Thanks to the staying home earning of moneys, which is largely nominal as most came from gifts and my mother's payment for painting/moving things in the family room, I "broke even" once again, especially if you discount the foray to Houston. But that's cheating. What that means is that over the two months since quitting Gainesville, I leaked money very slowly indeed, relying as strongly as ever on the goodwill and generosity of friends and couchsurfing hosts. Anyway, what I've tried to do in each of these finances post is lay out precisely what I spent and then make excuses to discount particular sums so I can feel like I broke even... when, of course, I didn't. Not once. Busking with such a humdrum act as mine and meaning to travel with the income requires less wanderlust. If I remained places longer I'd make back the airfares and trainfares but I'm always itching to go on, trying to loop around by the end of May. Anyhow, do enjoy the numbers laid out below. As I've done since the beginning I'm keeping the running tally of total net from Day 1 of busking, but as I've noted this number is actually rather larger - my mother ate the cost of my emergency flight home, I considered my trip to Stamsund as my graduation gift to myself and so discounted it and took it out of "savings," etc. I am constantly torn between spending from savings and enjoying myself a bit more or hoarding like mad and getting as close to that hallowed ability to say, truthfully, "I broke even." So here I'm admitting I haven't. And from this point on I won't mean to - if I do, that is well, if I don't I'll simply finish up this bit of my journey. It's too tiring, anyways. Much of the sheen and exultation has faded.
Gainesville, FL:
Tripod: $10.94
Christmas presents: $15.00
Merch/card paper: $7.64
Website: $10.35
Greyhound to New Orleans: $87.20
Change fee: $15.00
Total: 146.13
Earnings: $568.00, Poster
Net: +$421.87
SOUTHRON NET: +$421.87
TOTAL NET: +$45.37
New Orleans, LA:
Water: $1.56
Streetcar tickets: $4.00
Train to San Antonio: $59.50
Total: $65.06
Earnings: $76.08
Net: +$11.02
SOUTHRON NET: +$432.89
TOTAL NET: +$56.39
San Antonio, TX:
Taquitos: $2.50
Breakfast Tacos: $5.00
Food: $2.00
Train to Austin: $10.20
Total: $19.70
Earnings: $0.00
Net: -$19.70
SOUTHRON NET: +$413.29
TOTAL NET: +$36.79
Austin, TX:
Bus tickets: $5.00
Guitar Strings: $5.94
Bus to Houston: $22.28
Bulgogi Burger: $5.73
Total: $38.95
Earnings: $66.97
Net: +$28.02
SOUTHRON NET: +$441.31
TOTAL NET: +$64.81
Houston, TX:
Food: $2.34
Train to Tucson: $102.00
Total: $104.54
Earnings: $0.00
Net: -$104.54
SOUTHRON NET: +$336.77
TOTAL NET: -$39.73
Tucson, AZ:
Train to Los Angeles: $33.54
Total: $33.54
Earnings: $29.50
Net: -$4.04
SOUTHRON NET: +$332.73
TOTAL NET: -$43.77
Los Angeles, CA:
Busses: $3.00
Flight to Honolulu: $172.20
Total: $175.20
Earnings: $21.87, Video, Pasta Bolognese
Net: -$153.33
SOUTHRON NET: +$179.40
TOTAL NET: -$197.10
O'ahu, HI:
Bus x8: $20.00
Hostel x2: $40.00
Hanauma Bay: $7.50
Groceries: $18.21
Spam Musubi x2: $3.72
Flight to Sydney: $341.30
Total: $430.73
Earnings: $182.86
Net: -$247.87
SOUTHRON NET: -$68.47
SOUTHRON NET excepting Houston: +$36.07
TOTAL NET: -$444.97
TOTAL NET excepting Houston: -$340.43
Total Net excepting nothing: -$2331.90
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 3
I knew I couldn't leave without trying Spam musubi, so upon arriving back on the North Shore to pick up my things from Tom's, I stopped into the seven eleven (best rated Spam musubi on the island, apparently) to get one. Delicious. After the obligatory hour of Tom monologue, he kindly gave me a lift into town so I might catch the bus and bid farewell to the Clarke family. David tended the shop and he and Tom chatted a while about various material things. He offered us smoothies and insisted on buying the CD I'd brought to give them, my first CD sale! Soon some customers arrived and I picked up the guitar Kevin left in the corner at David's bidding to while away the wait for our smoothies. Just like the previous day this brought a flood of people when we'd been the only ones inside for the first half hour. Maybe it's coincidence, but I like to think I've been helping their shop in my own small way.
Makani arrived shortly thereafter with Kala, Mantain, and Lotus, and Tom took this opportunity to bid us farewell. Kala delighted in seeing me. Giving me a hug about the knees head at my waist, and then told me she'd forgotten to bring the poem, but that she could probably remember it. I gave her my chord book to write in, and she spent a few minutes writing the first lines.
Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
And so I sang her a C G Am F progression of the song inside the store on the high chair beside her while the customers listened. I sang her spare lines twice to get a short song length out of them. She was absolutely inspired and ran outside with my book to write some more - lit by the sun at a small cafe table almost beneath a tree, feet dangling unconsciously, face completely focused, grass and butterflies lending her thoughts direction. A sight I will not soon forget, so beautiful and serene - Makani and I watched her in appreciative wonder for a while, and when she returned her newest lyrics blew me away. She's truly the wordsmith her mother touts her as.
Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
With such a simple vocabulary she took an observational poem of gratitude and added that sense of wonder and freedom, bringing us into that grace. And then, after I sang this to her - eyes completely rapt, so kind and gentle and honest - she wrote more.
Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
But please don't leave,
You'll make me cry.
Suddenly bittersweet, longing, yearning... And then:
Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
But please don't leave,
You'll make me cry.
Smile, smile, smile, don't cry.
It's ok, it's ok, it's ok.
Simply incredible.
After I sang this a few times to great applause and positive comments from the shop's patrons (which I deferred to Kala), I knew I had to leave. I'd called into Hank's that morning and he'd agreed for me to play that night at 6:30 or 7:00. Makani offered more ice cream and Kala begged me to stay, but I needed to. Kala hugged my legs many times, Mantain jumped up for a piggy back ride, I gave them a few bookmarks - my Stego one, zebra, paddington... - Kala had me promise to return soon, saying "I won't be here next weekend, I'll be in Kauai." after I said I'd try my best. "As long as you're back within the week." Rats.
I was right to leave early, though, as it took another exceptionally long journey to get downtown. I needed to pick up my guitar from Alison's place but the transfer in Wahiawa took over an hour - 62 busses kept passing northbound and returning "Not in service." I dashed to get my guitar and some merch but all for naught - though I arrived precisely at 7pm (after three and a half ours in transit), the bartender, David (alas, my last chance to see Kulei foiled!), informed me confusedly - "You're not playing tonight, Don is and he starts at 7:30." Crestfallen it was given me to know that Don's a regular Thursday nighter and that Hank must have forgotten. So dejected did I feel that I hung around the bar a while, speaking with the patrons a bit. They took pity on me (all middle aged folks) and Lani and Mark bought CDs from me.
Now here's where my characteristic naivete/why the hell am I a traveller/busker showed through. Nothing untoward occurred mind you, but much of the time a nagging voice in my head kept voicing all the things that might. You see, Mark was particularly friendly to me - clearly a touch drunk and quite into me - and offered me a ride home. I only saw him consume a drink and a half so I accepted the offer. Hm, maybe I'll just lay out the facts and you can sort out how my actions may have been unwise. He led me to his car a few blocks away through seedy Chinatown and drove up into the heights by Punchbowl where he needed to walk his dog, Paco, before taking me on. Once there I availed myself of his severely out of tune Piano and his roommate "Aunty" came out and offered us her recently cooked meal. Naturally I hadn't yet eaten, so I dove in for two portions. While I was playing, Mark walked his dog quickly and had a joint. Now he's the most gentle, kind man, from San Francisco, but obviously I wasn't about to let him drive me the half hour back to Waipio. Then again I certainly couldn't stay the night - so I asked him to drop me off at the close King St. bus transfer point and bid him farewell. As I quit the car he pressed me $20, reminiscent of the man in Denmark - perhaps from my tellings of my usual earnings (I originally intended to head to Kalakaua to busk before arriving at his place) and for the simple pleasure of the company.
Now, was it wrong of me to accept after only refusing once?
Earnings: $50.00, 0 minutes
Song of the Day: Butterflies - Kala Clarke
Makani arrived shortly thereafter with Kala, Mantain, and Lotus, and Tom took this opportunity to bid us farewell. Kala delighted in seeing me. Giving me a hug about the knees head at my waist, and then told me she'd forgotten to bring the poem, but that she could probably remember it. I gave her my chord book to write in, and she spent a few minutes writing the first lines.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
And so I sang her a C G Am F progression of the song inside the store on the high chair beside her while the customers listened. I sang her spare lines twice to get a short song length out of them. She was absolutely inspired and ran outside with my book to write some more - lit by the sun at a small cafe table almost beneath a tree, feet dangling unconsciously, face completely focused, grass and butterflies lending her thoughts direction. A sight I will not soon forget, so beautiful and serene - Makani and I watched her in appreciative wonder for a while, and when she returned her newest lyrics blew me away. She's truly the wordsmith her mother touts her as.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
With such a simple vocabulary she took an observational poem of gratitude and added that sense of wonder and freedom, bringing us into that grace. And then, after I sang this to her - eyes completely rapt, so kind and gentle and honest - she wrote more.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
But please don't leave,
You'll make me cry.
Suddenly bittersweet, longing, yearning... And then:
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
But please don't leave,
You'll make me cry.
Smile, smile, smile, don't cry.
It's ok, it's ok, it's ok.
Simply incredible.
After I sang this a few times to great applause and positive comments from the shop's patrons (which I deferred to Kala), I knew I had to leave. I'd called into Hank's that morning and he'd agreed for me to play that night at 6:30 or 7:00. Makani offered more ice cream and Kala begged me to stay, but I needed to. Kala hugged my legs many times, Mantain jumped up for a piggy back ride, I gave them a few bookmarks - my Stego one, zebra, paddington... - Kala had me promise to return soon, saying "I won't be here next weekend, I'll be in Kauai." after I said I'd try my best. "As long as you're back within the week." Rats.
I was right to leave early, though, as it took another exceptionally long journey to get downtown. I needed to pick up my guitar from Alison's place but the transfer in Wahiawa took over an hour - 62 busses kept passing northbound and returning "Not in service." I dashed to get my guitar and some merch but all for naught - though I arrived precisely at 7pm (after three and a half ours in transit), the bartender, David (alas, my last chance to see Kulei foiled!), informed me confusedly - "You're not playing tonight, Don is and he starts at 7:30." Crestfallen it was given me to know that Don's a regular Thursday nighter and that Hank must have forgotten. So dejected did I feel that I hung around the bar a while, speaking with the patrons a bit. They took pity on me (all middle aged folks) and Lani and Mark bought CDs from me.
Now here's where my characteristic naivete/why the hell am I a traveller/busker showed through. Nothing untoward occurred mind you, but much of the time a nagging voice in my head kept voicing all the things that might. You see, Mark was particularly friendly to me - clearly a touch drunk and quite into me - and offered me a ride home. I only saw him consume a drink and a half so I accepted the offer. Hm, maybe I'll just lay out the facts and you can sort out how my actions may have been unwise. He led me to his car a few blocks away through seedy Chinatown and drove up into the heights by Punchbowl where he needed to walk his dog, Paco, before taking me on. Once there I availed myself of his severely out of tune Piano and his roommate "Aunty" came out and offered us her recently cooked meal. Naturally I hadn't yet eaten, so I dove in for two portions. While I was playing, Mark walked his dog quickly and had a joint. Now he's the most gentle, kind man, from San Francisco, but obviously I wasn't about to let him drive me the half hour back to Waipio. Then again I certainly couldn't stay the night - so I asked him to drop me off at the close King St. bus transfer point and bid him farewell. As I quit the car he pressed me $20, reminiscent of the man in Denmark - perhaps from my tellings of my usual earnings (I originally intended to head to Kalakaua to busk before arriving at his place) and for the simple pleasure of the company.
Now, was it wrong of me to accept after only refusing once?
