Buy Me Out?

A what?! In Front of our tavern?!! You've got to be shitting us!!

A Twenty, And A One...On A Friday Night

For the second Friday night in a row, there was a heavyset black man, dressed in hip hop "fake gold" style; sitting at one of the outdoor tables at the Lafitt's bar cranking some kind of speaker to the max, alongside a black lady in a dress.

Last weekend, I assumed it had something to do with the Bayou Classic football game which floods the city with thousands of college kids of color from the two schools of Grambling and Southern University when I heard the sound of hip hop coming from the direction of the bar.

Those schools, by the way, have been designated as "historically black" colleges; in a nation where any college dubbed "historically white" would be protested in front of, as an affront to social equality; windows would be smashed and sneakers taken, if such a college were to be. But I digress...

It made sense that, on that particular weekend, foregoing just shuttering up the place and waiting for better weather, the bar might have been catering to those students of color by giving the piano man the night off, and setting some kind of ghetto blaster out front, cranked up enough to get a "Dollar Store speaker" musical quality; as if to remind them of home.

This wouldn't have tarnished the reputation of the "oldest bar in the nation" with its candle-lit environment in the eyes of it's patronage. Those are typically wealthy white's who understand and appreciate the history of the place, which was founded in 1772 by Jean Lafitt, the pirate and his brother, Pierre. None of them would have been around to see the candle flames flickering in the heavy bass.

Consecutive String of Annual Shootings Interrupted By Deadly Virus

White people leave town in droves for the Bayou Classic weekend, and no outside whites book trips here at that time which leaves more hotel space, and at discounted rates, for the collegiate crowd, with their handguns and their random acts of alcohol fueled violence. After a year off for the pandemic, the shootings resumed this year with something like 12 of them, including the murder of one of the bartenders at Pat O' Brien's bar, who had merely gotten out of his car to tell the driver of a car in front of him that had just stopped in the middle of the street to move it. Apparently the bartender tried to run over the guy as he was shooting at him; but I digress.

Last night, the same crappy music was blaring away, and, after I walked up the sidewalk to investigate, and I encountered the couple, who seemed to be all about providing free music to the public, I asked the heavyset guy with the gold front teeth if the bar was "paying him to DJ, or something."

"No," he said.

I then asked him if he was going to be there all night. "No, not all night.."

I went to the Lilly spot and decided I would amplify my voice and the harmonica as much as the Yamaha would do, and I would just play along in whatever keys his hip hop songs were in and would try to "free style" lyrics to them, and would have fun doing so. 

I had a half pint of brandy, and had gotten a free bud from Patrick, who is another ex-friend of Bobby, whom I had dropped in on before going out to play. It was kind of a test to see if the Law of Attraction still worked when the practitioner had a buzz.

The free styling devolved in me singing things like "Wow, it's some guy with a ghetto blaster drowning me out for no apparent reason; wow!" and I wasn't comfortable with the dynamic of that, so I walked up the sidewalk a second time, after what seemed like a reasonable amount of time for a guy and his girlfriend to polish off a couple drinks and then move on, taking their personal 100 watt stereo with them, to go provide entertainment over some other 2 block radius.

"I don't understand why you're doing this, you don't seem to be promoting your own music, and I guess the piano man isn't here tonight or he would be complaining; because, when people step outside for a cigarette they can normally still hear him and he could draw them back inside with a certain song he plays, or get other people to come in if they hear the piano..."

"I'm not worried about the piano man," he said.

"Well, I know the residents in the block wouldn't put up with me bringing an amp like this; this is zoned for residential."

"I'm not worried about the residents," he said.

"Well, you're still misrepresenting the bar with your music; I've seen people turn around and head back up Bourbon because they think it's a hip hop club ahead, instead of a quiet piano bar; nothing against hip hop, but they kind of cater to a different crowd in there; I'm sure the manager wouldn't be happy about the people that are discouraged from coming in because they think it's another Bourbon Heat type place..."

Just the way the Lafitt's liked to party! (photo: Bourbon Heat)

"I'm not worried about the manager," he said. He then went on to say that he knew "Joe," the owner and that Joe allowed him to sit at a table and apparently just offer free music to the public, at his own expense of time and battery power, without having a tip jar visible and just as a public service.

The lady then spoke up and asked me: "What are you doing out here?" implying that I was only doing the exact same thing as they were.

"I play low volume music, and I do a lot of talking to people, at a conversational level; telling them stories and stuff..." I yelled to them over the rumble of their system. "That's why I've been playing at this spot for the past 12 years, because it's always been a quiet enough neighborhood."

The guy said that he had been "doing this" for 20 years. If that is true then he has only been showing up sporadically and must be what I thought was the bar cranking hip hop every once in a while over the past couple years. I figured that Lafitt's perhaps trying to "modernize" the place, to go with the neon lit slurpie type machines behind the bar, that are anachronistic to the candles on every table and the dozen or so on top of the piano. 

There has always been electric light in the restrooms and the cash registers were electric, along with the coolers, but the emphasis had always been on presenting a 18th century tavern experience.

But, it hasn't been the bar attempting to modernize, it has apparently been the guy with the gold teeth taking it upon himself to, I guess, ignore the history of the bar, and try to over-ride its appeal to wealthy white people who have an appreciation of that history and to make the place more "inclusive" by pushing the white people away.

So, today it is Saturday. 

One guy did come along and give me 20 bucks after asking: "Where's your tip jar?" I had moved down 50 feet to under the "forbidden" lamp post. 

"I had kind of given up on getting any tip money because of that guy up there cranking his personal stereo for no apparent reason I can see other than him trying to impose his culture upon the place. Good answer, here's 20 bucks; was the feeling I got.

In the shotgun house directly behind the lamp post used to sleep a guy who was a lawyer, who used to ask me, very politely, if I would knock off by 10 p.m. each night. My failure to do so that on a few occasions when I was drunk and oblivious to time, was what prompted him to reluctantly ask me to not play there anymore. That was when Lilly made arrangements for me to move to where I play now. 

She even moved her family's bedrooms around, so that her ex-husband, who still lived there, would be on the other end from me, closest to the lamp post, and the room right behind me would be occupied by Angelique, who said that my sound helped her go to sleep; unlike her ex-father. Something about the constant sound of me playing assured her that nobody was about to try to enter her room by prying open the 18th Century replica windows. Something about installing locks on them would invalidate their historical authenticity, so people can just push them open and enter off the street; something that had happened in the past -one of them waking up to find a drunk skeezer in their bedrooms, looking for a place to squat. They now have heavy pieces of furniture pushed up against them.

Angelique has, in the past, opened the window, and gotten skeezers who were refusing to move off the step that I play next to ("This is a public street, I can sit anywhere I want; I was here first!" type of thing) to do so, with just a few words: "Excuse me, I'm trying to sleep and your voices are keeping me awake, could you please move?" type of thing.

That was after I had called Lilly to report them to her. "Yes ma'am, sorry ma'am were moving right now, sorry to bother you..." became their new attitude. It always amazed me, the power the residents have over skeezers; I guess it's because of the legendarily high rents charged for places right on Bourbon Street and so the skeezers think: "wealth" and immediately prostrate themselves. This is in stark contrast to how I have been received by some of them: "You don't know nobody who lives here! I've seen you picking through the trash cans outside Rouses with a flashlight before; you're not friends with any of these people; don't try to fool me!" type of thing.

I texted Lilly about the ghetto blaster guy, who claimed to know "Joe," the owner, as I am pretty sure that Lilly knows the real Joe, if that's even the owner's name. Though, I'm about to call her as soon as I said I would in my text.

Ideological Undercurrents?

Perhaps Joe and company have been shunted by ideological undercurrents, and are themselves pushing some social reform agenda. Maybe Joe has become "woke" and now seeks to dismantle his own business, and rewrite its history; seeing his "pirate bar" now as something like a flagship of White Supremacy, and maybe he now wants to foster inclusive environment (i.e. run all the rich white people with an understanding of history away). Perhaps Joe has "learned" and has woken up to the awareness of his white privilege; and realizes that he has been inflicting harm upon the marginalized members of society by running a place that white people seemed to like so much. 

Perhaps it's time for the Jolly Roger to come down, the pride flag to be hoisted, and Street Musician Daniel to be drowned out...

Lilly and I will have a lot to talk about; since she falls to the far left politically and has even made me promise her that I would never watch NewsMax and had to show her that my phone didn't even have their app on it. "All they do is lie on that channel in order to push their politics.."

And her hatred for Donald Trump goes back to the late 1970's when she lived in Manhattan and hated him locally. "Everywhere you went you saw his name; on buildings, and on the side of trucks, on billboards everywhere, and even on the golf course..it was all Trump, Trump, Trump, and I hated it; I spat on his name wherever I saw it..." type of thing. She was most upset over "the way he treated his first wife," and "the way he treated his employees," etc.

But, thank God, she still sees me as being some kind of "victim," and has been unwavering in her protection of me. 

So, after 2 hours of ghetto blaster man, I moved down to under the lamp post, and hoped to show the lawyer guy that I had improved in the last 8 years, especially on the harmonica, about which his neighbor in the other half of the "shotgun" style house once said "You need to kill that thing," as he was walking past me on the way to the store or something.

