if that is in fact what this is, are irritating him the most; where he wishes he could get his claws in to scratch at.
Well, Here We Go!

I'm about to Google "cat ear dark brown wax-like buildup," actually, so I had better do so.
I'll be back here soon, perhaps with a decent video!

Up And At 'Em

• 16 Dollars On A Slowly Moving Monday
• Epiphone A Drop Off In Sonic Quality So Far

Now that a shot of kratom has gone from $3.25 to $4.25 at the Uxi Duxi, it is time for a kratom-head like myself to become more industrious, and this would mean certainly going out on a Monday night to busk, like I did last night.

This would be the second night of playing on the new Epiphone guitar.
As it stands now, the Epiphone is not sounding as good as the Takamine, even though it is brand new.

I think of the Epiphone as a brand new shiny PT Cruiser, and the Takamine as a convertible Corvette from, say 1988, one thats tail pipe is loose and keeps scraping the road and throwing sparks whenever I traverse some mound.

When the Takamine is repaired, it will sound better than the Epiphone does now.

String Theory

I have a theory, though, as to why the Epiphone is unstable in its tuning, with the strings that came on the thing being the area of interest.

It's possible that the strings that were on the thing, had been on it for years, after it was manufactured and warehoused and then eventually shipped to Guitar Center, where it maybe sat for months before having its price reduced to the $99.95 that was the dancing silver lure in the muddy river that Bobby struck at with a vengeance, like a pike, emaciated after a long spawning oddysey.

The strings had been tuned down just about 5 steps. It is possible that there is some kind of memory in the metal of the strings whereby they seem to gravitate towards the tension they sat at for so long.

The reason that it is recommended that guitars be stored like this is to take stress off of the wooden parts of it. Under constant tension, yet changing humidity and temperatures, wood will eventually warp.

But, my theory is that the strings on it now had just been sitting under a lesser tension for so long that they don't want to stay at the new one.

Oddly, though, a guy came along who listened to me for about 10 minutes and, after I had stopped and chatted with him, offered me 10 dollars if he could play my guitar. I told him to feel free to tune it and then told him about the trouble I was having with it.

An "Oldie But Goodie"

He played "Wish You Were Here," by Pink Floyd, where I jumped in on the harmonica, and then played "Blackbird," by Paul McCartney of The Beatles, then handed it back to me saying "It sounds really nice," telling me that it had "a vibe."

Then, strangely, even though I hadn't seen him adjust any of the tuning machines, I resumed playing it and it sounded a lot better...

Plus I had 10 bucks on the way to a 16 dollar Monday night that had "7 dollar night" written all over it.

It is Tuesday now, and I woke up at my usual time of around 1:30 PM and managed to make it to the Uxi Duxi by 3 o' clock.

Unfortunately I found that it was breezy, perhaps too much so to do any outdoor recording, unless I get a windscreen for the Snowball microphone. But, some of that lolly gagging around, preparing myself with coffee and whatever tobacco I could scrape up off the coffee table, picking out an outfit (I decided to go "French" today, with an all black ensemble, featuring the black tee shirt upon which is written "FCUKᶜ MOI?," and the beret on my head) etc., was due to having packed the microphone along with the laptop and then bagged up the guitar.

I kind of entertain the notion that the girl who sometimes wears equestrian boots might think that I have a crush on her.

She married (in a ceremony held at the Uxi Duxi) a young Frenchman, named Max, who has long hair and who usually wraps a headband around it.
When I appear there in like garb, I can't help but wonder if she thinks that I'm trying to be attractive to her. Who, moi?

In order to not waste the extra effort of bringing the microphone and guitar (prepared to break it out and play the Radiohead song that I learned, but not because they are the girl who sometimes wears equestrian boots' favorite band) I'm determined to shoot some kind of video with it.

I might go down to the spot that Colin Mitchell talks about, which is way down the river walk and past "the ships," which I guess are down there somewhere.

"The Fifty"

The prime concern will be setting up my stuff where it won't attract the attention of thieves. I can remember recording outside the abandoned house in Baton Rouge where Howard Westra and I were homeless for a while (the "Dancing Days," song in the sidebar was recorded there) and having to battle the distraction of half expecting to be hit in the head from behind, as part of someone's attempt to steal the laptop, right in the middle of a song. This is the blessing/curse of a spot that is so remote and quiet that it is excellent for recording.

Another spot I am considering is on the other side of the river in Algiers, where I was also homeless with Howard Westra for a while, and where I can sit by the river and sing as loud as I like, and be able to see the approach of anyone (probably a jogger on the bike trail) from a mile away; having plenty of time in advance, to discern if they look like a couple of laptop and guitar stealing hoods.

But, it is 5 PM right now; the sun will go down in 2 and a half hours.

Putting the new strings on the Epiphone to see if it will cure the intonation problem is job #2 on this Tuesday.

I should go out and try to follow up the 16 dollar night with at least something.
I might have to go on the recording excursion soon.

From Trapdted.blogspot.com

Street Musician Daniel Extra: I found the following by hitting the "next blog" button at the top of everyone's blog:

 I think it's time for another rant, don't you? ( Wait, don't answer that.)
Anyone who knows me or has followed the blog knows I have a rather complicated relationship with social media. This is especially true of Instagram. Yes, I know it's a lot of preening teens, bodybuilders, and the like.
But, you know what's the worst, by far?????

The drum videos!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The drum-related Instagram stuff seems to generally fall into 5 categories, they are.....

1. Chops Galore.....
This actually also contains two subheadings, velocity of hands, and velocity of feet. Sometimes they have both, but in any case the point is to show how fast one can play without any musical context or any real reason to be playing this way except that, well....it's fast!
2. I'm so cute!
A type of video where a young, good looking person ( of either sex. Believe me, I've seen some shirtless beefcake drummers on there! ) usually plays along to a track ( often categorized as a "drum cover" )  with super-exaggerated arm movements and a big smile. In essence,  it's long on show-biz, short on content.
3. The showcase play-along......
Arguably a subset of #2,  this features someone playing along to a piece of complicated music that exists only to show-off fancy drumming within it. You won't find any singable melodies, interesting chord changes, or thoughtful lyrics here, because the track is accompanying the drums, rather than the other way around.
4. Stick tricks, pads aplenty, and drum corps gone mad.....
In these type of videos, no one ever plays on a drum, but rather gives us the incredibly inspiring sound of wood striking plastic or rubber. It's really more the idea of being a majorette, but with sticks rather than a baton. Leaving the feet out helps the participants avoid any semblance of even trying to keep time, and again, show-biz reigns supreme!
5. Look everyone! I'm playing a Rock Beat on my drums in a really bizarre place!
What's way better than playing a beat everyone's heard a thousand times? Playing a beat everyone's heard a thousand times in a swimming pool, a snowy backyard, or in front of your favorite barbecue restaurant beside a major highway!!! I'm sure when space travel becomes even slightly more common, it'll be one small step for mankind, but one giant leap for stupid Instagram videos....