Earnings: $50.00, 0 minutes
Song of the Day: Butterflies - Kala Clarke
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 2.5
Another host, Alison, messaged me back, keen to go hiking. Surely I didn't do enough of that, though the manner of Hawai'i hiking is of the terrifying cliff/ridge lots of wind and wet trail variety so I certainly wouldn't have been prepared for most of it. Tom delayed my leaving in asking me to take photos of his jeans to sell on eBay, but I still departed his place at around 7.30. And here I learned something important about the bus system - it's good if you aren't making connections outside of Honolulu. It sucks if you are. I needed just one transfer on the way down, but this stretched the journey so much that I didn't arrive in Waipio until 9.15. A car takes about half an hour for the same journey, so we'd have been quicker if Alison came to fetch me, even.
And so we we couldn't hike Makapu'u Tom Tom. Just as well. Google it, add unusually whistling high winds with crazy gusts and passing showers and you'll be glad we traipsed up a much calmer hike - the many many steep steps of Koko Head. We stopped for a quick bite at the breathtakingly gorgeous super accessible locals knowledge only Spitting Cave on the way. The ocean below terrified the ** out of me. So Koko Head's very popular with the locals as a test of fitness - apparently people commonly post their times online. We endeavoured to break Alison's 21 minute benchmark. As my brothers can tell you, I'm a very strange hiker, my legs don't tire but my lungs always do - I tend to dart ahead then gather my breath a moment and I hike at around 3-4 miles an hour, depending on the terrain. Brent and I call this trail crushing pace. This weirdness held true for Koko Head (which I didn't bother photographing), as my legs never felt the least tired except from the normal strain of a particular tall (thigh height) step, but I nearly collapsed up top from lack of air. Oh asthma, how strange you are. I impressed Alison, apparently, as I spent the whole hike just ahead of her and cheering her on to beat her time, never leaning over from lactic acid unhappiness and only at the end needing to sit a while - but a serious while with spotty vision and extreme lightheadedness. After I felt human again we walked down the crater's ridge a bit of a ways to grab some photos - and at the end a pair of guys hoisted a flag in the ripping wind, wind so strong I crawled along crab style. I've a fear of being blown away as times in New Haven with my art bag or Hueco with my crashpad or Chicago with just myself have taught me. I'm pretty aerodynamic but I don't really have a strong grounding force.
We sampled some absolutely delicious Waiola Shave Ice in town before she dropped me off near the FedEx center where I was to pick up my cover CDs. Excitement turned quickly to a bit of consternation when I realized I'd left my phone in her car and that the package weighed in at twelve pounds - with that and my guitar I couldn't really travel very far without my arms desiring to quit their jobs. So I borrowed mobiles and arranged to meet her later at her place of work, discovered Couch Surfer Stefan couldn't go to the eating contest, and read The Farthest Shore inside a Nordstrom's, where a live pianist tickled the keys to the right of my white leather chair. I couldn't call Hank's - my main reason for wanting to stay downtown being to play there and maybe see Kulei again - so I waited for Jazz Mind's Art and Cafe to open - waited to no avail half an hour past their posted opening time of 6.30.
Now, naturally, only today did I require a jacket, and only today did I not bring one. Spitting rain blown sideways or hanging in midair to soak me through. The rain drenched everyone's spirits. In a land of paradise where the weather begs friendliness and helpfulness from everyone, on the slightest of unpleasant days the city people turn cold and uncaring - malicious even. Taking the bus to Alison's workplace proved an ordeal in itself with a bad transfer ticket given me by the first driver. I finally arrived after 8, and left just after 9. Or tried to. At the bus station at 9.15 to return to Waialua the first bus didn't come until past ten. And my transfer never showed - either I just missed it with the late bus or the last bus of the night failed to show entirely. Both, actually. And so, out in the damp cold with but a t-shirt on and little shelter, I waited until one am for Alison's kind conveyance of me back to her place.
Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears
And so we we couldn't hike Makapu'u Tom Tom. Just as well. Google it, add unusually whistling high winds with crazy gusts and passing showers and you'll be glad we traipsed up a much calmer hike - the many many steep steps of Koko Head. We stopped for a quick bite at the breathtakingly gorgeous super accessible locals knowledge only Spitting Cave on the way. The ocean below terrified the ** out of me. So Koko Head's very popular with the locals as a test of fitness - apparently people commonly post their times online. We endeavoured to break Alison's 21 minute benchmark. As my brothers can tell you, I'm a very strange hiker, my legs don't tire but my lungs always do - I tend to dart ahead then gather my breath a moment and I hike at around 3-4 miles an hour, depending on the terrain. Brent and I call this trail crushing pace. This weirdness held true for Koko Head (which I didn't bother photographing), as my legs never felt the least tired except from the normal strain of a particular tall (thigh height) step, but I nearly collapsed up top from lack of air. Oh asthma, how strange you are. I impressed Alison, apparently, as I spent the whole hike just ahead of her and cheering her on to beat her time, never leaning over from lactic acid unhappiness and only at the end needing to sit a while - but a serious while with spotty vision and extreme lightheadedness. After I felt human again we walked down the crater's ridge a bit of a ways to grab some photos - and at the end a pair of guys hoisted a flag in the ripping wind, wind so strong I crawled along crab style. I've a fear of being blown away as times in New Haven with my art bag or Hueco with my crashpad or Chicago with just myself have taught me. I'm pretty aerodynamic but I don't really have a strong grounding force.
We sampled some absolutely delicious Waiola Shave Ice in town before she dropped me off near the FedEx center where I was to pick up my cover CDs. Excitement turned quickly to a bit of consternation when I realized I'd left my phone in her car and that the package weighed in at twelve pounds - with that and my guitar I couldn't really travel very far without my arms desiring to quit their jobs. So I borrowed mobiles and arranged to meet her later at her place of work, discovered Couch Surfer Stefan couldn't go to the eating contest, and read The Farthest Shore inside a Nordstrom's, where a live pianist tickled the keys to the right of my white leather chair. I couldn't call Hank's - my main reason for wanting to stay downtown being to play there and maybe see Kulei again - so I waited for Jazz Mind's Art and Cafe to open - waited to no avail half an hour past their posted opening time of 6.30.
Now, naturally, only today did I require a jacket, and only today did I not bring one. Spitting rain blown sideways or hanging in midair to soak me through. The rain drenched everyone's spirits. In a land of paradise where the weather begs friendliness and helpfulness from everyone, on the slightest of unpleasant days the city people turn cold and uncaring - malicious even. Taking the bus to Alison's workplace proved an ordeal in itself with a bad transfer ticket given me by the first driver. I finally arrived after 8, and left just after 9. Or tried to. At the bus station at 9.15 to return to Waialua the first bus didn't come until past ten. And my transfer never showed - either I just missed it with the late bus or the last bus of the night failed to show entirely. Both, actually. And so, out in the damp cold with but a t-shirt on and little shelter, I waited until one am for Alison's kind conveyance of me back to her place.
Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears
Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 2
Makani recommended I try playing in front of Matsumoto's General Store or Aoki Shave Ice. The North Shore is famous for it's shave ice, so busloads of Japanese (and non Japanese, too) tourists gather in unending out the door lines in front of both shops, especially Matsumoto's. I inquired inside, and the spare English of a worker denied me permission, so after wandering to a couple other places and being denied I ducked into a church where I heard classic rock being played. I sat in a pew and listened a while - at this church, apparently, they leave the P.A. and sound system out for anyone to use, so people constantly drift in and out to play together or prepare for gigs. How wonderful! I was taken aback on hearing the guitarist's name - Terrence - and when we met each other a few songs later he happily noted the good luck that must be emanating from such a rare occurrence - two Terrences under one roof. When his guitar's receiver broke they asked me to play a few songs, which I did and they enjoyed.
I'd ducked in mostly to get out of the passing shower, and now that it'd quit I walked back to Makani's shop. We chatted a bit and a few moments later her husband David - he just as friendly as his wife; a perfect complement - arrived with three of their four children: Mantain, Kala, and Lotus. I'd already been enjoined to sing a few songs. Customers started coming thick and fast - as we'd spoken there was but one in the beginning - people smiled, chatted happily, listened in line... My throat felt off because of the vog, no doubt, so I played but briefly, and Makani gave Kala a couple dollars to give me "So that when they see a street musician they know what to do!" I'd told her I wanted to head to the library and she offered a ride via David, which I accepted.
But they were so busy with the sudden influx of customers (which I flatter myself as having a hand in) that it was a couple of hours before we left. I didn't mind at all. I watched the kids while they ran the shop - Mantain with his piercing Hawai'i sea under palpable rays of sunlight five minutes before sunset blue eyes and chubby face, Lotus shy and quiet with a tendency to erupt into tantrums over tiny things, Kala slim and tall and astonishingly mature being used to looking after her siblings. Kala finished her schoolwork while I played with Mantain, then we played hide and seek, and freeze tag. I, of course, was the permanent "it" for the latter game, and my role in the first was mostly to keep them from wandering too far away from the shop. Delightful fun. Basically I got to play with delightful delightful children in the warm Hawai'ian sun - warm but not hot - what could be better? One of the customer's two kids joined us for the game of tag - everywhere was apparently base so that they just jumped on the sidewalk and back into base and I made to tag them during that split second of vulnerability. Simple, but so simply fun. Just before we left Makani took us all to the next door ice cream shop. In such a small, friendly town they of course knew the couple who ran that shop and procured the ice cream free. Mine was a pretzel icecream, with pretzel sticks slightly soggy within the icecream and surprisingly delicious.
Kala felt very sad to see me go and promised to write a poem for me to write a song to on parting at the library. I checked out a couple of books and then got a touch lost on the walk back to Tom's house - which afforded me incredible views of the unreal layered mountains behind the gray mist of near but far rain.
Earnings: $2.00, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: A Thousand Post-Its - Terrence Ho
I'd ducked in mostly to get out of the passing shower, and now that it'd quit I walked back to Makani's shop. We chatted a bit and a few moments later her husband David - he just as friendly as his wife; a perfect complement - arrived with three of their four children: Mantain, Kala, and Lotus. I'd already been enjoined to sing a few songs. Customers started coming thick and fast - as we'd spoken there was but one in the beginning - people smiled, chatted happily, listened in line... My throat felt off because of the vog, no doubt, so I played but briefly, and Makani gave Kala a couple dollars to give me "So that when they see a street musician they know what to do!" I'd told her I wanted to head to the library and she offered a ride via David, which I accepted.
But they were so busy with the sudden influx of customers (which I flatter myself as having a hand in) that it was a couple of hours before we left. I didn't mind at all. I watched the kids while they ran the shop - Mantain with his piercing Hawai'i sea under palpable rays of sunlight five minutes before sunset blue eyes and chubby face, Lotus shy and quiet with a tendency to erupt into tantrums over tiny things, Kala slim and tall and astonishingly mature being used to looking after her siblings. Kala finished her schoolwork while I played with Mantain, then we played hide and seek, and freeze tag. I, of course, was the permanent "it" for the latter game, and my role in the first was mostly to keep them from wandering too far away from the shop. Delightful fun. Basically I got to play with delightful delightful children in the warm Hawai'ian sun - warm but not hot - what could be better? One of the customer's two kids joined us for the game of tag - everywhere was apparently base so that they just jumped on the sidewalk and back into base and I made to tag them during that split second of vulnerability. Simple, but so simply fun. Just before we left Makani took us all to the next door ice cream shop. In such a small, friendly town they of course knew the couple who ran that shop and procured the ice cream free. Mine was a pretzel icecream, with pretzel sticks slightly soggy within the icecream and surprisingly delicious.
Kala felt very sad to see me go and promised to write a poem for me to write a song to on parting at the library. I checked out a couple of books and then got a touch lost on the walk back to Tom's house - which afforded me incredible views of the unreal layered mountains behind the gray mist of near but far rain.
Earnings: $2.00, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: A Thousand Post-Its - Terrence Ho
Monday, March 28, 2011
Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 1
And some days give you everything.
I awoke early to play a pitch in downtown Honolulu before continuing onwards to my new host on the North Shore. My host in Mililani, Edward, had recommended I try playing on the Fort Street Mall right in the center of the CBD, and when I'd come through to check it out a few days ago it looked promising. I asked the security guards whether I might play and they said I'd have to play around the corner, on Hotel St., a road with heavy bus traffic. I gave it a go by the side of a McDonald's. On a random note, McDonald's are landmarks for bus stops in O'ahu. Very amusing. And sad.