When he said that, I saw multiple meanings in my own mind even though I'm pretty sure he meant it the first way.

To kill it as in put it out of its misery; because it sounded like a wounded animal; or to really get on it; because I was playing it too gingerly. But I was also preoccupied with my throat at the time he said it.

That was the one time in my life when I had quinsy (sp?) in my throat. That is basically like a sac of puss that develops somewhere in the throat probably due, in my case, to having smoked a bad snipe off the sidewalk. 

It seemed to be an infection of the saliva glands, the ones activated by putting a Sour Tart candy in your mouth or even thinking of doing so. If you are not hydrated enough, I found, and prepared for that, it can be painful when the glands try to produce copious amounts of saliva which isn't there. Maybe you aren't the kind of person who spits on the ground all day (like Lilly walking around Manhattan and seeing Trump's name, perhaps) or one who regularly eats Sweet Tarts or Lemonheads.

A week before developing quincy, I had put a barbecued pork rib in my mouth that had some kind of sauce on it (at a party being hosted by Austin, Texas musician Brian Hudson who was staying in an apartment with his then girlfriend, Amanda Zapp, just off Frenchmen Street.

That area is the counter culture to the Bourbon Street one, and where people go to hear the most creative, inspired, avant garde and up and coming musicians, as opposed to the canned jazz played on Bourbon Street by musicians who can play the standards in their sleep and are not pushing any envelopes at all, except for maybe demonstrating the skill of being able to keep a beat going on a drum kit and text at the same time with one hand, type of thing...

Brian and Christina Friis, who was also in attendance

But, it had been at that barbecue, which was in the late morning and mid day that I had bitten into the rib which made my mouth pucker causing the saliva producing glands to strain,almost as if cramping up, like there just wasn't enough saliva in me because I never ate that kind of stuff and certainly not first thing in the morning; that left a soreness in my throat which, irritated by probably the wrong snipe off the sidewalk just off Frenchmen Street, led to the quincy (sp?) in my throat.

It was just a sensation of having something in my throat that I could feel every time I swallowed, as if my Adam's apple was rubbing against it.

Amanda Zapp

"You Need To Kill That Thing!"

Well, to bring this diversion full circle, it was after the neighbor of the lawyer had walked past and said: "You need to kill that thing," that my rebellious nature prompted me to play as loud a note as I could and to bend it as much as possible; as a response to him, sort of.

The swelling in my throat had been interfering with my playing, especially on the draw notes, by effecting the way I was able to change the embouchure of my mouth cavity.

As a response to what the guy had said, I struck a chord on the guitar and then played the extreme note, trying to "kill that thing" -the note, the song, the harmonica and...in the process, I felt a pop in my throat, after which I seemed to have the option of coughing up or swallowing what turned out, after I did the former, to be a nasty, thick white puss of some kind. I did swallow some of it, which gave me a kind of queasy stomach for a while, but it was evident that I had killed that thing; swallowing was once again easy, as was playing the harmonica. A cure for quincy was discovered for the price of a ten dollar Hohner "Old Standby" harmonica!

The lawyer's neighbor may have, in an unconscious state of mind, been trying to say that the harmonica, which was a cheap one that was going out of tune, needed to be put out of it's misery, perhaps shot or hung from a gallows, type of thing.

But, I saw in him a cosmic messenger, telling me that the abscess in my throat needed to be killed, which was something that he couldn't have known about consciously, only that my harmonica playing prompted him to say that, for whatever reason.

So, last night, I played under the lamp post, in front of the bedroom of a guy who had once asked me to stop playing at 10 p.m. It was probably about midnight. I didn't even put my tip basket out, as I was happy just to be under the light of the lamp, which was nice and bright; even brighter than it had been when I used to play there 8 years ago. Some vehicle had knocked it down about 3 years ago and it took them a full 2 years to fix it. It had to be the exact materials used in the 18th Century to construct lamp posts, due to rules established by the historical society that governs the whole French Quarter, but it's former gas flame is now a bright LED light; probably after some amendment to the rules were voted in.

First; the gas flames disappearing; and not long afterwards, a heavyset black man with a ghetto blaster appears, more signs of the Apocalypse, if you ask me. 

"The times, they are a changin..."

Attempted Buyout of Street Musician Daniel

But, the hip hop guy kept asking me if I had a "cash out," or some other app on my phone through which he could transfer money to buy me out. "I want to give you a hundred bucks, just to get you out of my area," he had said. That made me wonder if they were sitting there hacking customer's phones over Lafitt's wi-fi and were stealing so much money -all digital- that buying me out would be academic to them...

That kind of made sense out of a young brown skinned guy who had come by me, as I was struggling to play in the same key as the hip hop and to make up my own lyrics to go with the repetitions of one phrase maybe 40 times...Something like: "Hit that thang, hit that thang, hit that thang!...etc."

Became: "Yeah, hit that thang, that 'stop' button thang. Hit that thang; that 'stop' button thang, yeah hit that thang, that 'stop' button thang!..hit that stop button, hit it hit it; time to quit it!" type of stuff.

The young guy had listened for a minute and then plainly asked me if I did what I was doing "on the side," or if it was my only source of income.

After I told him that all my money came from "this," he turned and walked back towards the guy with the ghetto blaster. It crossed my mind that maybe he was going to go and try to persuade the guy to shut it down, telling him that he was putting someone out of business (just so everyone would know that he owns a loud electronic device? So he could over-ride any "white" music that might be coming from the bar or from me? So he could signal to people of color that Lafitt's has been pirated and is now being occupied by an inclusive crowd, whites need not apply?). But now I think gold teeth man had sent him to ask that; perhaps already having come up with the idea of buying me out and trying to estimate a reasonable price.

A Vaccine Apartheid

Lilly and I have a lot to talk about. 

At least she has the rectitude to not label me an "anti-vaxxer" like some ignoramuses who are probably just looking for yet another way to divide society, label people, and then hate them, like the unconscious types they are, creating a vaccine apartheid, as part of their utopian vision for the planet.

People who think that their neighbor's not getting vaxxed is a threat to them who are vaxxed themselves, are about the most selfish individuals imaginable. 

They know that they can still get Covid even though they are vaxxed; an event that might have left them feeling so shitty that they had to lie in bed for 3 days, taking flu medication the same as if they had gotten the damned virus in question. 

And yet, this tiny chance that they are going to die from the thing, after getting it from an unvaxed neighbor who wouldn't know that he was carrying it because of the added small probability that he has it, but is "asymptomatic" as grounds for these ignoramuses to literally "hate thy neighbor," is astounding. 

How long before the "anti-vaxxers" are required to wear stars on their sleeves, alongside the "Trumpers."

And, who are the supposed authoritarian fascists in our society, now? 

A Cakewalk For The CCP

I'm starting to think that the reason California people seem to complain about "spotty" Internet connections, when I can hardly recall my connection ever even being a little slow (these posts typically publish in under 5 seconds, for example) is because, I think, their data is being throttled, due to censorship. There is a difference between stupidity and ignorance. The latter is more excusable.

If you're in California, you probably aren't even allowed to see this blog, type of thing. And that would be because I'm not a gung ho, full speed ahead, everybody be forced to get the jab, Fauci lemming. So, if you're Google and in cahoots with Big Pharma; don't even allow this over the "spotty connection" out there. 

Yup, that's what I think...that's my conspiracy theory

And I think when the Communists do attack, shortly after Trump is elected again, so it can be blamed on him for posterity's sake; their first nuclear warhead will target Mountain View, California, or SunyVale, or wherever the Google's servers are.

As soon as they are confident that we are a society that will be both literally and figuratively lost without our smartphones, then...bombs away! It will be a cakewalk for the CCP; like taking candy from a baby. Then we will all be both literally and figuratively f***ed by the Chinese, with their 3 inch penises...

But, that's just my opinion; tell me what you think in the comment section below; and be sure to "like" and subscribe to my channel....

I Whack A Skeezer Over The Head With A Can Of Cat Food Inside A Plastic Bag...

I had to laugh when I got home and Harold was meowing to be fed and I remembered that I had gotten him a can of food at the CVS on Canal Street.

It wasn't until I saw the deformed can that I remembered that I had indeed hit the skeezer first.

I guess I'm glad I didn't finish him off after I had joined my bike chain with the padlock, turning it into a skull cracking weapon. I always am glad whenever I catch myself going berserk and stop myself..

It's 5 a.m. and I'm not having cops knock at my door; as I probably would be having if I had cracked the skeezer's skull with the padlock at the end of the bike chain.

Although, I keep running the movie in my head of doing just that. 

But, every inch of the Quarter is under camera surveillance and they might have investigated the bludgeoning of a skeezer, who was carrying a tarp and just a homeless drug addict.

But, that is not why I whacked this skeezer over the head. I did that because he was letting the air out of the front tire of my bike, as it was locked to the rack in front of CVS.

I had just finished busking for about an hour and a half, starting at 11:20 and making 13 bucks off a light crowd.

The guy had approached me as I was standing by my bike which was locked to the rack near CVS, asking me if I needed a tarp. He was holding a rolled up tarp of some kind.

I was drinking a 24 ounce can of PBR which I had just bought in CVS, along with a can of food for Harold. I had double bagged the stuff, anticipating having to swing it like a weapon, based upon another really washed out looking red haired guy who had been kind of making a scene inside CVS, but being ignored by everyone except me, who merely turned and looked at him.