Most of the passersby treated me well, with a mother tipping me almost immediately by way of her daughter and a young woman stopping her friends a moment to request Time in a Bottle and then Here Comes the Sun on discovering I didn't know that first request. Today I debuted my laminated song list, and I was glad to put it to such quick use. But while Hawai'i staunchly protects first ammendment rights, most of its buskable land is privately owned. So just like Kalakaua I wasn't allowed to play on Fort Street and a few songs after the request the owner of the McDonald's came out very sternly, with a look of disgust and impatience and shooed me off.
So I asked the girl manning the Yogen Fruz shop if I might play in front and she delightedly agreed. While inside I heard the not quiet enough comment from one of an older businessman patron to his lunch date that "He didn't make any money", gesturing to me not quite subtly enough in a schadenfreude haha tough luck get a real job way. They proceeded to talk a bit quieter about that. I felt furious but kept myself in check, setting up outside and promising myself I'd bring it up with him when he emerged. I cooled down enough by then that I didn't do that, either. I played a few songs there but the businessman remained as uptight as anywhere and my being on the ouskirts of Chinatown didn't help either. One man very purposefully jangled the coins in his pocket right in front of my case before walking on a way and making a big show of "listening and searching for money" before going on. He did the same on the way back. I wasn't taken in for a moment so this didn't bother me too much, beyond the ugly taste it left in my mouth. Only just before I finished did my one tip here come, from an older man who crossed the street just to tip. Very kind.
On the bus up to Hale'iwa a sat beside a slow witted braggart who nicely ceded the seat, but did so mostly to show off. I remained humble throughout without mentioning my own doings or playings. Let me illustrate:
"What kinda guitar is that?"
"Classical." (Why do people give a shit? like they measure my worth by the brand.)
"Yea, I mean what kind."
"It's a Raven." (I don't even know any brand names.)
"Never heard of it."
"Do you play."
"Yea. I've got a bunch of guitars, is that your only one?"
"Yea, found it in my attic."
"How long you been playing?"
"About eight years off an on. And you."
"Fifteen." Haughty, haha more than you.
Some more banter during which he reveals he's trained as chef, doesn't have a job right now but has "Cordon Bleu" honor honor honor and could totally get one but people don't see how good he is.
"Did you grow up on the island."
"Yea, North Shore. I've been all over though."
"Were you in the military? Is that how you've traveled so much?"
"I hate the military."
"Where about have you been?"
"All over. You wouldn't know."
"Oh, I just wondered what places."
"Mexico. Canada. France. Holland. Germany. Spain. And Italy." (and here I laugh a little inside) "You been any of those?"
"Yea I've been to France before."
"Paris?"
"Yea."
"How many times?"
"Once."
"I've been five times to Paris. Six times to Europe."
And so on. When I got off in Hale'iwa after an hour and a half of this I felt much lighter. Only to meet up with my host Tom, who engaged me in an hour long monologue about his eBay trades in which I had absolutely no interest.
I wandered through Hale'iwa looking for cafes and bars where I might get a gig, but each one needed much greater notice than the week I had remaining. Well most had no live music at all. I saw a random colorful sign advertising "Music Box..." other thinigs I can't remember and I had to enter. I was welcomed in along the ramp by some young boys and girls and taken aback, to discover I'd stumbled into the Ron Artis (Art...Is) family band studio space. The mother very helpfully recommended me some places to play and after a few moments chatting some people dropped in and the children set up to play a "Rainbow Show" of all styles, incredibly impressive and joyous and musical - great voices, dance steps, piano, drum, harmonica, guitar, bongo, synth talents working in beautiful concert from four boys ages 8 to 24 and two girls in their early teens. What a range of sounds they displayed, and what mature musicality. Their father recently passed, yet they carried on, gentle and warm and filled with Christian goodwill telling me "Talent is like water, my dad used to say. God filled you with it and you can pour it into the guitar or the violin or art - it's the same thing." Oh how inspiring, how inspiring the memory of their father truly alive in the music and their love.
So I walked down to the places they mentioned and called the others later that night - most with no luck. But one place, one place would yield the highlight of my time on the island, the most amazing people I've met in America. Hawai'i's now easily my favorite state, and I think of the many places I've gone on of the few I could see myself settling in. The Artis family's advice led me to Universe Juice, newly opened six days prior by a very young married couple with the most darling kids.
Makani, the mother, tended the shop as I arrived. A houseless man, John, helped her wash dishes for some food, and right after she finished with her customer she bid me play her an original song. She sat right before me in a director's chair, meeting my eyes the entire time I perfomed Stamsund, tears leaking out midway and flowing freely by the end. And so we spoke of music and life and the meaning of names and synesthesia and belief and food and race and Hawai'i; I sang my songs in the incredible acoustic of her narrow, high vaulted store until I ran out of them. Her investor Kevin stopped in to bring a guitar for the shop and dug my music, drummed along on a strange lute-like instrument he'd found at a thrift shop, requested Falling Slowly and told me I nailed it. Requested Hallelujah before he left, tipped me in my case which just happened to be open.
And while I sang Falling Slowly this second time for him a young man who'd been eating ice cream in the alcove outside her side window popped in to drop a dollar with a smile. The few people walking by at that late hour slowed and stopped and clapped and smiled. Makani's friend Nathan and his chums dropped by and they talked or listened right at the doorway - relaxed with faces aglow in the deepening twilight perfect Hawai'ian air. Makani made me a delicious acai parfait/smoothie type thing and dropped me a tip, too, regretting the shop had no money as yet to pay me - not that I minded in the slightest. She gave me a ride back to Tom's place and a box full of local organic fruits and veggies soon to go bad.
Makani told me the Hawai'ian people were tasked with remembering. Remembering how the world should be after it's forgotten and gone awry. I can believe her, and I hope I can help others remember, in my own small way.
Earnings: $13.50, ~3.5 hours
Song of the Day: Falling Slowly - Soundtrack of Once
I awoke early to play a pitch in downtown Honolulu before continuing onwards to my new host on the North Shore. My host in Mililani, Edward, had recommended I try playing on the Fort Street Mall right in the center of the CBD, and when I'd come through to check it out a few days ago it looked promising. I asked the security guards whether I might play and they said I'd have to play around the corner, on Hotel St., a road with heavy bus traffic. I gave it a go by the side of a McDonald's. On a random note, McDonald's are landmarks for bus stops in O'ahu. Very amusing. And sad.
Most of the passersby treated me well, with a mother tipping me almost immediately by way of her daughter and a young woman stopping her friends a moment to request Time in a Bottle and then Here Comes the Sun on discovering I didn't know that first request. Today I debuted my laminated song list, and I was glad to put it to such quick use. But while Hawai'i staunchly protects first ammendment rights, most of its buskable land is privately owned. So just like Kalakaua I wasn't allowed to play on Fort Street and a few songs after the request the owner of the McDonald's came out very sternly, with a look of disgust and impatience and shooed me off.
So I asked the girl manning the Yogen Fruz shop if I might play in front and she delightedly agreed. While inside I heard the not quiet enough comment from one of an older businessman patron to his lunch date that "He didn't make any money", gesturing to me not quite subtly enough in a schadenfreude haha tough luck get a real job way. They proceeded to talk a bit quieter about that. I felt furious but kept myself in check, setting up outside and promising myself I'd bring it up with him when he emerged. I cooled down enough by then that I didn't do that, either. I played a few songs there but the businessman remained as uptight as anywhere and my being on the ouskirts of Chinatown didn't help either. One man very purposefully jangled the coins in his pocket right in front of my case before walking on a way and making a big show of "listening and searching for money" before going on. He did the same on the way back. I wasn't taken in for a moment so this didn't bother me too much, beyond the ugly taste it left in my mouth. Only just before I finished did my one tip here come, from an older man who crossed the street just to tip. Very kind.
On the bus up to Hale'iwa a sat beside a slow witted braggart who nicely ceded the seat, but did so mostly to show off. I remained humble throughout without mentioning my own doings or playings. Let me illustrate:
"What kinda guitar is that?"
"Classical." (Why do people give a shit? like they measure my worth by the brand.)
"Yea, I mean what kind."
"It's a Raven." (I don't even know any brand names.)
"Never heard of it."
"Do you play."
"Yea. I've got a bunch of guitars, is that your only one?"
"Yea, found it in my attic."
"How long you been playing?"
"About eight years off an on. And you."
"Fifteen." Haughty, haha more than you.
Some more banter during which he reveals he's trained as chef, doesn't have a job right now but has "Cordon Bleu" honor honor honor and could totally get one but people don't see how good he is.
"Did you grow up on the island."
"Yea, North Shore. I've been all over though."
"Were you in the military? Is that how you've traveled so much?"
"I hate the military."
"Where about have you been?"
"All over. You wouldn't know."
"Oh, I just wondered what places."
"Mexico. Canada. France. Holland. Germany. Spain. And Italy." (and here I laugh a little inside) "You been any of those?"
"Yea I've been to France before."
"Paris?"
"Yea."
"How many times?"
"Once."
"I've been five times to Paris. Six times to Europe."
And so on. When I got off in Hale'iwa after an hour and a half of this I felt much lighter. Only to meet up with my host Tom, who engaged me in an hour long monologue about his eBay trades in which I had absolutely no interest.
I wandered through Hale'iwa looking for cafes and bars where I might get a gig, but each one needed much greater notice than the week I had remaining. Well most had no live music at all. I saw a random colorful sign advertising "Music Box..." other thinigs I can't remember and I had to enter. I was welcomed in along the ramp by some young boys and girls and taken aback, to discover I'd stumbled into the Ron Artis (Art...Is) family band studio space. The mother very helpfully recommended me some places to play and after a few moments chatting some people dropped in and the children set up to play a "Rainbow Show" of all styles, incredibly impressive and joyous and musical - great voices, dance steps, piano, drum, harmonica, guitar, bongo, synth talents working in beautiful concert from four boys ages 8 to 24 and two girls in their early teens. What a range of sounds they displayed, and what mature musicality. Their father recently passed, yet they carried on, gentle and warm and filled with Christian goodwill telling me "Talent is like water, my dad used to say. God filled you with it and you can pour it into the guitar or the violin or art - it's the same thing." Oh how inspiring, how inspiring the memory of their father truly alive in the music and their love.
So I walked down to the places they mentioned and called the others later that night - most with no luck. But one place, one place would yield the highlight of my time on the island, the most amazing people I've met in America. Hawai'i's now easily my favorite state, and I think of the many places I've gone on of the few I could see myself settling in. The Artis family's advice led me to Universe Juice, newly opened six days prior by a very young married couple with the most darling kids.
Makani, the mother, tended the shop as I arrived. A houseless man, John, helped her wash dishes for some food, and right after she finished with her customer she bid me play her an original song. She sat right before me in a director's chair, meeting my eyes the entire time I perfomed Stamsund, tears leaking out midway and flowing freely by the end. And so we spoke of music and life and the meaning of names and synesthesia and belief and food and race and Hawai'i; I sang my songs in the incredible acoustic of her narrow, high vaulted store until I ran out of them. Her investor Kevin stopped in to bring a guitar for the shop and dug my music, drummed along on a strange lute-like instrument he'd found at a thrift shop, requested Falling Slowly and told me I nailed it. Requested Hallelujah before he left, tipped me in my case which just happened to be open.
And while I sang Falling Slowly this second time for him a young man who'd been eating ice cream in the alcove outside her side window popped in to drop a dollar with a smile. The few people walking by at that late hour slowed and stopped and clapped and smiled. Makani's friend Nathan and his chums dropped by and they talked or listened right at the doorway - relaxed with faces aglow in the deepening twilight perfect Hawai'ian air. Makani made me a delicious acai parfait/smoothie type thing and dropped me a tip, too, regretting the shop had no money as yet to pay me - not that I minded in the slightest. She gave me a ride back to Tom's place and a box full of local organic fruits and veggies soon to go bad.
Makani told me the Hawai'ian people were tasked with remembering. Remembering how the world should be after it's forgotten and gone awry. I can believe her, and I hope I can help others remember, in my own small way.
Earnings: $13.50, ~3.5 hours
Song of the Day: Falling Slowly - Soundtrack of Once
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Honolulu State of Mind, Day 3
First off, I've made a "Song of the Day" video for Trapeze Swinger here. I plan to make more of these as I go along. Now remember, I don't have a vocal nodule, actually, so yay!