I was following the instructions that the self check out thing was giving me, scanning the PBR and the cat food and placing them in the bagging area. But the guy was yelling something unintelligible at nobody in particular, and I glanced at him just quickly enough to assess him to be one of those white people who are too white, so as to be almost pink, which he was, and his orange hair just screamed mentally unstable. Some people can just be summed up and judgement passed upon them, based upon appearance alone; that is just a fact of life.

When I heard him say something like: "What are you staring at?" presumably directed at me, I was concentrating upon pressing the right buttons and inserting the coins first and bills second. It crossed my mind that, upon seeing the whole 13 dollars that I intentionally pulled out in order to flash in front of him, for that very purpose, he was going to ask me for money. Even after having made the "What are you staring at?" comment.

I decided to mess with him some more after he hadn't tried to skeeze me but kept talking gibberish. 

My machine started repeating something in its lady's voice, like "Please place the item in the bag," over and over. I purposely kept the item out of the bag to make it repeat, so I could say (to the machine, right?): "Will you shut the f*** up?!"

Which caused the albino looking guy who, because of that appearance must also have had some kind of brain deformity, to start directing threats at me, who, for my part just kept my attention on the machine, which was then telling me that I had an age restricted item and that help was on the way.

The pale skinned orange haired guy had been urged towards the exit and told to leave by the black ladies who work there, with no help at all from a guy in a security uniform who sat in a chair by the entrance and never seemed to look away from his phone.

So, I took two bags, getting a smile from a very tall young black girl, which probably because she too has noticed that plastic bags have gotten thinner and weaker starting a few years ago. How amused would she have been had she known that I had double bagged my stuff in anticipation of having to swing the bag like a pitcher throwing a baseball and clock retarded boy over the head with the items.

But, I would wind up doing that to an entirely different person, as orange boy was nowhere to be seen after I stepped outside.

So, I cracked the PBR open and was sipping it. Along came the young guy carrying the rolled up tarp. He was a little shorter than me and probably about the same weight, but was about 35 years younger than me. That should have been substantial in a combat situation, but it is amazing how much decay and atrophy can befall a kid even as young as 20.

He asked me if I needed a tarp. I told him no, in fact I had a tarp that I was getting ready to throw out (having begun reading the Japanese art of de-cluttering book).

Then he asked me if, well, could I just give him some money instead of buying the tarp.

I then decided to mess with him.

"I'm gonna need all the money I got just to get my dope; in fact I'm probably gonna have to cop short a couple bucks if he'll let me slide..."

The sarcasm in this was lost upon him, because his attitude wasn't one of: "F** you; you're making fun of me because you know I'm trying to sell the tarp to get drug money" but rather he became wily and cunning and some kind of plot seemed to have hatched in his mind. 

He then became pseudo charming and with an upbeat half smile, told me enthusiastically that he was looking for some dope "too" and added that he had money (even though he had been a minute ago totally broke and just trying to get "enough for a hamburger") and he could cover whatever I might be short.

"Where's the dope?" he implored me to tell him; as in, come on, let's go; you push your bike, I'll walk alongside of you and, the skeeze will be on.

"Up on Treme Street," I said offhandedly, as if to say happy trails, you can spend your money there "Just walk down that street where the Asian massage place is.."

But, that somehow wasn't good enough for him. I suppose I was underestimating how much an addict's whole universe revolves around his fix and so, in his mind, why would I have anything better to do than to escort him to wherever they sold dope; I would be bringing them more business and might get a kick-back myself.

Then perhaps seeing the guitar around my neck and my backpack as a liability threatened to kick my ass, or something if I didn't show him where the dope was.

"Really, you're threatening me because I won't show you where the dope is?!'

I then walked away from him and the bike rack and started to sip on the Pabst where I was only a few feet away from the uniformed security guy, a fat black guy whose only usefulness seemed to be in sitting there poking at his phone and not getting involved in any sort of disputes. I still had Harold's can of food in the doubled bag.

A few sips into the beer, I looked over to see the skeezer letting air out of the front tire of my bike, whereupon I snapped in a way that only tequila has ever made me do in the past and I ran over to him and swung the bag as hard as I could, aiming the can for the crown of his head, which was still turned down and facing the valve stem of the tire.

It was a direct hit and he fell backwards, as if surprised that I would have resorted to violence against his non violent act of deflating a tire. It crossed my mind that he was trying to make it so I would have to walk the bike to wherever the dope was, allowing him to follow along and take advantage of whatever weakness he could uncover in me.

He then said: "You're going to jail!" and looked like he was considering running from me, should I continue to attack.

But then, perhaps seeing that I was encumbered by still having all my gear around my neck, he advanced upon me throwing punches which I was able to block all of so that my glasses and my hat were still on my head.

This had backed us to right in front of the fat black guy in the security uniform who sat on his stool, obliviously staring at his phone. I wondered what he would have done had I turned and punched him in the face.

I thought about taking my guitar and backpack off and my glasses so as to be in a more proper condition to fight; and probably should have, because instead of walking off after failing to land a punch, the skeezer grabbed my milk crate from where it sat near my bike with some air out of its front tire. He dumped a book that I had found and was carrying in the crate, out onto the sidewalk, and then came at me; right in front of security guy who barely moved; swinging the crate at me, and managing to cut my arm as I blocked it.

He then walked off, leaving the crate on the sidewalk.

I finished the beer out of a can that was partially crushed as I had held onto it while fending off blows, such was my desire to not have to interrupt what I was doing by putting everything down, the beer, the guitar etc. that I had just held onto it.

After I finished it, and when I was unlocking the bike, I squeezed the front tire, and finding it a little soft, I resolved to lock the two ends of my bike cable together and then go after the skeezer, who was still in sight a few blocks up canal. I would use the cable to generate deadly velocity on the padlock and crack his skull.

The one thing I did get out of the security guy was that he would be willing to let me set my gear down by him so I could go off in pursuit on my bike; he seemed to be encouraging of it. I guess that's what a certain political faction wants in this country; violence and chaos on every street everywhere.

I wondered if it was the tequila motivating me; knowing that it was as I closed in on the skeezer, mentally swinging the lock; making sure that I chocked up on the cable to curtail its arc to make it less likely that the skeezer could grab it; he surely wouldn't be trying to stop the padlock with a hand, but you never know what a person is going to do when in fear of their life..

I had a chance to think of the irony of my having watched the video of the Tibetan Yogis the night before; and I was pretty sure that this was the kind of challenge that life always throws at people who make some endeavor at becoming more spiritual; here I had been meditating the night before and, shortly after wa ready to hear the dull thud of a padlock hitting bone..

I knew that it was the tequila doing its thing again, at the intellectual level.

When I encountered him, I threw my bike down by the trolley tracks which attracted his attention. He saw that I had gotten rid of all my baggage and was holding the bike cable with about a foot of length to the padlock, and I think it was the fear that he showed, as he began to hurry back towards the light of Canal Street instead of continuing into the darkness of Toulouse Street, where a lot of skeezers sleep on the sidewalk, that made me decide not to attack him.

I rode home, playing a movie of me beating him to near death in my mind over and over again. I didn't settle down until I got into my apartment and heard Harold meowing for food.

Remembering that I indeed had gotten him a can of turkey flavored Friskies, I retrieved the plastic bags from my guitar case and had to laugh at how the can was caved in so much that it looked like a half a can.

It was only then that I remembered that I had indeed hit him first as he had claimed. I had totally forgotten that part until seeing the can of cat food.

I still was wishing I had bought something a lot more solid in CVS, which would have been in the bag...like one of those glass candles with Jesus on them that weigh about a pound and a half and are made of heavy glass full of solid wax...

But, this whole post should have been about the busking and making the 13 bucks in about 80 minutes of playing. But it wound up being about the evil spirits that seemed to be everywhere that night...

Even the young black kid who looked like that Smolett guy who faked the hate crime, who gave me the second shot of tequila may have been one of them...

When I got back to Sacred Heart there was a guy who resembled the skeezer a lot whom I knew couldn't have been him unless he had flown there. The guy kind of challenged me with a "what the hell are you looking at?" attitude...

Then, when I was going out to get another beer because my mind was still racing with wishing I had bought something heavier in CVS and would the police be knocking at my door that morning charging me as being some kind of aggressor; there was yet another rather tall and skinny black guy, swinging his fists at some invisible opponent and saying something like: "Nobody threatens me!" and I had to show him the cut on my arm which was oozing blood in order to calm him down, saying: "Yeah, I had the same problem with someone tonight..."

The sight of fresh blood seemed to give him a reality check upon the difference of talk and action. Instead of throwing punches at the air, why don't you go get yourself some of this actual blood? type of thing. When I got home with the beer he was gone, as was the other guy who resembled the skeezer...

I laid down and went to sleep, forgetting to wrap my wound and woke up worrying about infection as the cut was rubbing on my mattress; so I used some Neosporatin (sp?) type stuff that I had just happened to have found right before going out to busk. Bobby had once given it to me and it had fallen out of a sock that I pulled out of my drawer while getting ready to go. I had set it somewhere, not knowing that I would be needing it a few hours later...