The night after my first pitch at Hank's felt straight out of a Garden State type movie. Detached, surreal, unbelievable. My host, Raghu, met me outside his flat in Waikiki and we chatted quite happily inside with his friend Dan. They went off to a club or something and I stayed in, to take brief advantage of his computer (badly worded, feh). I fell asleep before doing much of anything useful. Maybe three hours later I awoke to their very politely quiet drunken return. They'd moved the stereo outside and proceeded to toke on some pipes out on the lanai until I rose. All remained quite amiable and low key until Raghu invited his friend Bridget over. She brought four friends. That's when the film began to play.
White trash is too convenient a term for me not to use, though the negative connotations aren't what I'm going for. I think this night could warrant an entire chapter, which I intend to write at some point, so I'll just sketch it out for this post. Bridget - one of those girls who you can tell just by looking at her face was once sweet and wholesome, not so long ago, but gives meaning to "fresh-faced" by being the precise opposite - face elongated and hollowed, hair line taut with the tension from the ponytail, thinness no longer attractive but pitiable. Arriving on the island for her mother she'd taken to working as a stripper to make ends meet. And the sudden flow of money brought on the drugs.
What I found most amazing during the night was their absolute civility. Completely polite, normal even, if I hadn't seen them partaking constantly all around in the small studio I'd never suspect them of altered behaviors. And this made me so, so sad - that there's a culture of Americans so besotted with drugs and party culture that they need to take them just to feel and act normal. And so young - the eldest only 21, on coke and weed and alcohol, all taken continually with no discernible effect.
Short on time as always, I must move on. Hank invited me back to play the following night, so I returned, and this time I managed to procure a couple mics. I figured out the P.A. system on my own (I felt proud of myself), balanced myself and played a long pitch - having a mic does wonders for longevity of voice, and a small seldomly rotating audience made me feel alright taking my time between songs (not so long, but the extra seconds help). Kurt, an older man who'd listened and requested the last night again sat to enjoy with no tip, but he appreciated my lyrics and told me as much. For, you see, people once again wanted me to sing originals more than covers. The covers I sang were newer, more obscure things. I hardly veered into familiar oldies territory. One quiet guy at the corner of the bar tipped me twice, listening thoughtfully throughout without engaging into conversation with the other patrons. He complimented the mood I cast, clapped after many songs - my champion for the hour he stayed. The musician at the bar who struck up a brief conversation with me also dropped a dollar on his way out.
After the clientele remained a static four men for a while I took an extended break to play the piano - simple things, the four songs I know, yet when I looked up from Gymnopedie I saw that the quiet man at the end of the bar had placed a camera on his lap, red light tellingly on, to record me. He never spoke a word while there, and never acknowledged met my eyes or tipped. Earlier he'd watched my fingers intently as I played the guitar. I'm still unsure if I impressed him or appalled him. I hope the former, but then perhaps he felt too shy to tip? Or say anything? I won't know. After another set of the last of my originals and chill covers I sat by the bar for a while to talk with the other patrons. I felt a bit dejected having played so long to few tips, but my people skills won out in my conversation and one man, a nisei vietnam vet with long gray hair, glasses, and strong opinions tipped me a ten dollar bill. I stayed to chat awhile about startingly relevant topics, remaining humble throughout, then took my leave for a much calmer night at Raghu's.
Earnings: $25.00, 3 hours
Song of the Day: Forever and a Day - Terrence Ho
The night after my first pitch at Hank's felt straight out of a Garden State type movie. Detached, surreal, unbelievable. My host, Raghu, met me outside his flat in Waikiki and we chatted quite happily inside with his friend Dan. They went off to a club or something and I stayed in, to take brief advantage of his computer (badly worded, feh). I fell asleep before doing much of anything useful. Maybe three hours later I awoke to their very politely quiet drunken return. They'd moved the stereo outside and proceeded to toke on some pipes out on the lanai until I rose. All remained quite amiable and low key until Raghu invited his friend Bridget over. She brought four friends. That's when the film began to play.
White trash is too convenient a term for me not to use, though the negative connotations aren't what I'm going for. I think this night could warrant an entire chapter, which I intend to write at some point, so I'll just sketch it out for this post. Bridget - one of those girls who you can tell just by looking at her face was once sweet and wholesome, not so long ago, but gives meaning to "fresh-faced" by being the precise opposite - face elongated and hollowed, hair line taut with the tension from the ponytail, thinness no longer attractive but pitiable. Arriving on the island for her mother she'd taken to working as a stripper to make ends meet. And the sudden flow of money brought on the drugs.
What I found most amazing during the night was their absolute civility. Completely polite, normal even, if I hadn't seen them partaking constantly all around in the small studio I'd never suspect them of altered behaviors. And this made me so, so sad - that there's a culture of Americans so besotted with drugs and party culture that they need to take them just to feel and act normal. And so young - the eldest only 21, on coke and weed and alcohol, all taken continually with no discernible effect.
Short on time as always, I must move on. Hank invited me back to play the following night, so I returned, and this time I managed to procure a couple mics. I figured out the P.A. system on my own (I felt proud of myself), balanced myself and played a long pitch - having a mic does wonders for longevity of voice, and a small seldomly rotating audience made me feel alright taking my time between songs (not so long, but the extra seconds help). Kurt, an older man who'd listened and requested the last night again sat to enjoy with no tip, but he appreciated my lyrics and told me as much. For, you see, people once again wanted me to sing originals more than covers. The covers I sang were newer, more obscure things. I hardly veered into familiar oldies territory. One quiet guy at the corner of the bar tipped me twice, listening thoughtfully throughout without engaging into conversation with the other patrons. He complimented the mood I cast, clapped after many songs - my champion for the hour he stayed. The musician at the bar who struck up a brief conversation with me also dropped a dollar on his way out.
After the clientele remained a static four men for a while I took an extended break to play the piano - simple things, the four songs I know, yet when I looked up from Gymnopedie I saw that the quiet man at the end of the bar had placed a camera on his lap, red light tellingly on, to record me. He never spoke a word while there, and never acknowledged met my eyes or tipped. Earlier he'd watched my fingers intently as I played the guitar. I'm still unsure if I impressed him or appalled him. I hope the former, but then perhaps he felt too shy to tip? Or say anything? I won't know. After another set of the last of my originals and chill covers I sat by the bar for a while to talk with the other patrons. I felt a bit dejected having played so long to few tips, but my people skills won out in my conversation and one man, a nisei vietnam vet with long gray hair, glasses, and strong opinions tipped me a ten dollar bill. I stayed to chat awhile about startingly relevant topics, remaining humble throughout, then took my leave for a much calmer night at Raghu's.
Earnings: $25.00, 3 hours
Song of the Day: Forever and a Day - Terrence Ho
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Honolulu State of Mind, Day 2
Duane took me with a couple of other couchsurfers, Dan and Paolo, to Hanauma Bay for some beautiful snorkeling. We drove into some nice lookouts along the way. Foremost in my mind flies the incredible wave clipping Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Makapu'u Point. He brought us to a very windy lookout at Pali and the Blowhole on the way there, so much faster by car than bus. I
I walked to the Doctors on Call health clinic the following day to figure out the problem with my voice, which led me to their ER and then to their ENT department, where after sticking a camera down my throat the doctor professed me completely fine. I suppose they're all used to vog, as none of them even mentioned it as a possible cause. I bought the acid reflux meds and took the opportunity of being ferried downtown to look around. So much nicer than Waikiki, with a friendly layout for a local feel. I particularly loved the Capitol building. Such a stark contrast from the ostentatious and cold Texas capitol, the Hawai'i capitol has no security whatsoever, walkways open to the outside air and courtyard, is open all day on all floors save the executive floor, looks absolutely beautiful in a design that reflects the nature of the islands, and in the elevator I saw a bunch of lively signs like you'd find in a college dorm, advertising "polynesian heritage potluck! hosted by representative ___". Wonderful.
I wandered into Chinatown to ask at each of the bars/cafes there about playing. All of them wanted my card and time to get back to me except one, Hank's Cafe, where I'd land a gig for the following night. But most naggingly memorable from the entire day wasn't getting the gig, but speaking with - no just seeing - the bartender who helped me get it. Kulei, I discovered later. The most heart stoppingly beautiful face I've ever seen, wide bright eyes and an open host smile with a darling Hawaiian accent. So dazzled was I that I returned more times for the hope of seeing her again, but I'm leaving today, a week, later, and still I have seen her just the once.
The gig itself was quite disorganized, but fun nonetheless. I played unamplified as Hank didn't show at 6:30 or 7:00 with mics and the bartender (a kind portly woman, alas!) did not know where to find them. I decided then to ignore the yuckiness in my throat as having nothing to do with my vocal chords and got through an hour and a bit singing many of my own songs on the request of the customers - regulars all. One, Lani, decided to call me WM for wandering minstrel. But though I sang for the two chief patrons requests they tipped me not. Through the whole time I sang only ten or so people wandered through. Happily the last of these, two girls and an enthusiastic guy, really dug my music. The guy requested Flake for one of his friends as "her favorite song ever." When they heard my Stamsund all three listened and watched rapt, and he tipped me a fiver. A couple falsetto covers later (which they requested and enjoyed) they left and I swapped places with the incoming couple of musicians setting up for the night.
Earnings: $15.00, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho
I walked to the Doctors on Call health clinic the following day to figure out the problem with my voice, which led me to their ER and then to their ENT department, where after sticking a camera down my throat the doctor professed me completely fine. I suppose they're all used to vog, as none of them even mentioned it as a possible cause. I bought the acid reflux meds and took the opportunity of being ferried downtown to look around. So much nicer than Waikiki, with a friendly layout for a local feel. I particularly loved the Capitol building. Such a stark contrast from the ostentatious and cold Texas capitol, the Hawai'i capitol has no security whatsoever, walkways open to the outside air and courtyard, is open all day on all floors save the executive floor, looks absolutely beautiful in a design that reflects the nature of the islands, and in the elevator I saw a bunch of lively signs like you'd find in a college dorm, advertising "polynesian heritage potluck! hosted by representative ___". Wonderful.
I wandered into Chinatown to ask at each of the bars/cafes there about playing. All of them wanted my card and time to get back to me except one, Hank's Cafe, where I'd land a gig for the following night. But most naggingly memorable from the entire day wasn't getting the gig, but speaking with - no just seeing - the bartender who helped me get it. Kulei, I discovered later. The most heart stoppingly beautiful face I've ever seen, wide bright eyes and an open host smile with a darling Hawaiian accent. So dazzled was I that I returned more times for the hope of seeing her again, but I'm leaving today, a week, later, and still I have seen her just the once.
The gig itself was quite disorganized, but fun nonetheless. I played unamplified as Hank didn't show at 6:30 or 7:00 with mics and the bartender (a kind portly woman, alas!) did not know where to find them. I decided then to ignore the yuckiness in my throat as having nothing to do with my vocal chords and got through an hour and a bit singing many of my own songs on the request of the customers - regulars all. One, Lani, decided to call me WM for wandering minstrel. But though I sang for the two chief patrons requests they tipped me not. Through the whole time I sang only ten or so people wandered through. Happily the last of these, two girls and an enthusiastic guy, really dug my music. The guy requested Flake for one of his friends as "her favorite song ever." When they heard my Stamsund all three listened and watched rapt, and he tipped me a fiver. A couple falsetto covers later (which they requested and enjoyed) they left and I swapped places with the incoming couple of musicians setting up for the night.
Earnings: $15.00, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Honolulu State of Mind, Day 1
So by consequence of doing a lot of living, I've not done much writing. The last week of days filled with events, music, people.. and no computers. While I often have long bus rides and train rides and plane rides during which I could theoretically write a ton, this becomes offset by my lack of laptop/smartphone/thingie. So I apologize, slightly.
After my voice decided to go haywire I took a couple days off, which coincided nicely with a stay in Mililani town, away from the business of Honolulu. I took the days for excursions to the North Shore (the photos of the last post), sang not a note, yet my throat remained raspy and feeling like burning. I began to get scared I had a vocal nodule, but long story short (this will be a common theme, long stories made short, for the next few posts) after a trip to a clinic downtown I was disabused of this notion. My vocal chords look perfect. They diagnosed me with the effects of elevated acid reflux, which I have, but this didn't make too much sense to me. Finally, yesterday I discovered what it probably is - vog, or volcanic fog, which is invisible and only affects a few people, and those people quite acutely.