Instead of seeing failure in that I watched the Tibetan Yogi video and then went out and did something counter to its teachings; I am seeing success in that, had I not watched the video I might have to be in fear of police knocking on my door any time now, had they found a bludgeoned skeezer on Toulouse Street.

A Time To De-Clutter

 

I spent a lot of time and unlimited data, through the government phone which is allotting that amount to all of us homeless food stamp recipients; apparently to keep us glued to our phones in order for Big Brother to keep us informed, while keeping tabs on our locations. 

There are no doubt scripts that monitor the gathering of those that have been labelled by the algorithm as "domestic terrorists" for the gathering of them in numbers greater than 50 or so -one of the costs of "free unlimited data," due to the pandemic, of course...

Meanwhile, I sit at home and have watched a whole hour and forty minute interview of Eckhart Tolle, by Russell Brand, and then watched the above documentary which itself was about and hour and a half in length.

Hearing the Tibetans talk about their own holocaust, at the hands of the Chinese -one that didn't get the press that the Hitler one did, for reasons that still seem to be at play today; and how the Yogis have no animosity towards the Chinese people (they were just doing as instructed by the Communist system) nor the Chinese government (the people who were brutalized in every way imaginable were just paying for the negative karma they had accrued in this, or previous, lives) was a great testament to their authenticity.

Earlier, I had watched a Listography.com video where four guys ranked The Smith's top ten songs, in each of their opinions.

And, I wound up falling asleep to a video about the Gnostic Gospels, which resonated with me, as I drifted off to sleep. Good thing for unlimited data, as I got up a few hours later and stopped the laptop from consuming more than the half a gigabyte that was wasted, as I slept, or maybe not, if it sunk into my mind subconsciously.

Upon waking and invoking the Law of Attraction by coming up with 3 things to be positive about (something that a young girl, interviewed at one of the outcrops of the Buddhist exodus from the genocidal Chinese, in or around San Diego, California, said something very similar to, in that every night before she went to sleep she would think of 2 things that she "did bad" that day, and two things that she "did good" and would wake up with the resolve to not repeat the one, but rather the other).

It was as soon as I felt happy and grateful for what I had that I looked at my bookshelf and noticed a book that I didn't remember ever seeing before, and wondered how it had even gotten on my shelf -I had probably grabbed it along with others that had drawn my attention away from it.

It was "the life changing magic of tidying up (the Japanese art of de-cluttering and organizing). Ironic that it had been hidden in the clutter of my room from me, until then.

I might write more about it, and other things but, it is 10 p.m., and 73 degrees on this December 9th evening -the Thursday Night Football game is a slaughter, as if the Pittsburg Steelers were the Tibetan's and The Minnesota Vikings the Chinese Communists, and so there is every reason for me to go out and busk, even though I continue to struggle with motivating myself to do so.

I'm starting to think that I am being called to fast for a long period of time without any kratom or coffee or tobacco or weed or sugar; kind of like the Yogis.

Found in a messy pile of books in my room...

I will be happy to make enough for an ounce of kratom and a can of food for Harold.

I also fear that I might be addicted to the Internet, which was a common thread between the Eckhart Tolle video and the Yogi one. Both of them mentioned the danger of ego driven websites that foment anger and resentment and jealousy and the rest of the 5 things that the Yogis struggle to subdue through meditation.

I might have to either de-clutter this blog by going back and deleting out such negativity from past posts; or just shut the laptop down and only use it to check the weather from now on and message a few people..

2 Solid Hours

• $97.50 Friday
• $25 Saturday
  

There didn't seem to be any lack of people in the Quarter, and it kind of amazes me; as someone who used to see tourists come here and act pretty much the same as they did tonight; but, after the Big Reset has gone into play; and given the divisive influence of social media that is owned by the likes of Bill Gates..

I worried that the tourists might have morphed into divisions of highly charged citizens on the lookout for, basically, something to hate someone else for.

But, these tourists are perhaps haunted by the exact same spirits as those that were here 2 years ago, before the flu, and they are hungry like fleas in the rug of a house that's residents have been away from, on a 2 week vacation; and they took the dog with them.

Picture spirits in the empty quarter, with no souls to torment; and then, the gates are open and the tourists flood in. They would jump at their first chances to become embodied and walk Bourbon Street.

Imbibing in many cases plainly too much, under the disillusionment that might fall under the head of: "This is New Orleans, we gotta party!" giving the spirits that much more free reign, and that is one explanation.

I just realized yesterday that, on many days that I had marked as "didn't practice today," because I hadn't done any exercises out of Mel Bay or Chet Atkins nor even the Charlie Byrd, books, but...on that day, I might have spent 45 minutes playing solo ideas over a recording I might have lying around, and maybe another half hour playing a rhythm part; and, while it can be argued that that isn't technically practice -because you are not forcing yourself to play anything that involves a radical stretch or something that works the weakest muscles in the hand, type of thing; just for the sake of it, as you would be, if doing exercises in a method book. They make sure that the exercise, whatever it is, spans all 6 strings, and there are always the notes that have to be reached for...

Improvising The Best Practice of All?

Except when improvising. When doing that, it is quite possible to come up with a device that will lead you to have to make some severe stretches. Like, if you start a certain melodic pattern, it will fall a certain way on the upper strings because of the way a guitar is tuned, and then you might find as you attempt to repeat the melody in a descending way, that when you get to the bottom strings you have had to rotate your whole hand and change the whole angle of the fingers; just like Mel Bay would have you do; but when you are driven by hearing a melodic pattern that you think, in the spur of the moment, would sound really cool repeated an octave lower, you don't have any time to think: "yeah, but that's going to be a hellacious stretch down there at the second fret." You just contort your hand in service of the melody. 

That probably develops nerve synapses at an accelerated rate, over doing the same stretches as part of an etude -the fact that the stretch was made out of a passion to hit the notes to make cool sounding music. 

The Law of Attraction comes into play in music, in a way I discovered way back when I first picked up an electric guitar and had learned basically one scale. I would kind of in my mind make a burlesque of myself as a guy playing the electric guitar; and I would be faking that I was really great. I might just hold one note, but then try to put as much feeling into it as possible; using heavy vibrato; or biting into the strings with the pick; anything to illustrate: this is what the greatest guitarist in the world would play. That way, you are just giving the general idea.

In the movies, they usually get a guy like Steve Vai to play, say the devil's guitar part, and he is able to act the part of the guitarist so good he outplayed the devil, or whatever the plot of that "Crossroads" movie was..

But, a kid coming home from a Steve Vai concert who plays guitar, upon being asked by someone if he enjoyed the concert and if the guy was that good, etc...

That kid could pick up his guitar and try to give his friend the general idea; "He was doing all this crazy kind of stuff, like..." and, even if the kid was nowhere near as good as Steve when he woke up in the morning, The Law of Attraction kind of premises that to the degree that the kid could "fake" Steve Vai, most importantly to grasp how he must feel and what kind of feeling he is trying to get across when he plays; he would have improved his playing to that same degree.

So, the feeling comes before the actual notes are played, and that fulfills the Law.

That kind of reminds me of how Joe Satriani often refers to himself as "the guy," in the context of, the way he explains it, him thinking to himself: "What kind of really freaky solo would the guy play here, in order to make it sound like literally surfing with a literal alien, type of thing. That is a clue into the thinking of a guy who plays guitar "at the speed of thought," Dorise Blackmon once assessed.

So, I guess my point is that the tourists haven't changed much.

I have noticed a little bit of what might be the "woke" culture having, by osmosis from cellphones probably, seeped into the consciousnesses of a few of the people milling about the Quarter; that has kind of reared its head in me having a couple of them asking me if they could have some of the money in my basket. It seems to be motivated according so some dictate that they might cling to in the area of "equality," or some other socialist or woke thing, whereby, my wealth should be "redistributed" amongst my brothers; even if they have just trekked across Mexico and tunneled under Trump's wall, entering illegally or something.

The same shoplifters seen pillaging stores in San Francisco, when on vacation in the French Quarter, might ask me if they can have a couple of the dollars in my basket, behind a similar philosophy which motivates that. I don't think I'm reading too much into it; it just seems like someone who is an advocate of "critical race theory" might just ask me for a couple dollars out of my basket. It would create more "equality" all the way around, type of thing. Other than that, the tourists are acting uncannily not much different from 2 years ago, hence the spirit theory.

It may be that 90% of tourists that come here are white supremacists, this might just be a hot spot for them, and they are conservative, as in no, they aren't going to change; they are going to resist change, and throw me a large bill (instead of change) for playing "Imagine," the same as they would have 2 years ago. 

And, sprinkled in among them might be genuine BLM and Antifa members; ones who protested and burned businesses chiefly in areas where businesses were being subsidized by the government, that the government is going to buy back the smouldering remnants of for pennies on the dollar, so they can construct Chinese style apartment buildings, to house the citizens of a green new world, but I'm getting ahead of myself...

Friday night, Jacob and I went out to busk; arriving at pretty much 11:45 and then playing until around 2:40 in the morning.

The money came to $97.50, counted behind a stack of boxes at the Unique Grocery Store. $32.50/hr. if you're calculating...

So, some of that was, I'm pretty sure because the combination of Jacob and I was more valuable than whatever I could have mustered by myself; the bass and guitar are becoming more synchronized. I'm still playing at about 70% with stretches of near virtuosity sprinkled in...