The night I transfered to stay with Duane back in Waikiki, he and his friend took me to the Tantalus lookout over the city past 10pm, where I sang them a few songs, softly, lit by the city's glow with the smell of forest whipped around by the gently raging wind. The next night I sang at an open mic, the 16th of March, having heard from a homeless man the week before that the particular open mic at this establishment, Snapper's, awarded a $50 cash purse to the "winner." I figured I could push through three songs no problem with such a prize dangled before me. When I arrived with Duane, we discovered to my chagrin that the prize worked as a gift certificate. But, already there, I figured why not?
A sport's bar, and this is one, decidedly ain't my scene. Louder people, the ambient music along the lines of Disturbed or Metallica, electric guitars on the stage, tons of mics and amps... And so Duane was very impressed that I decided to go first - I thought "Hey, here's a challenge, if they dig me here with all these factors against me, that can mean something." So I went through the awkward first person sound checking, the disinterested crowd while I set up idly playing Kids, and then I got 'em. I gauged the vibe well, if I may congratulate myself and I do often, starting with Hey Ya, to get them grooved into it, transitioning with my Squirrel Song and then ending with Stamsund. People were rapt, talking at tables yet listening and often stopping mid sentence - Duane said I really changed the mood and feel of the place, really chilled it out.
Afterwards a few people asked for my card, including one producer who gave me his, the macho guys unashamedly congratulated me "You were great, man!" with the posturing smoothed out. For I'd luckily guessed my clientele as such - nice guys who don't feel comfortable acting so, and so have to bro it out and slap it others arms and laugh loudly and drink and watch sports but actually want to listen to soft intelligent music about travel and love and confusion. Even as I crossed the street on the way out people I didn't even notice were in there greeted me happily.
I can't say I repaid the favour to the next band. The four piece ensemble played a uniquely awful Suzy Q and followed up with another two covers where the vocalist sang flat, the drummer lagged, the bassist played in time one measure behind and the lead guitarist tuned. Duane's and my expressions clearly displayed our pain, so after finishing my complimentary drink - an iced tea - we took our leave halfway through the first song.
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho
After my voice decided to go haywire I took a couple days off, which coincided nicely with a stay in Mililani town, away from the business of Honolulu. I took the days for excursions to the North Shore (the photos of the last post), sang not a note, yet my throat remained raspy and feeling like burning. I began to get scared I had a vocal nodule, but long story short (this will be a common theme, long stories made short, for the next few posts) after a trip to a clinic downtown I was disabused of this notion. My vocal chords look perfect. They diagnosed me with the effects of elevated acid reflux, which I have, but this didn't make too much sense to me. Finally, yesterday I discovered what it probably is - vog, or volcanic fog, which is invisible and only affects a few people, and those people quite acutely.
The night I transfered to stay with Duane back in Waikiki, he and his friend took me to the Tantalus lookout over the city past 10pm, where I sang them a few songs, softly, lit by the city's glow with the smell of forest whipped around by the gently raging wind. The next night I sang at an open mic, the 16th of March, having heard from a homeless man the week before that the particular open mic at this establishment, Snapper's, awarded a $50 cash purse to the "winner." I figured I could push through three songs no problem with such a prize dangled before me. When I arrived with Duane, we discovered to my chagrin that the prize worked as a gift certificate. But, already there, I figured why not?
A sport's bar, and this is one, decidedly ain't my scene. Louder people, the ambient music along the lines of Disturbed or Metallica, electric guitars on the stage, tons of mics and amps... And so Duane was very impressed that I decided to go first - I thought "Hey, here's a challenge, if they dig me here with all these factors against me, that can mean something." So I went through the awkward first person sound checking, the disinterested crowd while I set up idly playing Kids, and then I got 'em. I gauged the vibe well, if I may congratulate myself and I do often, starting with Hey Ya, to get them grooved into it, transitioning with my Squirrel Song and then ending with Stamsund. People were rapt, talking at tables yet listening and often stopping mid sentence - Duane said I really changed the mood and feel of the place, really chilled it out.
Afterwards a few people asked for my card, including one producer who gave me his, the macho guys unashamedly congratulated me "You were great, man!" with the posturing smoothed out. For I'd luckily guessed my clientele as such - nice guys who don't feel comfortable acting so, and so have to bro it out and slap it others arms and laugh loudly and drink and watch sports but actually want to listen to soft intelligent music about travel and love and confusion. Even as I crossed the street on the way out people I didn't even notice were in there greeted me happily.
I can't say I repaid the favour to the next band. The four piece ensemble played a uniquely awful Suzy Q and followed up with another two covers where the vocalist sang flat, the drummer lagged, the bassist played in time one measure behind and the lead guitarist tuned. Duane's and my expressions clearly displayed our pain, so after finishing my complimentary drink - an iced tea - we took our leave halfway through the first song.
Song of the Day: Stamsund - Terrence Ho
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Waikiki's Delivery Service wouldn't work, Day 4
When I walked to Diamond Head today I decided to take advantage of Hawaii's wonderful "No shirt, no shoes no problem" sort of attitude. I was a bit oblivious to others perceptions of me at first, but soon it became clear that they took me for the wrong gender. Sporting a pair of Lucky Brand zero skinny jeans and no shirt with long black hair and highly unmuscled now after months not climbing, I suppose I did look rather female from behind. I realized that day just how annoying it must be to be female - to have people's gazes fixed at chest level (which happened all the time to occasionally audible groans of disappointment or gasps of surprise) and feel constantly on display. I guess girls get used to it. And then to always have to wear some kind of chest covering - how restricting that must be! It was a very educational experience.
I sort of wandered such that I walked around Diamond Head rather than right up it from the center of Waikiki, which yielded some spectacular views of the nicer beaches below. The hike itself was alternately hilarious - a paved road to begin - and vaguely serious - a section with quite a lot of stairs. I schadenfreude-ly enjoyed observing the fitness spectrum as I passed - you have the fat American tourists wheezing and huffing and complaining, the skinny never done exercise hiding from the sun Japanese tourists confused but determined, the Marines who run up without breaking a sweat (literally), and the hikers who look a bit bored. Definitely not a bell curve, and with physical weight in the equation rather a 1/x sort of arrangement, with x as increasing fitness positively and y number of people.
I took my fat white ass up and saw a plant. So I did it.
Brent generally takes the tree photos. Ha!
So twelve miles or so later I returned to retrieve my guitar for a late set back on Kalakaua. As soon as I neared the street I knew it'd be a rough night. Right at the best intersection where a smiling Hawaiian man usually played excellent ukulele music, I heard his two eight or nine year old daughters singing Celine Dion through the PA. What can you do? Naturally very off pitch but pretty good considering their age and the cuteness factor and the Celine Dion factor and the dad playing ukulele real well factor and the amped like crazy for two blocks in either direction factor drew an absolutely absurdly large crowd, blocking foot traffic all around the intersection. So I went to my American Apparel pitch, far enough away.
You gotta be confident in what you do, and give what you have with energy and soul and honesty no matter the circumstance. So I sang beside the same promotions lady as the last night until the building's owner told me to move to the other side of the walkway, firmly, after forty minutes. My voice hardly lasted that long. Something is wrong with it even as I type this, with two full days and nearing a third of rest. Mario Kart Love Song stopped two very tanned Japanese guys with blonde hair to turn around and sit on the parapet, smiling at me. They'd eventually tip me coins and I forgave them as Dana explained the Japanese tourists don't quite understand the values of the money here (but really, our coins are a bit confusing what with the sizes not corresponding to value and our dollars are all the same size and color). While they sat a very friendly young shore leaved Asian guy got my list and crowed in amazement. He gathered his friends around, asked them to give me some money, and proclaimed me an iPod, no "Better than an iPod, man!" He requested four songs in succession, the first of which was again the Mario Kart Love Song which delighted his friend into tipping.
I excelled at eye contact today, possibly taking my own advice to the boys from last night. The passersby were thick and nicer today - apparently 10,000 extra in the city from an aircraft carrier - and no assholes came to pick on me for their sick amusement. My favorite held gaze came from a set of three black women as I sang Where is My Mind, and one locked as the whole way past and shrugged silently. Hilarious. I don't know where the things at, either.
I thought to take a break, but as I've mentioned that break has now lasted a couple days. I met the hobo who gave me my first tip and he asked for $3 for wine "for his health." Had he not told me what it was for I'd have given him the $3 in full, but with that knowledge I only gave one. Maybe this was wrong of me. Later on I chatted with a Bill Murray doppelganger street vendor amiably, who told me he'd look out for me on the streets after his return from Rome. And then, passing the girls singing on the way home, I introduced myself to their father, who very nicely invited me to come play with them another night, providing I had a guitar which could be plugged in. So now, I gotta find one of those.
Earnings: $8.40, 40 minutes
Song of the Day: Mario Kart Love Song - Sam Hart
I sort of wandered such that I walked around Diamond Head rather than right up it from the center of Waikiki, which yielded some spectacular views of the nicer beaches below. The hike itself was alternately hilarious - a paved road to begin - and vaguely serious - a section with quite a lot of stairs. I schadenfreude-ly enjoyed observing the fitness spectrum as I passed - you have the fat American tourists wheezing and huffing and complaining, the skinny never done exercise hiding from the sun Japanese tourists confused but determined, the Marines who run up without breaking a sweat (literally), and the hikers who look a bit bored. Definitely not a bell curve, and with physical weight in the equation rather a 1/x sort of arrangement, with x as increasing fitness positively and y number of people.
I took my fat white ass up and saw a plant. So I did it.
Brent generally takes the tree photos. Ha!
So twelve miles or so later I returned to retrieve my guitar for a late set back on Kalakaua. As soon as I neared the street I knew it'd be a rough night. Right at the best intersection where a smiling Hawaiian man usually played excellent ukulele music, I heard his two eight or nine year old daughters singing Celine Dion through the PA. What can you do? Naturally very off pitch but pretty good considering their age and the cuteness factor and the Celine Dion factor and the dad playing ukulele real well factor and the amped like crazy for two blocks in either direction factor drew an absolutely absurdly large crowd, blocking foot traffic all around the intersection. So I went to my American Apparel pitch, far enough away.
You gotta be confident in what you do, and give what you have with energy and soul and honesty no matter the circumstance. So I sang beside the same promotions lady as the last night until the building's owner told me to move to the other side of the walkway, firmly, after forty minutes. My voice hardly lasted that long. Something is wrong with it even as I type this, with two full days and nearing a third of rest. Mario Kart Love Song stopped two very tanned Japanese guys with blonde hair to turn around and sit on the parapet, smiling at me. They'd eventually tip me coins and I forgave them as Dana explained the Japanese tourists don't quite understand the values of the money here (but really, our coins are a bit confusing what with the sizes not corresponding to value and our dollars are all the same size and color). While they sat a very friendly young shore leaved Asian guy got my list and crowed in amazement. He gathered his friends around, asked them to give me some money, and proclaimed me an iPod, no "Better than an iPod, man!" He requested four songs in succession, the first of which was again the Mario Kart Love Song which delighted his friend into tipping.
I excelled at eye contact today, possibly taking my own advice to the boys from last night. The passersby were thick and nicer today - apparently 10,000 extra in the city from an aircraft carrier - and no assholes came to pick on me for their sick amusement. My favorite held gaze came from a set of three black women as I sang Where is My Mind, and one locked as the whole way past and shrugged silently. Hilarious. I don't know where the things at, either.
I thought to take a break, but as I've mentioned that break has now lasted a couple days. I met the hobo who gave me my first tip and he asked for $3 for wine "for his health." Had he not told me what it was for I'd have given him the $3 in full, but with that knowledge I only gave one. Maybe this was wrong of me. Later on I chatted with a Bill Murray doppelganger street vendor amiably, who told me he'd look out for me on the streets after his return from Rome. And then, passing the girls singing on the way home, I introduced myself to their father, who very nicely invited me to come play with them another night, providing I had a guitar which could be plugged in. So now, I gotta find one of those.
Earnings: $8.40, 40 minutes
Song of the Day: Mario Kart Love Song - Sam Hart
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Waikiki's Delivery Service wouldn't work, Day 3
So my pitch ended at precisely the right time last night. As soon as I checked my phone I received a text from my host Dana, saying "Where are u? Tsunami warning!" No wonder the street seemed to be emptying, I thought. I felt incredibly excited. I wanted to see the thing. Dana's Norwegian roommate and good friend from Guam, however, wanted nothing of the sort. They panicked. The government counted our student dorm as a highly safe building, and that the only action necessary was a move up to a higher floor. Cool, thought I. The girls shrieked and babbled about where to go - to the UH Loa campus or the top of Diamond Head, or, or.... So eventually Dana's friend Stefan drove us all to his place in inland Pearl City. I didn't sleep so well as the girls kept their panic meters loud and active to match the sirens 'til around four. They also claimed the couches such that I slept with the four dogs on the floor.