So, I came up with the system of splitting the money 70/30 between Jacob and I.

My theory can be broken into 2 points. Using Tanya Huang as the example; she no longer has her playing partner, Dorise Blackmon accompanying her. Her income has dropped due to the absence; but it hasn't dropped to half of what the two were making, more like 70% of what the pair averaged, from what I've been able to intuit, based upon peaking into her tip basket on the sly a few times...

Another way to look at it is; if I walked up on her one night and said: "Hey, I have my guitar and my little amp, let's do a few songs," her first thought, from a business perspective would be to note that it would be really hard for the combination of us two to double the amount going into the tip jar. We wouldn't have worked out songs through rehearsal, and her violin already sounds very good, and any accompanist would risk sinking into the background and making her sound better, but not worth double what people would have tipped just her and her pre-recorded background music.

So, she would balk at us teaming up from the perspective of it resulting in a pay cut.

So, if I ever did that, I would append: "We can split 70/30" which she might go for, as she would be gaining company at pretty much no expense to her. It might make her night go by "faster," I might contribute a certain amount of patter and joke making with the audience; the songs would have the ability to breath, as in slow down or speed up or be extended if a group are dancing, type of thing; and those benefits would wind up with her making about the same amount of money. A lot of people throw a little extra when they know it is going to be split between more than one musician; they just don't exactly throw double the amount (that is most likely if they were going to throw a dollar but throw two because there are two musicians, but if they were going to throw a 50 because they were so entertained, it would be a hard sell to get them to tip a hundred bucks).

My experience has shown that if you add another musician, you are ticking your income up about 33%, maybe...give or take a percentage..

When I was in St. Augustine, I had a friend who played what turned out to be an authentic Native American drum. I really enjoyed his company, it was fun just hanging out and playing music; but, I had developed a pretty good sense of what I could expect to make on a given night and I found that when I usually made, say, 58 bucks on a crazy, packed with tourists, Saturday night; it would be more like 75 bucks with Doug (as that was his name) playing his drum beside me.

So, Doug agreed, after initially being offended, to split our tips 60/40. That was giving him the benefit of a little bit of doubt that the addition of him was boosting my revenue by 40% but Doug was as homeless as me; and his needs, gauged using whiskey and tobacco as the measure, were adequately covered out of his 40% and he was happy.

In the beginning, I was able to mollify him by pointing out that I both sang and played the guitar (but not the harmonica yet) and that, if we had a guy that played guitar, and another one who sang, then we would be splitting the money 3 ways and his 40% would drop to 33⅓%.

What was the clincher was that, when he played his authentic Native American drum, which he had to regularly tighten the rawhide bindings of and which wasn't really very loud, he would struggle to break 10 dollars on any given night; and it was usually a nail biter on his part, the prospect of him making his whiskey and tobacco for the night. That was just because one guy tapping out a beat on a drum made out of buffalo butts, well; people are modest in their appreciation of such a character.

*Doug did have kind of a side gig which was in pulling behind a bike that he had fitted for the task, a huge trailer, loaded up with enough stuff to furnish a small apartment. I don't know if he distrusted other homeless people too much to leave his stuff at a campsite while he was away, or what. But people would marvel over the evidence that, even a homeless guy could be an inveterate hoarder. He was easily toting 25 times as much stuff as an average homeless person might carry around.

Doug's trailer (which he might have fashioned out of a rickshaw or something) was also the apple of photographer's eyes; making them feel like they were working for National Geographic and taking a "Look at how some people live!" Pulitzer Prize contending picture. Imagine having so much stuff, and pulling it around everywhere!

I had seen people walk past him, maybe giving him the same cursory glance that an Indian puffing on a peace pipe and tapping the peace drum might get from them, but then, seeing his bike and trailer, exclaim: "Wow, look at that," followed by asking Doug if they could take a picture of it, and dropping a 5 spot in his Native American tip receptacle.

Jacob and I might be getting to the point where the sum is greater than the parts, but Jacob is kind of in a similar boat with Doug, as in, it might be a challenge to make the same 28 bucks that he wound up with, as his 30%, if he was playing solo bass on the sidewalk somewhere. I have seen a young guy busking on solo tuba a while back, and he was pulling in decent tips; but tuba is loud enough to carry 12 blocks, and the v=$ (where v stands for volume) formula was in effect with tuba boy.

I remember asking him who the Eddie Van Halen of the tuba is: "Like, are there any tuba players that blow you away so much that they inspire you?"

He actually gave me the name of some guy, which I might be able to dig up (probably just by typing "tuba" into the YouTube search box, and letting it auto-fill "

Van Halen of Tuba" in the suggestion box, or certainly there will only be one tuba player in my viewing history and it would be that guy.

I think the tuba guy on Royal Street was impressed by how it was a really skinny kid (kind of tall, with curly reddish hair, I recall) and I guess the amount of sound the guy could put out in units of pounds per decibel (P/D). And he played really fast little arpeggios in the highest register of that brass life vest-like instrument.

I think the 70/30 split is fair, is my conclusion. Besides, the tips that I have gotten of over 100 bucks have all come from solitary guys who had sat down on the step next to me and asked something like "So, where were you born, and how did you get into doing this?" which had led to conversation, and optimally, songs that go with parts of my life story..."Yeah, we used to scale this gate and sneak into a church, that's the kind of stuff that floated her boat...I, um, actually wrote a song about her (that goes a little something like...)"

And, those were my biggest tips. The $270 one, came from a guy who said "I'm the millionaire in that song, and my daughter is Britiny.." referring to the "Crazy About a Crazy Girl," song, which I might just shorten the title of to "Colonapin" and saying that the song had encapsulated his family in a nutshell, everything about the Britiny in the song was applicable to the guy's daughter.

That is because the environment that went into the creation of Britiny of St. Augustine, Florida, is prevalent just about everywhere. In this homogeneous country, you could fall from space and land in any urban area and there would be a McDonald's down there, past the Walgreen's and a Burger King the other way, past the Boost Mobile store and the Family Dollar. The houses would all have been built using cookie cutter type construction.

I like New Orleans, because just about the whole place, especially the French Quarter, looks like it was made by hand. There are actually a lot of places where it's hard to tell if the telephone pole is leaning a little or the house behind it. Maybe that is the appeal that still seems to be drawing swarms of tourists, being in a place that is actually different than 90% of the rest of the country. If you get to Waffle House, you went too far...

Last (Saturday) night I didn't leave to go out until 11:20 PM, and brought my own milk crate, so I could make a beeline for the Lilly Pad and not have to waste time looking for a crate. Those have been harder to find, post pandemic (or mid pandemic, depending upon whether or not you're talking to someone with interests in Big Pharma).

I made just about 25 bucks, with all of them being one's. So, I could look at it like, people aren't really rich, they've broken all of their big bills already, down to a few singles; but even though money is tight, that song really rocked! type of thing..

There weren't as many people as yesterday, but they were steady; every 2 minutes another group of 4 or 5, type of thing...

Well, I'm going to try to put up some music here from live recordings done at the Lilly Pad. And that can be expected in about 12 hours from now...

Press "Lilly"

 My new phone came to life after being activated; and, although it required me to install Facebook and then the messenger appendage to it; in order to see all my familiar contacts (after giving the phone permission to fetch them) and it just seems like the free government phones are inextricably linked to Google.

Even using something other than the Chrome browser causes the phone to protest that I really should use Chrome; so they can sync everything together so that my location can be used to locate me and ultimately I can be made to vote for whatever candidate my phone wants me to, come election season.

I can already see the painting of Trump as being the enemy of the planet with his affinity for the fossil fuels that our country has a wealth of.

If I was a citizen of the world and didn't bleed red white and blue, type of thing, I would probably really resent the United States. But, I would probably hate the most how the whole world looks to this country for validation. You can be the best golfer in Japan, but you won't get a ticker tape parade in your honor until you come to America and beat the best of the best. Same thing for baseball players who might have rewritten the record books in Costa Rica; they haven't done a thing until they have come here and pitched a no hitter in the World Series, type of thing.

Why doesn't every country have their own industries, make their own movies and music and have their own sports leagues? Oh, they do; but those are all just a dress rehearsal for coming to the Land of Dreams and realizing them here.

That is probably what I would resent this country the most over, had I been born in Argentina, or The United Arab Emirates...

How did that come to be? It seems obvious that our way of life here was fertile ground for all these achievements. Are people are just a melting pot of everything; so there is nothing to distinguish an American baseball player who came up through Little League all the way to the big leagues...

Except maybe for good nutrition and vitamins; a lot of cow's milk and meat, meat, meat!

Lilly answered less than 3 seconds after I pressed the big tab with "Lilly" on it in my contacts.

I told her about my stage fright of late, which has become like a writer's block type of thing; whereby I talk myself out of going out to play, out of fear of maybe not making any money; while I wipe my ass with old socks that have holes in them and then just throw them away afterwards. I have a few cans of food for Harold, am out of kratom and tobacco. I wonder if the kratom that I buy when I make money is in conflict with my inner values; a part of me that want's to become totally sober and just live off spring water and deep breathing exercises for a maybe 3 weeks; to reinvent myself (some more).

I am worried about the guy who I found playing in front of Lilly's house last Friday, who informed me right away that he would be leaving in a minute and that "you can have your spot." He must have seen me playing there every night when I used to.

I couldn't see him as having made much money sitting in the dark like he was. As soon as I hung my spotlight overhead and started playing I got a tip from the very next group that came along. I guess I'm worried that the guy is going to figure out the "moths to a flame" effect of bringing a spotlight and will be making the 30 bucks an hour that I typically do on a Friday night and will become territorial.

Lilly told me that she was tired from cleaning the pool and wouldn't be coming out to say hello to me; that was also a low key way of saying don't call me to come out and run off a guy who might be playing under a spotlight when I arrive...

I almost feel like seeing if Jacob wants to come by with some kratom and to go out and make it easier to coax the guy off the spot by outnumbering him 2 to 1.

I need to do some kind of meditating and centering and reclaiming the enthusiasm that had me going out rain or cold, every night except an occasional Monday night off to watch football.

If I was in jail doing a 6 month sentence and they told me I could leave every night but I had to busk for 3 hours as part of the deal; I think I would have the mindset that I will be trying to put myself into; when I meditate and center myself; after watching Jeopardy which comes on in 11 minutes...

10 People Get Shot

At Least One Booster Shot

Right: A tragic ending to the Bayou Classic weekend for two overweight white girls, who apparently failed to score boyfriends of color, out of the 200,000 football fans and boosters, who encroached upon the city for the annual rivalry game; despite one of them having gone as far as dying her hair red, to create a "Jen Psaki" look. An officer of color, fresh from posting a perfect score on the NOPD physical fitness test, struggles to conceal her amusement.

It's time for me to call Lilly to try to get idea of how things are going there, in her neighborhood, since I didn't go out last night to see for myself.

All my needs kept getting met, for example, I found out that the box of 24 cans of food that I believed Harold hated, was actually a variety pack, and Harold only hated the flavor of 8 of the cans, leaving 16 that he happily and gratefully scarfed down.

Then, I was called by a friend of Bobby's who invited me over where he gave me tobacco and one beer and some weed.

...of all people to inspire little old me...

It was the weed, however, that I blame for the lack of ambition that kept me in last night; and I, as has often been the case, didn't fully respect the music that I had recorded the night before, upon waking up this morning and playing it back.

But, remaining grateful and happy about what I have, I stumbled upon a video about, of all people, Ozzy Osbourne called "The Nine Lives of Ozzy Osbourne," which I wound up watching all the way through and it was inspiring, both as a motivator to go completely sober, and as an example of a magical life where a guy's "contributions outweighed his faults."

The Time Is Now

 It is exactly 9:12 in the evening, and the 9:12 street car is due to go by any minute now. I used to get on that thing every night; and would arrive at the Lilly Pad at just about the same time. That helped the other street people in the block kind of regulate around me a bit.

If there was anyone else playing at the spot, they would have started early enough to get in x amount of time before I showed up.

It was pretty much understood that to be able to play in a residential area, you are subject to the residents running you off or the cops doing their bidding.

So, there was never a problem with Lilly running anyone off, but maybe just telling them that her friend usually showed up at about 9:40 p.m. and that she had told him that he could have the spot; whereupon the people might assure her that they would be done by then, and so the spot kind of got shared that way. Lilly being the key to it all.

But, now, as I sit here and am so reluctant to go out, I wonder if it is some kind of psychological aversion to going out. I can remember feeling this way before, and then, after getting out there and playing for just a little while, wondering why I hadn't gone out earlier, type of thing.

I suppose it is the bagging up of the gear and the ride on the bike through the chilly air; and then the setting up of all the stuff, which includes the little amp now.

That amp might become a sign to other musicians to bring amps, which might draw the ire of Lilly. So maybe all things work to the good.

I am going to be out of everything if I don't go, so I guess I'll stop using this blog as an excuse to stay in any longer...

The Trash And The Shell Casings

 Pathetic

I saw this living statue guy when I first looked through the webcam and he was the only thing in the street. He was holding perfectly still; for nobody.

I was hoping that he isn't a desperate addict who needs to do the living statue thing on a 56 degree Monday night, just so he won't have the shakes in the morning from lack of alcohol. Terrible thing for a living statue; the shakes...that could make him work unsteady, for sure.

Then, I saw this group of 4 people walking towards the corner. I saw them look the way of the living statue; and not give him even a dollar.

I typically give the living statues at least a dollar, if I make at least 34 dollars, myself (35 minus a dollar for the statue). They usually say "thank you" without even moving their mouths...

Then, in the time it took me to load up for another screen shot, the above was the scene. The poor living statue had been moved by indifference to pick up his bucket and make that lonely walk home; where he hopefully lives alone and not with some roommate who might be in the habit of skeezing cigarettes off the guy, who is going to belittle him, and maybe try to shame him into finding a new profession.

And I hope a fight doesn't break out after the living statue tells the roommate: "I don't see you going out there and standing perfectly still for 3 hours; but you can sit for 3 hours on the couch, watching TV and running up the electric bill! And, where's the rest of that pizza I left in the fridge?!" type of thing...

Tourists know enough to stay away from New Orleans during the Grambling vs. Southern University football weekend. So, after those students leave, there are never any other tourists in town; Just a few crews, sweeping up the trash and the shell casings, getting the place ready to go back to normal next week...

...Not Even A Mouse

 

Did I just not see my favorite mule; on the webcam?

It is still kind of early. I went and got batteries for my amp and I would play just for the fun of it; but; wearing down the batteries just to regale my mule?? I don't know..,

It's about eight in the evening and I'm trying to get a guitar sound out of a combination of amps that I pulled out of the closet wherein there is actually a lot of electronic stuff that was given to me; a lot of it by Bobby, and then there i the amp that Jacob brought over that's speaker doesn't sound but that has sound coming out of the headphone jack, which can be run to another amp, like my portable Yamaha that has its own effects, in line with the effects from the first amp.

What I am getting at is an Adrian Belew type of setup, as that guy is famous for rigging up odd combinations of electronics in order to get sounds like elephants from the guitar.

Elephants that are afraid of mice.

College Kids Of Color Come Calling

I guess that explains why there were police at every street corner all along the trolley tracks that I rode into the Quarter, and then at every corner all along Royal Street.

A stop at the Unique Grocery, to spend a couple of the 3 dollars that I was down to, after having messed up and drank that (Satur)day was the occasion of a young black kid standing in front and yelling at the security guy inside to take off his badge and his gun and to come outside and fight the guy, who had been caught trying to shoplift or something; maybe he thought it to be peaceful looting.

Whatever it was, the security guard was being accused of being "prejudiced" and the kid maintaining that the only reason the guard was exerting force over him, i.e. kicking him out of the store, was that he had a gun on him. Had he been unarmed, the kid would have stayed in the store and stolen whatever he wanted, I guess was his point. Darned gun...

This is what tipped me off and reminded me that it was indeed the time of the annual football game between the two "black" colleges, Grambling and Southern University. There has been at least one shooting every one of the 12 years that I have been here and have either played of not played during that weekend.

Two years ago (last time because of missing a year because of the ooga booga) I just took the night off. "I don't blame you," said Tim the security guy up front.

But, I could also remember a year when I made something like 85 bucks because I was doing white boy music and kids respected the fact that I wasn't trying to pander like other buskers who were breaking out their lame versions of Motown stuff, which just seemed to get a lot of head shakes; and no tips. Then, of course they started to hate "all these f*** n***s" and of course it was down hill from there. But there has been an annual shooting, usually in the vicinity of where fried chicken is sold, or by the Krystals...

 This is the way that those scholars typically act each year. It seems that alcohol has a more debilitating effect upon African Americans. Probably because their mothers drank and did drugs while pregnant with them, unable to go nine hours, never mind nine months without getting some kind of buzz to cope with the stress of being pregnant.

The new phone arrives; will it have better sound recording capabilities?

But, this is the pot calling the kettle black perhaps, as I was in the store to get my own can of what turned out to be Old Milwaukee beer, a brew that I haven't had since 1989. I remember that time; I had gotten a 24 pack of the stuff and was carrying it to my apartment in a complex which was half U Mass college students, and the rest, low income and welfare people. It made for a unique environment, where most of the college kids had no idea that their neighbors were trading food stamps for hard drugs and living off welfare, having kids out of wedlock who wound up becoming currency in the sex trade as soon as they reached their teen age years...

The college kids went to the bus stop, carrying their books, and every couple days, one of the apartments in the place would have its windows open with loud music coming out, and the place full of dancing kids, wherein there would be a few kegs of beer.

The skeezer element would try to befriend these kids, and it created a kind of symbiotic relationship between everyone. Crime was relatively low because the welfare people knew a golden goose when they saw one, and there wouldn't be any violence directed at the college kids, even though it might be happening in the next apartment over from them..

So, I was carrying my 24 pack and this certain white guy whom I had seen around and knew only through smoking weed approached.

I sold weed to a guy who knew him. That is usually the only bridge between the college kids and the other society. If the college kid wanted to smoke wee, then the twain would meet.