Naturally, after eating a stupid amount of food so as to be economical and not require sustenance at night, I took a nap. After beach watching a bit (so many Japanese tourists and their strange beach behaviors!) I started from the East end of Kalakaua looking for a new spot. The store owners at that end recommended I go at least as far as the Macy's, and there I found three high school aged local Asian boys, amped with a keyboard and guitar and singing Chasing Cars. The keyboardist/singer at the moment was hardly audible and they had no money in their guitar case so I decided they needed my assistance, this so obviously being their first attempt. I told the guy to get into his mic (he sang with his right cheek to it with predictable results) and sort of sound checked them a bit. I explained the necessity for seed money and gave them $2.50 to start. A third boy sat on the ground nearby and we talked a bit before I headed down the street to try my own pitch. Again, all the spots were dominated by amps so I retreated back to the boys and asked, "I know I'm some random dude you just met but I wondered what you'd think about playing together?" They were down.
The two boys who played were decent musicians - as good as can be expected of fifteen year old ish boys. The guitarist soloed Hotel California excellently, but verbatim from the recording. The pianist played off sheet music. Neither could transpose or knew much about playing on the fly or had much of a sense of free non written tempo, which limited the options of songs I could sing with them. I'd given them my list and offered to do vocals while they played - my tactful way of relieving myself from the pain of their more off key than on key songs. Untrained voices and an inability to move keys meant almost every note ran flat. Don't get me wrong I'm not looking down on them or any such as I certainly was no singer at that age - I'm hardly one now - I just want to detail the situation as it stood. I like runons.
They had me sing Superman to the sheet music, but as they couldn't change the key this did not go too well - a lot of unpracticed falsetto and bad phrasing. Then I spelled out the chords for Let it Be in G, which they couldn't play any slower than punk speed - and so an overly fast rendition. Strange. I'd broken my low E string jamming rhythm to Hotel California and now I decided I couldn't sing songs with them in good conscience. They couldn't adapt to me as lead, so I needed to adapt to them. I yielded the mic and played percussion on the guitar itself. Then on my unlatched case. Just before my string broke I developed a sudden massive blister on my right forefinger (which only as I write three days later has subsided) and I was a bit glad of the opportunity to take a backup role. My voice felt strained and off from the previous night, too.
Stefan, Ben and Chris passed by while I drummed happily away, and a bit later while the boys took a short break to decide what to play Dana passed while I sang I Will Follow You Into the Dark solo with their guitar and mic. Such a difference. The passersby mostly gave us awwwww reactions, slower and nicer as a general rule. The mother of one of them videotaped us playing for a song and her daughter even dashed in to tip us. They didn't have their set list very well figured out so we lost some people who'd stopped to listen and moved on between songs as the two boys discussed what to play next. At the end of the pitch I advised them: eye contact, breath support, and practice song transitions.
Just before seven they decided to to pack it in and I asked to play one more song while they had the PA/amp out. I decided on Hallelujah, which just felt right at the time, and has always been my most reliable song. After half a verse a girl in her late twenties stopped her boyfriend dead in the street, looked at me with tears in her eyes and a searching thank you. Oh, the gratitude and emotion there almost overwhelmed me, and I sang all the better. Her boyfriend tipped, and then they walked on only a few feet before returning and standing directly before me, him hugging her close to his side as she watched me rap, for the rest of the song. When I finished she came up to me and said "Thank you" with that same depth of emotion, about how her father died this past December and he used to sing that song to her. I gave her a long hug while she cried a little and then another. The boys took the guitar to pack it up and the boyfriend told me "You guys have a lot of soul for your age." while his girl stood in dazed wonderment behind.
I guess he figured me to be the same age as the others, which is odd. The boys counted up the tips, then, and passed me $4.00, which I accepted graciously but with a touch of irony - we'd received $5 while I played my two solo songs, $2 while I sang and they played and the other $8 for the rest of the many songs, $2.50 of which were mine. A mic can do wonders.
I set up a solo pitch a few meters down in front of the Macy's where I met one of the Argentinian staying at the UH hostel, but this lasted only two songs, as I felt drowned out by the crowd and no natural amplification. A bucket drummer to my right waited patiently and kindly for me to finish, too, so I rewarded him by wrapping up and moving to my tried and true American Apparel pitch after just two songs and one tip.
After sitting and writing a bit to recover my voice I set up beside a new, equally old and kind promoter lady. A group of three black early twenty somethings and another set of white youngsters sat on the parapet nearby, so I stereotyped them and started with Hey Ya. Confused looks melted to familiarity to lip syncing to head bopping to tips. The family standing outside the ABC jived along, too, but I saw the father reduce his tip amount after the two younger groups tipped. Not long afterwards, Chris and Ben saw me and sat themselves down. I sang Ben (who's half French) Liberta, and then their requests. A group of girls sang along to Here Comes the Sun. After Somewhere Over the Rainbow a kindly local went into the ABC to get a slurpee (and change) and fanned out the three dollars to show me before she dropped them in. Many people started to gather on the parapet beside Ben and Chris, without financial impact. I enjoyed playing without my E string for a little challenge.
Near the end, after my German friends left, a skateboarder started zooming around me just to be an ass, once going behind me and tapping me on the back and another time swiping at my case. I thought he fake swiped but after I counted up the bills and mentally recounted my tips I realized he'd taken about three dollars. As I packed up, the promotion lady smilingly recommended in her faltering English that I try playing further down, but didn't understand my response that it was too busy there, and that I like to be able to tune myself.
Earnings: $17.14, 2.5 hours
Song of the Day: Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen
Naturally, after eating a stupid amount of food so as to be economical and not require sustenance at night, I took a nap. After beach watching a bit (so many Japanese tourists and their strange beach behaviors!) I started from the East end of Kalakaua looking for a new spot. The store owners at that end recommended I go at least as far as the Macy's, and there I found three high school aged local Asian boys, amped with a keyboard and guitar and singing Chasing Cars. The keyboardist/singer at the moment was hardly audible and they had no money in their guitar case so I decided they needed my assistance, this so obviously being their first attempt. I told the guy to get into his mic (he sang with his right cheek to it with predictable results) and sort of sound checked them a bit. I explained the necessity for seed money and gave them $2.50 to start. A third boy sat on the ground nearby and we talked a bit before I headed down the street to try my own pitch. Again, all the spots were dominated by amps so I retreated back to the boys and asked, "I know I'm some random dude you just met but I wondered what you'd think about playing together?" They were down.
The two boys who played were decent musicians - as good as can be expected of fifteen year old ish boys. The guitarist soloed Hotel California excellently, but verbatim from the recording. The pianist played off sheet music. Neither could transpose or knew much about playing on the fly or had much of a sense of free non written tempo, which limited the options of songs I could sing with them. I'd given them my list and offered to do vocals while they played - my tactful way of relieving myself from the pain of their more off key than on key songs. Untrained voices and an inability to move keys meant almost every note ran flat. Don't get me wrong I'm not looking down on them or any such as I certainly was no singer at that age - I'm hardly one now - I just want to detail the situation as it stood. I like runons.
They had me sing Superman to the sheet music, but as they couldn't change the key this did not go too well - a lot of unpracticed falsetto and bad phrasing. Then I spelled out the chords for Let it Be in G, which they couldn't play any slower than punk speed - and so an overly fast rendition. Strange. I'd broken my low E string jamming rhythm to Hotel California and now I decided I couldn't sing songs with them in good conscience. They couldn't adapt to me as lead, so I needed to adapt to them. I yielded the mic and played percussion on the guitar itself. Then on my unlatched case. Just before my string broke I developed a sudden massive blister on my right forefinger (which only as I write three days later has subsided) and I was a bit glad of the opportunity to take a backup role. My voice felt strained and off from the previous night, too.
Stefan, Ben and Chris passed by while I drummed happily away, and a bit later while the boys took a short break to decide what to play Dana passed while I sang I Will Follow You Into the Dark solo with their guitar and mic. Such a difference. The passersby mostly gave us awwwww reactions, slower and nicer as a general rule. The mother of one of them videotaped us playing for a song and her daughter even dashed in to tip us. They didn't have their set list very well figured out so we lost some people who'd stopped to listen and moved on between songs as the two boys discussed what to play next. At the end of the pitch I advised them: eye contact, breath support, and practice song transitions.
Just before seven they decided to to pack it in and I asked to play one more song while they had the PA/amp out. I decided on Hallelujah, which just felt right at the time, and has always been my most reliable song. After half a verse a girl in her late twenties stopped her boyfriend dead in the street, looked at me with tears in her eyes and a searching thank you. Oh, the gratitude and emotion there almost overwhelmed me, and I sang all the better. Her boyfriend tipped, and then they walked on only a few feet before returning and standing directly before me, him hugging her close to his side as she watched me rap, for the rest of the song. When I finished she came up to me and said "Thank you" with that same depth of emotion, about how her father died this past December and he used to sing that song to her. I gave her a long hug while she cried a little and then another. The boys took the guitar to pack it up and the boyfriend told me "You guys have a lot of soul for your age." while his girl stood in dazed wonderment behind.
I guess he figured me to be the same age as the others, which is odd. The boys counted up the tips, then, and passed me $4.00, which I accepted graciously but with a touch of irony - we'd received $5 while I played my two solo songs, $2 while I sang and they played and the other $8 for the rest of the many songs, $2.50 of which were mine. A mic can do wonders.
I set up a solo pitch a few meters down in front of the Macy's where I met one of the Argentinian staying at the UH hostel, but this lasted only two songs, as I felt drowned out by the crowd and no natural amplification. A bucket drummer to my right waited patiently and kindly for me to finish, too, so I rewarded him by wrapping up and moving to my tried and true American Apparel pitch after just two songs and one tip.
After sitting and writing a bit to recover my voice I set up beside a new, equally old and kind promoter lady. A group of three black early twenty somethings and another set of white youngsters sat on the parapet nearby, so I stereotyped them and started with Hey Ya. Confused looks melted to familiarity to lip syncing to head bopping to tips. The family standing outside the ABC jived along, too, but I saw the father reduce his tip amount after the two younger groups tipped. Not long afterwards, Chris and Ben saw me and sat themselves down. I sang Ben (who's half French) Liberta, and then their requests. A group of girls sang along to Here Comes the Sun. After Somewhere Over the Rainbow a kindly local went into the ABC to get a slurpee (and change) and fanned out the three dollars to show me before she dropped them in. Many people started to gather on the parapet beside Ben and Chris, without financial impact. I enjoyed playing without my E string for a little challenge.
Near the end, after my German friends left, a skateboarder started zooming around me just to be an ass, once going behind me and tapping me on the back and another time swiping at my case. I thought he fake swiped but after I counted up the bills and mentally recounted my tips I realized he'd taken about three dollars. As I packed up, the promotion lady smilingly recommended in her faltering English that I try playing further down, but didn't understand my response that it was too busy there, and that I like to be able to tune myself.
Earnings: $17.14, 2.5 hours
Song of the Day: Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen
Monday, March 14, 2011
Waikiki's Delivery Service wouldn't work, Day 2
There's a lot of waaaaah to be found in Hawaii. Together with my host Dana, her friend Stefan and two couchsurfers Ben and Chris, I went off to the middle of the island to experience some of it. We breakfasted (they breakfasted, I was cheap and acted as cleanup crew) at a famous Pancake House and then drove over to Maunawili Falls, an ostensibly short and easy hike to a spectacular watering hole. I suppose it would have been much easier and shorter but for two factors - the two other couchsurfers, German, hiked at a snail's pace and the wet season sort of did in the trail. Four of us wore flip flops and I wore my trademark Sanuks. Not the best muddy trail hiking gear.
Of course it felt much longer than it actually was, what with expecting the end any moment on the way in. After only a few hundred feet we gave up trying with our sandals/sanuks on and decided to barefoot it in. Which was fun but a bit yucky. I tried to concentrate on anything but the possibility of worms underfoot. They requested songs for me to sing a capella and I gladly obliged for the distraction. Stefan and I often had to wait several minutes in wait for the Germans, picking their steps stingily through the deep orange mud. By the time we reached the falls we were rather covered up to our waists in the stuff.