That changed all the rules and skewed the crime statistics as, with the familiarity that came between the weed dealer in the college kid also came a certain license that the drug culture felt they had; and that kid's bike might wind up being stolen, or he might be jumped for the money in his pocket. Relationships based upon drugs are funny that way. It might be that the skeezers are emboldened by having the dirt on the college kid that the kid smoked weed, and that might cause him to hesitate in reporting his bike stolen to the police; the police might smell weed when coming to fill out the report and the kid didn't want to risk that. Weed can spawn that kind of paranoia in the mind.

So, up approached this guy, who did some kind of work when he did that had him covered in black roofing tar or something, which never totally washed out of his clothes and so he looked kind of dirty all the time.

"Hey, man, can I have one of your old millwaters?"

He was insulting the beer that I thought was not bad at all, even though it is kind of cheap. Funny how people will assume some things are inferior just because they are cheap. They might complain about someone serving them Ramen noodles and think they should have served them something better, when in fact there isn't anything wrong with the noodles, they are just really cheap, and thus, the worst food you could eat, in some people's minds..

"If you think they taste like mill water, why do you want one?" I said, and initially refused to give him one. I guessed his point was to make me feel like: why not give a few away, since they are just a cheap and nasty beer made from mill water. Is "mill water' that nasty? Isn't it the stream that turns the huge water wheel thing that turns the thing that grinds the grain in the mill? That might be some of the purest water there is...I thought.

"Just because it doesn't cost as much as Heineken, doesn't mean that it sucks, I don't drink this to save money..." I went on.

I think I eventually gave him one, but not before getting him to begrudgingly admit that Old Milwaukee "isn't that bad."

So, I was amused to see that the Unique Store carried that brew, and that the label had been changed to a plain white can with small red writing; no more picture of a mill, or whatever used to be on it.. And, it was, of course, cheap. And it wasn't bad.

By the time I reached Tanya Huang, who was playing on the corner of St. Louis and Royal Streets, the same guy who had been yelling at the security guard was now standing on the side of Tanya, seeming like he was trying to get attention. Tanya had said something to another tourist about another subject and the kid was saying: "Was that for me, are you talking about...?" and then referred to some thing, maybe his manner of dress that he was, in the manner of a schizophrenic, taking to mean that Tanya was insulting him, over her microphone for the benefit of all 15 or so people whom she might have been directing her comments to.

The kid dropped a dollar in her bucket and then said something like: "See, I'm paying you.." as if that meant that she owed him attention or something.

I had stopped and gotten off my bike and I pushed it up onto the sidewalk, intending to say I didn't know what to Tanya, maybe something about how that same guy had just been making a fool of himself at the Unique Store, when the kid, upon seeing me, turned and walked across the street. Maybe he had made some kind of schizophrenic connection between seeing me at Unique's and then there and it had caused him to run off.

I just nodded my head at Tanya, and looked in the direction of the retreating nuisance as if to say "That's all I was trying to do; I didn't really have anything I wanted to say to you.."

The streets were packed with cops and black college kids and I was impressed by how insecure those black kids are; talking extra loud as if trying to run everything by other people in order to get their approval or not. "You heard me? You heard me? You heard me?" echoes down the streets. There was transparent false bravado and I got icy stares everywhere I went.

I never lost my generally good mood and my acceptance of the fact that they probably wouldn't tip any more than the 7 bucks that I made, playing for about an hour until the amp batteries died. I had accepted it and was happy and grateful and I realize that this -playing for blacks who are trying to show off for each other- is just a stepping stone from the time before, to a better time afterwards...

Maintaining my feeling of happiness and gratitude will, in hindsight, have set me up for a much better night tonight.

The Patriots just won handily and I am going out to get batteries for another 3 and a half hours of busking. It is a pleasant 57 degrees out. I couldn't be happier or more grateful...

I am tempted to get a beer or two though I know that has proven to not be a good idea that last two times. It's just hard to imagine right now how it could screw up my whole night; it takes about 5 beers to do that....

A Somewhat Deflating 15 Dollar Friday

The night of the Saint's game came. 

It was the piss poor excuse for why I hadn't gone out and played the night before, when it had been an unseasonably warm 63 degrees and the webcam was showing several bewildered looking people clad in Buffalo Bills shirts. If those shirts didn't give them away as being tourists, that status was driven home by the amount of interest they were showing in things that have long ago merged with, and melted into the background, to anyone who has lived here for any length of time.

Just as many residents of the Quarter walk past me night after night, without really seeing or hearing me, as if I might just be a street light; green if I'm playing "Imagine," red if "People Are Strange," or yellow if one of my Grateful Dead songs, but going unnoticed by someone on foot, whom the light isn't meant for; there are other things visible in the webcam shot that when seen being gawked at by someone in a Buffalo Bills shirt, immediately paints that person as a tourist, merely because their attention was drawn to it. Standing bemusedly a few feet from the human statue who poses on the corner of Dumaine and Bourbon Streets watching it do nothing for more than a few seconds, during which the now obvious tourists become so transfixed that they too become frozen in time; as if they have never seen anything like it in their lives, is a good example.

A little girl holds the hand of a murderer

 

The reason I hadn't gone out the night before was so I would be well rested and ready to show up at the Girod Street spot under the stairwell where I had played dozens of times before, for fans on their way into the dome and then, later, on their way out.

But, that was back in the drinking days; when it was a ritual of mine to take whatever I made off the people on the way in and take it to the Rouses Market right down the street from the stadium -the big one that has a large variety of beer. 

While the game was going on and everyone was glued to their seats, I would watch it on one of Rouses TVs, while drinking a Paulaner bock beer, usually. That is one of the cool things about New Orleans, being able to drink in public. I always feared that if some other cities passed similar laws, then New Orleans would lose its uniqueness in that regard. Kind of like when Atlantic City allowed casinos so that people no longer had to fly to Vegas to gamble.

It still is an interesting racket, the gambling in Vegas, and how they almost have a monopoly on it. Now it is split between Atlantic City, Biloxi Mississipi and Vegas.

So, when I wound up not making it to the game in time to play, it might have been a good thing, depending upon how strong the muscle memory would have been for me to run to Rouses for a high quality beer during the game.

Plus, the home team lost something like 30 to zero, and that meant that people would have been leaving early; and not really in a tipping mood.

But, the Buffalo people seemed to be.

Jacob and I played for what probably amounted to 2 and a half hours, and there was somehow 63 bucks in a combination of the basket and my back pocket, where I immediately stuff bills larger than ones.

But, even as I sit here it is Saturday evening. I got a flat tire on the bike, but it hadn't deflated until it was home. I found the little piece of wire and pulled it out and patched it; and now I go to push the bike to the Shell to pump up the tire, using one of the 15 bucks that I made last night, playing for almost 2 hours, for a somewhat sparse crowd. What worked against me the most, though was that the bar had its outdoor speakers playing some pretty crappy music that I wasn't even up to trying to play along with.

I drank a couple beers and, once again, they contributed to me wanting to knock off earlier than I had to. Plus, the temperature had dipped into the mid 40's and, instead of putting my sweatshirt on and continuing, I just left. The batteries on my amp were getting low, I think. Even though I tested it a while ago and it played OK for about 10 minutes. I guess I will pick up another set of 8 of them from the Dollar Store, or maybe go to the Family Dollar to see if their "alkaline" batteries are comparable in price and last at least the same 3 hours that I've been getting out of the Dollar General brand ones....

P(l)aying The Bills

Why Didn't I Just Go?!

A look at the webcam on Bourbon Street last night revealed a sight to behold indeed...but I can't look back..I can't think of what might have been...

I saw Buffalo Bills shirts on almost everyone on my screen.

It wasn't really crowded, as far as Wednesday nights go; but the Bills shirts meant that the town had been taken over by people who had come down here for tonight's game.

I could have made so much money off them; I packed my gear up at about 9 p.m. and thought about how I could be there playing before 9:30 and then could go until after midnight. The temperature was in the 60's -a rare occurrence on a November 24th. Maybe a sign of climate change for the worst; maybe it would melt the polar ice caps and New Orleans would be under 12 feet of water in a few days; but, I could have a good night tip-wise before that happened.

But, then I thought about tonight's game, and how the Caeser's Dome will be full of football fans, there to watch a nationally televised game, and how half of them would be Bills fans, from Buffalo, New York, and how I would relate to them.

They would be the people that I am used to, the ones I grew up with; I would be able to get them to throw money in my basket, just by saying the right things and playing the right songs. And, they would be able to look at me and see that; despite my having grown my hair out and lived in the redneck south for almost half my life; I was still one of them.

Even the snobbery that is the hallmark of the elite, who can afford to fly to New Orleans from Buffalo for a vacation and to watch a football game, would become a non factor. 

It wouldn't be like one of their own had eschewed a college degree and the corporate ladder, and chosen to sit on the sidewalk with a tip jar and play music -those types they would punish if they saw them in Buffalo. 

"To those that have, more will be given, but to those who have not, even what little they have will be taken" would be the philosophy of these Buffalo Bill jersey wearing tourists, had they encountered me in Buffalo.

But, take me out of that environment and place me on Bourbon Street and I become like an exotic animal in a zoo, one they will want to feed, just to see how it eats. The fact that I have been transplanted here from where they come from will only awaken in them some sense that I could be them, had they had the courage to turn away from the status quo and had refused to become a cog in the corporate wheel, but pursued a different dream instead.