The "waterfall" really was a little spring like depression with cliffs around to jump off from. The water felt wonderfully refreshing - freezing at first, then perfect. Two waterfalls spilled down into the main pool and a smaller, shallower pool higher up opened below a fall split in two, heart shaped, around a little projecting boulder. Each of these sprays served wonderfully as showers. We took turns jumping in from the lower ledge (maybe eight or nine feet up), then the three other guys walked up to the forty five foot ledge for a jump. Chris took just a little time to psych himself up, while Ben took an agonizing ten or so minutes. He managed to kick his legs out and fall on his back, to which all of us watching winced in concert. Stefan, who'd been before, jumped in with no hesitation whatsoever. I demurred.
On the ride back I noticed my leg in comparison to Chris's, who's not a particularly big guy. I found it quite hilarious.
After a short stint in a free hot tub at Jimmy Buffet's, I set up for a pitch on Kalakaua. Two amped acts took up the four main blocks of sound space so I was pushed to a spot almost where Kalakaua merges with Kuhio. I chose to play in front of a deserted previously American Apparel storefront for the acoustic benefit, thinking no one would bother me for playing on un-leased private property. For this day, at least, that held true.
Military personnel have shore leave on Thursdays. This completely defined my night. A very strange roller coaster mix of high highs and low lows, both provided by these young short haired men. Most of them, predictably but no less effectively, were assholes. Let me describe just a few of them, so as not to get my own ire up too much. The first fifteen or twenty minutes were filled with comments like this: One guy leaned in for a moment as if listening, then said "You're not good enough." with a self satisfied air during the low verse of Falling Slowly. At that point I was unaware we was just being an asshole and told him to wait a second for a chorus but he just laughed and walked on, somehow procuring a tanned barbie girl for his arm. Well, I think I sang that song quite well, but I'm thin skinned. Not long after another man in a group with two other enlisted each with hanging girltrash accessories paused to dangle money and then laugh back at his pals before one of them called out, "You're no good man. Go home." I felt angry enough to brain one of them with the guitar, but I knew what the odds of myself versus three perhaps Marines would be. A very red Terrence.
Luckily, after the fourth example of this kind of abuse, two enlisted types came in Aloha shirts came to my defense. They pursued the offenders down the street and asked them to apologize, to recognize that "He's actually really good." which only elicited more laughs and a girl's "We didn't think he was that good." By the way, I'm still singing while this loud banter about my worth carried on. My champions rejoined, "Well you obviously didn't listen, then." They apologized for those assholes, sympathized for a while, requested I'm Yours and tipped me three dollars with an encouraging smile. I played beside an old Japanese lady advertising for the run range upstairs (whose loud reports carried as drumbeats to the street, but too irregular to play off of). She gave me a cookie through one of these two men. As I began I'm Yours per the request a group of boys sat across on the parapet to listen, though they'd passed before for the same song and grinned at each other for it. But what can you do? I felt alright again.
Just in time for a fresh fifteen minute bout of assholicnesss, interrupted very thankfully by a girl in Hawaii on a graduation present from her grandmother who stopped, tipped and said she wished she had more to give, then requested Chasing Cars as her favorite song in the entire world. She swayed along right beside me with a dreamy expression. Then another stretch of asshole with a Japanese boy's ninja tip while I looked the other way and only caught in my peripheral to sustain me before a set of three middle aged musicians came by from their gig around the corner. The woman professed, "I think street performing is really cool." They invited me to jam with them the following week. I might.
Besides the outright assholeness, another wearying behavior particularly prominent in the Japanese passersby was the propensity to gaze into my case, counting the money, for long moments. It's sort of like - What? Too much? Too little? Why do you give a shit? Some surfers requested all my Red Hot Chili Peppers songs and sang along to them excitedly, proclaiming me an iPod. But still, I would have left downtrodden and miserable without the extraordinary kindness of one navyman, shorter than the assholes, who watched me a while from the parapet working up the nerve to enter the tattoo parlor, loved the music, loved my list and sympathized with me before I uttered a word of complaint, having witnessed much of my hardship. He dropped me my second twenty dollar tip and told me to sing anything my Iron & Wine. I sang him all four songs I knew, and then the Death Cab for Cutie song he liked, too. His friends joined him for the first song and as they came up he said, "This guy is working his ass off out her, singing one of the most beautiful songs in the world and doing it really really well." He became my ambassador (though unwanted) calling out and following people with these same words for that half hour. My voice was at it's end but I knew I couldn't finish, so I kept on singing, kept going until he left with a smile and an "I really appreciate it." I thanked him profusely in return. Kept me smiling despite my only tip through the rest of the pitch, a leering military type who stopped shoe touching the case and counted out twenty seven cents, one quarter and two pennies, before looking me in the eye and saying, "That's twenty seven cents. It's all you're worth."
Much of the time he and his friends spent with two hobos with parrots soliciting passersby for photographs, getting photos themselves. This piqued the interest of some darkly muttering Chinese men nearby, who asked them in perfectly good English how much it cost. But in typical arrogant, ignorant American fashion the man they asked spoke loudly and slowly back, "ONLY TIPPY TIPPY KANE KANE." and when the Chinese man returned this treatment with a confused look, sighed and loudly repeated himself slower. Then he asked "Are you guys Japanese or Chinese?" The man responded, "Chinese." So, despite their obvious understanding of this question the parroteer called to his partner, "HEY MAN HELP ME OUT WITH THESE GUYS TELL THEM ABOUT THE DONATIONS AND STUFF." You gotta admire the patience or shake your head at the abuse the Chinese men took. The man in front said, "Yes, how much donation?" before the partner could come by. To which the insolent American obstinately continued his loud speaking-to-foreigner style, "DONATION YES. NO TWO DOLLARS. BIRD WORK HARD VERY HARD." "Two dollars?" "NO TWO DOLLAR!" And they left.
Ah. The wonder of cultural exchange.
Earnings: $30.47 + 0,60 SGD, 3 hours
Song of the Day: Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
Of course it felt much longer than it actually was, what with expecting the end any moment on the way in. After only a few hundred feet we gave up trying with our sandals/sanuks on and decided to barefoot it in. Which was fun but a bit yucky. I tried to concentrate on anything but the possibility of worms underfoot. They requested songs for me to sing a capella and I gladly obliged for the distraction. Stefan and I often had to wait several minutes in wait for the Germans, picking their steps stingily through the deep orange mud. By the time we reached the falls we were rather covered up to our waists in the stuff.
The "waterfall" really was a little spring like depression with cliffs around to jump off from. The water felt wonderfully refreshing - freezing at first, then perfect. Two waterfalls spilled down into the main pool and a smaller, shallower pool higher up opened below a fall split in two, heart shaped, around a little projecting boulder. Each of these sprays served wonderfully as showers. We took turns jumping in from the lower ledge (maybe eight or nine feet up), then the three other guys walked up to the forty five foot ledge for a jump. Chris took just a little time to psych himself up, while Ben took an agonizing ten or so minutes. He managed to kick his legs out and fall on his back, to which all of us watching winced in concert. Stefan, who'd been before, jumped in with no hesitation whatsoever. I demurred.
On the ride back I noticed my leg in comparison to Chris's, who's not a particularly big guy. I found it quite hilarious.
After a short stint in a free hot tub at Jimmy Buffet's, I set up for a pitch on Kalakaua. Two amped acts took up the four main blocks of sound space so I was pushed to a spot almost where Kalakaua merges with Kuhio. I chose to play in front of a deserted previously American Apparel storefront for the acoustic benefit, thinking no one would bother me for playing on un-leased private property. For this day, at least, that held true.
Military personnel have shore leave on Thursdays. This completely defined my night. A very strange roller coaster mix of high highs and low lows, both provided by these young short haired men. Most of them, predictably but no less effectively, were assholes. Let me describe just a few of them, so as not to get my own ire up too much. The first fifteen or twenty minutes were filled with comments like this: One guy leaned in for a moment as if listening, then said "You're not good enough." with a self satisfied air during the low verse of Falling Slowly. At that point I was unaware we was just being an asshole and told him to wait a second for a chorus but he just laughed and walked on, somehow procuring a tanned barbie girl for his arm. Well, I think I sang that song quite well, but I'm thin skinned. Not long after another man in a group with two other enlisted each with hanging girltrash accessories paused to dangle money and then laugh back at his pals before one of them called out, "You're no good man. Go home." I felt angry enough to brain one of them with the guitar, but I knew what the odds of myself versus three perhaps Marines would be. A very red Terrence.
Luckily, after the fourth example of this kind of abuse, two enlisted types came in Aloha shirts came to my defense. They pursued the offenders down the street and asked them to apologize, to recognize that "He's actually really good." which only elicited more laughs and a girl's "We didn't think he was that good." By the way, I'm still singing while this loud banter about my worth carried on. My champions rejoined, "Well you obviously didn't listen, then." They apologized for those assholes, sympathized for a while, requested I'm Yours and tipped me three dollars with an encouraging smile. I played beside an old Japanese lady advertising for the run range upstairs (whose loud reports carried as drumbeats to the street, but too irregular to play off of). She gave me a cookie through one of these two men. As I began I'm Yours per the request a group of boys sat across on the parapet to listen, though they'd passed before for the same song and grinned at each other for it. But what can you do? I felt alright again.
Just in time for a fresh fifteen minute bout of assholicnesss, interrupted very thankfully by a girl in Hawaii on a graduation present from her grandmother who stopped, tipped and said she wished she had more to give, then requested Chasing Cars as her favorite song in the entire world. She swayed along right beside me with a dreamy expression. Then another stretch of asshole with a Japanese boy's ninja tip while I looked the other way and only caught in my peripheral to sustain me before a set of three middle aged musicians came by from their gig around the corner. The woman professed, "I think street performing is really cool." They invited me to jam with them the following week. I might.
Besides the outright assholeness, another wearying behavior particularly prominent in the Japanese passersby was the propensity to gaze into my case, counting the money, for long moments. It's sort of like - What? Too much? Too little? Why do you give a shit? Some surfers requested all my Red Hot Chili Peppers songs and sang along to them excitedly, proclaiming me an iPod. But still, I would have left downtrodden and miserable without the extraordinary kindness of one navyman, shorter than the assholes, who watched me a while from the parapet working up the nerve to enter the tattoo parlor, loved the music, loved my list and sympathized with me before I uttered a word of complaint, having witnessed much of my hardship. He dropped me my second twenty dollar tip and told me to sing anything my Iron & Wine. I sang him all four songs I knew, and then the Death Cab for Cutie song he liked, too. His friends joined him for the first song and as they came up he said, "This guy is working his ass off out her, singing one of the most beautiful songs in the world and doing it really really well." He became my ambassador (though unwanted) calling out and following people with these same words for that half hour. My voice was at it's end but I knew I couldn't finish, so I kept on singing, kept going until he left with a smile and an "I really appreciate it." I thanked him profusely in return. Kept me smiling despite my only tip through the rest of the pitch, a leering military type who stopped shoe touching the case and counted out twenty seven cents, one quarter and two pennies, before looking me in the eye and saying, "That's twenty seven cents. It's all you're worth."
Much of the time he and his friends spent with two hobos with parrots soliciting passersby for photographs, getting photos themselves. This piqued the interest of some darkly muttering Chinese men nearby, who asked them in perfectly good English how much it cost. But in typical arrogant, ignorant American fashion the man they asked spoke loudly and slowly back, "ONLY TIPPY TIPPY KANE KANE." and when the Chinese man returned this treatment with a confused look, sighed and loudly repeated himself slower. Then he asked "Are you guys Japanese or Chinese?" The man responded, "Chinese." So, despite their obvious understanding of this question the parroteer called to his partner, "HEY MAN HELP ME OUT WITH THESE GUYS TELL THEM ABOUT THE DONATIONS AND STUFF." You gotta admire the patience or shake your head at the abuse the Chinese men took. The man in front said, "Yes, how much donation?" before the partner could come by. To which the insolent American obstinately continued his loud speaking-to-foreigner style, "DONATION YES. NO TWO DOLLARS. BIRD WORK HARD VERY HARD." "Two dollars?" "NO TWO DOLLAR!" And they left.
Ah. The wonder of cultural exchange.