"I could never do what you do, I'd be afraid of not making anything. I guess I need the security of a steady job with a paycheck I can count on every week," they often say, as they are putting a large tip in my basket.

But, so much for not looking back..

People Really Live On This Kind Of Stuff?

I had picked up the large box that I had won in the Sacred Heart Apartments annual turkey raffle and unpacked it.

Just as I had done last year, after winning one of the things -they raffle off 30 of them to among the 120 or so residents; but in previous years, you had to sign up and not everyone wound up doing so, so the chances were about 50% that you would win one. 

This year, they automatically entered every resident. This was probably done as a way to push social justice because some of the residents here are probably too mentally ill to sign up for the turkey giveaways, and so had probably never stood a chance of winning. Being entered automatically means that some people who might not have even known there was an annual Turkey Giveaway might get one.

Now we will have to see if they are too mentally ill to bake the thing without setting the fire alarms off, or without taking the bird out of the plastic wrapper, type of thing.

$244/Hr.

But, I thought about how I planned to play outside the Caesers Dome and how I wanted to be well rested and ready to do so. That was always something that I marked on my calendar for all 10 of their home games and it was usually a guaranteed 35 dollars, with up to 88 bucks being made one game.

It's a different kind of busking, though, which is kind of a break from having to meticulously perform songs so that people nearby can make out the lyrics and pay attention to details such as harmonica solos.

When the swarm of people are going past it is more a matter of being heard, or at least seen by them, whereupon maybe those 30 people out of 2,500 will throw something in the basket. It is over relatively quickly with the bulk of the crowd rushing past in a noisy herd, and then 20 minutes later maybe one or two stragglers on an otherwise empty street.

So, about making 88 bucks in 20 minutes, if I was into skewing statistics, I suppose I could brag about making up to $244/hr. busking,

That's what I was thinking about when I decided to go into the turkey raffle box and make French toast using the wheat rolls and the eggs that came with it.

Everything else in the box made me shake my head over "How can people live off stuff like this?"

The turkey itself is something that I can get away with eating, if I make sure I am doing some physical activity, to burn it off.

But, there was a 3 pound bag of white flour, another one of white sugar, a package of margarine (made of hydrogenated oils) and a gallon of cow's milk.

Cows milk! I can say that I've never bought a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread in my life (Except for a brief flirtation with a couple loaves of "Dave's Bread," which I bought thinking that it might not have the hydrogenated oils or the bleached flour of typical bread, but still found that I wasn't feeling 100% after eating it, which had as much to do with the butter and jam that I loaded it up with, as with the bread itself).

And, I have never had a regular doctor in my life either. 

I went to one in 2001, when I was having heart palpitations, but that turned out to be from drinking up to 7 energy drinks during the first part of each day, and then switching to red wine at night, with cigarette smoking throughout...

And then, there was some virus I got in 2010 that apparently lived in the mucous membranes but made my skin extremely vulnerable to infections, so that every little thorn scratch turned into one. The doctor at the emergency room made it a point to tell me that anyone can get that particular virus, rich or poor, and that it had nothing to do with me living in the woods.

I will say that, since the age of about 40, I have been to an emergency room a half dozen times, for "emergency" tooth extractions. 

During those visits, I would be subjected to the scare tactic of being told that tooth infections are a systemic thing and that my heart and my other organs were being taxed by the infection, and that it could spread and infect my bones. I don't know if they still push that, or if the theory has gone the way of putting leaches on people's skin to suck the bad blood out of us...

I do know that some evil group of people are hellbent upon making tons of money selling pharmaceuticals; and that the FDA is being funded by the very businesses they are supposedly regulating, if Russell Brand's research and reporting is to be believed.

That would make some sense out of President Nottrump begging everyone to get, what is it now 4 doses? 

You can't mention natural (I-word) in a blog post, or it will get taken down, nor blog about anything in pill form that would make people's chances of dying from the uggabooga almost nil; or about the same as winning the Lotto (but without the Power Ball, Fauci might point out).

I have been having people after me, wanting me to send them friend requests on Facebook (because I apparently ignored the ones they sent me, even though they were all "beautiful women") and recently Russell Brand "himself" asked me to contact him using a special "WhatsApp" number.

The tip-off that these are bogus is that every response to a comment I made was a very terse "You are spot on!" or "100% true!" or "Excellent Point!" and then, the request for me to message them somewhere so we can "share ideas," or whatever.

"Spot on!" can be cut and pasted on to millions of people's comments on the web. Had the person (or robot) actually personalized it by referring to at least one tidbit of the comment I made, maybe I might have considered contacting them. So we can meet in person. Right..

A Trojan Bird?

But, the turkey raffle box almost came into my apartment like a ticking time bomb.

Instead of going out to make the money that I knew I could have made off the Buffalo Bills fans, I stuffed my face with French Toast slathered in date syrup and honey and a sprinkling of cinnamon and salt. Then, I soon just wanted to put the self help dialogues on and lay down..

Waking up, feeling the effects of the French Toast, and realizing that I was out of cat food and almost everything else, but that I probably could have made 50 to 80 bucks on a night that was an unusually warm 63 degrees, could have sent me into a tailspin that I might still be in.

But, instead, I used the secret of The Law of Attraction, and came up with 3 things that I was happy and grateful about.

The very next thing I did was to step outside Sacred Heart, to go look for tobacco in the ashtray at the bar up the street. I had avoided walking past Harold in the parking lot because I didn't have any food for him, and he had been out all night, since I hadn't gone to play and make plenty of money for food for him, but had filled myself with food and gone to sleep instead.

I encountered an older lady in a wheel chair, who lives here and who asked me if I would go to the store to get a pint of vodka for her (the sun was just about to come up, so I guess it was almost drinking time). She said she would give me a couple cigarettes for the trouble.

She handed me a 5 dollar bill, telling me that the vodka came to exactly 5 dollars.

That sounded to me like she was getting it from one of the mom and pop stores where they are at liberty to round things to the nearest dollar for convenience, rather than at a chain store like the Shell station where the sales tax needs to be explicitly added to the purchase price, verifiable through the receipt, and will almost never land on an exact dollar amount. It might be $4.98 or $5.03 and I was skeptical.

I thought the old lady might have been assuming that I would reach into my own pocket to cover the tax, rather than returning to Sacred Heart with her 5 dollars and telling her: "Sorry, this wasn't enough..." As if she was counting on me being a good enough person that I would hate to see her be disappointed; and would take pity upon her because she is an elderly lady in a wheel chair.

I suppose I should have taken pity on her, it dawned upon me, as the sun was about to rise on Thanksgiving morning...so I pushed the thought out of my head that the old lady was playing me for privileged white boy who was going to cough up the tax on her vodka, and was able to get into a happy and grateful frame of mind.

As soon as I had done that, from out of the doorway emerged a second figure in a wheelchair; an older black guy who, upon hearing that I was going to the store, asked me if I would get him a bottle of Smirnov and a pack of Kool cigarettes, giving me 11 dollars, and telling me that I could keep the change.

At the store, the lady's vodka indeed rung up at $4.99 plus tax, but the change from the guy's vodka and cigarettes was just enough to cover it, with 16 cents left over.

I got back to Sacred Heart, where the guy gave me 4 of his cigarettes and the lady 1 of hers -enough to keep me going using the one hitter into which I put only a pinch of tobacco every 45 minutes or so, as I sit here on the computer, for most of the day. 

Back inside my place, with a hungry Harold, I decided to try again one of the cans of Fancy Feast that a lady had bought for him at Winn Dixie, but which he didn't seem to like the first couple times I tried it. He ravenously ate it, along with a second can. I have 20 of them left. Hopefully he scarfed it down because he was 8 hours behind his feeding schedule but found it to be to his liking, even though the smell of it might have dissuaded him the first time. 

Soon, it will be time to leave for the Caesar's Dome, to set up in the spot that I discovered about 7 years ago, which is under a staircase that throws the sound outward a bit, and is across the street from where the cops would tell a busker that he couldn't play, and in between two other spots that have uniformed people patrolling them. The one little piece of property where I play just happens to have nobody in charge of running buskers from it. It's kind of a handicap access ramp behind a building. How I ever found it can probably just be chalked up to the dumb luck and serendipity that has been hovering over me ever since I decided to start busking, back in 2007. But it also ties in to the fact that I started my day by helping out a couple people in wheel chairs and will wind up playing right by a wheelchair ramp. Either you believe everything is connected, or you don't I suppose...

In 2007, I was in Jacksonville, playing in front of different Kangaroo and Circle K stores according to a schedule that I had to keep of which cashiers were working inside at which time. Some of them seemed to resent the fact that I was out front making more money than what their hourly wage was for cashiering; while others applauded me for my initiative, and offered me free coffee. It all depended upon the cultural values of whatever countries the cashiers emigrated from.

If I were to use that as a rough barometer, should I ever want to tour the world as a busker (beginning in about a year, after I start getting social security and get a passport) I should think that I would do well to busk in Morocco and Spain and Italy, but not so much Russia or Albania; and stay the hell out of Puerto Rico; those cashiers were bitches...

It's been a long strange trip to go from looking for a Kangaroo to play in front of, to looking to travel the world with a guitar on my back; but I suppose that is the life I am attracting to myself.

Time to brush up on "Marrakesh Express..."