Earnings: $30.47 + 0,60 SGD, 3 hours
Song of the Day: Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Waikiki's Delivery Service wouldn't work, Day 1
My trip to Hawaii was marked by a touch of stress - I'd been assured the bus to the airport was a twenty minute affair, but it took over an hour. I made the plane with plenty of time, however. I met a busker/climber on the bus who'd been traveling for seven years. He hailed from Vancouver and described himself as a hobo with the moniker "The wandering caveman." He was everything I don't want to be. I could smell he was a climber the moment he got on the bus, and see he was a bum from his style of dress. He advised me to get more cool stuff to wear to get "street cred" like his dreads, his tshirt from the dumpster, his huge earplugs. He told me he painted his face with tribal designs when he played his didgeridoo and djembe. He recommended Britain to make mad bank. I suppose I learned something of use - I'm really, really not a street performer, but an artist plying the streets. I abhor gimmicks, I'm not a bum, I'm an aristocrat who likes to be clean.
Fallen flowers on UH Manoa campus.
I walked the four miles down from my hostel by campus to Waikiki, past a horrible scar of a golf course and a stinker of a canal in off and on rain. The hostel worker recommended I play in front of the Sheraton or within the Royal Hawaiian shopping center, but on inquiring at these locations I discovered that as I suspected I wouldn't be able to play on private property. This is actually a rather ornery distinction. As I walked up and down Kalakaua avenue I saw many likely spots beneath awnings, but most of the shop owners denied permission to play. I finally found one spot next to the International Marketplace thanks to a nice girl in the surf shop.
Almost instantly a drunk bum eating a bag of doritoes with wide childlike eyes and swaying steps came by and tipped a dollar, biting his hand in enthusiasm and laughing silently. I played an hour or so and my only other tips were single coins: a quarter from white guys who said, "That's good." and dime from three Japanese boys who conferenced about the tip amount very seriously before dropping it with much ceremony into my case. Mostly the store workers and street hawkers and promoters enjoyed my pitch. One of these advised me to return at night. As I left the bum fetched a broken waffle cone from the trash and munched happily away.
So I whiled away a few hours on Waikiki beach, which isn't a bad place to be. Surrounded by young Japanese tourists I decided to make a drawing in the sand they might appreciate.
I set up for another pitch beneath an awning with the workers having swapped and the new ones friendly to my request. Just one verse into the Mario Kart Love Song an old Hawaiian lady stood in front smiling and silent and then started hula dancing softly to the tune. I never noticed how islandy the feel of that song is. I read such joy and good feeling in her eyes, it was a good start. One song later a security guard came to tell me, "You have to be on the other side of the sidewalk to solicit." He obnoxiously stayed right next to me while I picked up my things, acting impatient.
The pitch was once again relatively unsuccessful until a couple on their way to a flight to Vancouver stopped beneath the awning while I played Wonderwall. They requested Hotel California and bid me a very friendly farewell with a "Maybe we'll see you next time we come back, we'd tip you more but we have to catch that flight!" Aside from that request I worked off a short list of songs I'd prepared on the beach. Naturally the overflow of Japanese tourists gave nothing besides weird looks, nor the Americans.
My income more than tripled after one young couple listened in my left peripheral, shyly, for a few songs. The army haircut sporting man came by between songs and shook his head in admiration with "It takes balls to be out here." He dropped me a bill and I courteously didn't look down. I did moments later and saw my first twenty dollar tip. The massage promoter smiled at me when she saw my reaction. A balloon artist nearby reveled with me when I told him about the tip when I packed up a few minutes later. The portrait artist to my right also reaped a large bounty of multiple twenties from Japanese everywhere!
The pitch.
Herd of Japanese tourists in Chinese garb.
Earnings: $26.35, 2 hours
Song of the Day: Mario Kart Love Song - Sam Hart
Fallen flowers on UH Manoa campus.I walked the four miles down from my hostel by campus to Waikiki, past a horrible scar of a golf course and a stinker of a canal in off and on rain. The hostel worker recommended I play in front of the Sheraton or within the Royal Hawaiian shopping center, but on inquiring at these locations I discovered that as I suspected I wouldn't be able to play on private property. This is actually a rather ornery distinction. As I walked up and down Kalakaua avenue I saw many likely spots beneath awnings, but most of the shop owners denied permission to play. I finally found one spot next to the International Marketplace thanks to a nice girl in the surf shop.
Almost instantly a drunk bum eating a bag of doritoes with wide childlike eyes and swaying steps came by and tipped a dollar, biting his hand in enthusiasm and laughing silently. I played an hour or so and my only other tips were single coins: a quarter from white guys who said, "That's good." and dime from three Japanese boys who conferenced about the tip amount very seriously before dropping it with much ceremony into my case. Mostly the store workers and street hawkers and promoters enjoyed my pitch. One of these advised me to return at night. As I left the bum fetched a broken waffle cone from the trash and munched happily away.
So I whiled away a few hours on Waikiki beach, which isn't a bad place to be. Surrounded by young Japanese tourists I decided to make a drawing in the sand they might appreciate.
I set up for another pitch beneath an awning with the workers having swapped and the new ones friendly to my request. Just one verse into the Mario Kart Love Song an old Hawaiian lady stood in front smiling and silent and then started hula dancing softly to the tune. I never noticed how islandy the feel of that song is. I read such joy and good feeling in her eyes, it was a good start. One song later a security guard came to tell me, "You have to be on the other side of the sidewalk to solicit." He obnoxiously stayed right next to me while I picked up my things, acting impatient.
The pitch was once again relatively unsuccessful until a couple on their way to a flight to Vancouver stopped beneath the awning while I played Wonderwall. They requested Hotel California and bid me a very friendly farewell with a "Maybe we'll see you next time we come back, we'd tip you more but we have to catch that flight!" Aside from that request I worked off a short list of songs I'd prepared on the beach. Naturally the overflow of Japanese tourists gave nothing besides weird looks, nor the Americans.
My income more than tripled after one young couple listened in my left peripheral, shyly, for a few songs. The army haircut sporting man came by between songs and shook his head in admiration with "It takes balls to be out here." He dropped me a bill and I courteously didn't look down. I did moments later and saw my first twenty dollar tip. The massage promoter smiled at me when she saw my reaction. A balloon artist nearby reveled with me when I told him about the tip when I packed up a few minutes later. The portrait artist to my right also reaped a large bounty of multiple twenties from Japanese everywhere!
The pitch.
Herd of Japanese tourists in Chinese garb.
Earnings: $26.35, 2 hours
Song of the Day: Mario Kart Love Song - Sam Hart
Sin Moneda en Santa Monica, Day 2
I met up with my host Carl in downtown Santa Monica with a mind to play Venice Beach. With temperatures dropping to a balmy sixty with clouds and wind, people were fled home as if from a storm. Very cute. I hung out with a group of three guitarists jamming out in front of an incredible view of the sunset. Those very clouds created a wonderful, multi-textured canvas for the angled light. I didn't have my camera, but Carl did:
So with the suggestions of those guitarists I went back to Santa Monica to play the 3rd Street Promenade. They had mixed opinions on if I could get away with playing the actual promenade, so I asked the three buskers I saw there. Each sported a large, laminated license with a photo prominently in front. The first I spoke with, a drummer, told me very cynically and defeatedly about the licensing situation. How yes it's unconstitutional, but do you have the money to fight it? Do you think two million dollars would fight it up to the supreme court? He ranted long and bitter - I make sooo much money out here I just choose to wear old clothes, you know I actually have four homes, no five, in... He told me the security was very unkind around there, that on this night I'd probably run into no problems as they needed the entertainment (all the buskers home from the weather), but was it worth the risk of arrest, a $200 fine and a misdemeanor? Obviously, no.
It's pretty incredible they issue a misdemeanor for an exercise of the first amendment. Kevin also pointed out that they'd be even quicker to give it to out-of-towners as I'd have to pay and stick around for the court date and thus provide more city revenue. The second busker, Regina Spektor voiced Clare Means very kindly advised against trying the promenade too. The last, a trumpeter, explained his horrible playing to me in his reaction when I went up to him to ask - he was deaf. Now the draconian policy extends only to the promenade itself, however, so many buskers play around the corner from the street, though these mostly suck (according to Carl). I'd have to try to defeat this preconception. That's a big part of street performing, the initial judgments from associations - homeless hangout, bums nearby, experience with other buskers in the same spot - things I can't really help.
Well, I got nary a tip in the hour. A few songs in, however, a set of two ladies bringing food down the street gave me one of their styrofoam containers full of pasta bolognese. As I said - associations. But hey, I was hungry, so it certainly helped. Most passersby apologized for their lack of money, with generally cheery and non-disdainful expressions. The Asians looked at me suspiciously, but nothing new. Were it not for a chance meeting I'd declare the whole pitch a complete fail.
Near the end of a song I saw Bridget, from my digital photo class two summers ago, approaching down the street. We double taked and chatted a moment while her father returned from around the corner. He'd passed me earlier. They requested Here Comes the Sun, as the father had attempted learning it often. Now that there was a connection, he felt alright saying, "You have a good voice, by the way." Funny how that changes thing, hm? They then rushed off to see their movie after an awkward half second where they decided not to tip.
The food.
That night at Carl's I sang him a couple of covers and an original, singing well after the warmup on the street. The coziness of his modern flat with a fake fire to the left and a shag carpet below me made me very happy.
Earnings: $0.00, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles
So with the suggestions of those guitarists I went back to Santa Monica to play the 3rd Street Promenade. They had mixed opinions on if I could get away with playing the actual promenade, so I asked the three buskers I saw there. Each sported a large, laminated license with a photo prominently in front. The first I spoke with, a drummer, told me very cynically and defeatedly about the licensing situation. How yes it's unconstitutional, but do you have the money to fight it? Do you think two million dollars would fight it up to the supreme court? He ranted long and bitter - I make sooo much money out here I just choose to wear old clothes, you know I actually have four homes, no five, in... He told me the security was very unkind around there, that on this night I'd probably run into no problems as they needed the entertainment (all the buskers home from the weather), but was it worth the risk of arrest, a $200 fine and a misdemeanor? Obviously, no.
It's pretty incredible they issue a misdemeanor for an exercise of the first amendment. Kevin also pointed out that they'd be even quicker to give it to out-of-towners as I'd have to pay and stick around for the court date and thus provide more city revenue. The second busker, Regina Spektor voiced Clare Means very kindly advised against trying the promenade too. The last, a trumpeter, explained his horrible playing to me in his reaction when I went up to him to ask - he was deaf. Now the draconian policy extends only to the promenade itself, however, so many buskers play around the corner from the street, though these mostly suck (according to Carl). I'd have to try to defeat this preconception. That's a big part of street performing, the initial judgments from associations - homeless hangout, bums nearby, experience with other buskers in the same spot - things I can't really help.
Well, I got nary a tip in the hour. A few songs in, however, a set of two ladies bringing food down the street gave me one of their styrofoam containers full of pasta bolognese. As I said - associations. But hey, I was hungry, so it certainly helped. Most passersby apologized for their lack of money, with generally cheery and non-disdainful expressions. The Asians looked at me suspiciously, but nothing new. Were it not for a chance meeting I'd declare the whole pitch a complete fail.
Near the end of a song I saw Bridget, from my digital photo class two summers ago, approaching down the street. We double taked and chatted a moment while her father returned from around the corner. He'd passed me earlier. They requested Here Comes the Sun, as the father had attempted learning it often. Now that there was a connection, he felt alright saying, "You have a good voice, by the way." Funny how that changes thing, hm? They then rushed off to see their movie after an awkward half second where they decided not to tip.
The food.That night at Carl's I sang him a couple of covers and an original, singing well after the warmup on the street. The coziness of his modern flat with a fake fire to the left and a shag carpet below me made me very happy.
Earnings: $0.00, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles
Saturday, March 12, 2011
So Passé en Pasadena, Day 2
Like a glutton for punishment...
I returned to the fabulous acoustic spot in Pasadena for two reasons - to possibly meet up with Adele and to be in a a convenient location to go to the church. Jerry stayed out with me for a good bit of pitch, sitting on the little footer just behind me, making requests every now and again. He spent the time doing readings for his upcoming exam, so with his head down he didn't notice as I did how he also received those horrible distrustful looks. One song he requested was The Blower's Daughter which I'd avoided singing for a long while now due to it's particular significance to me, but now feels alright again. It's a really really depressing tune.
As I write this long after the ire has passed, I can't quite capture the fierceness of my frustration and the intensity of my disgust. I'm not sure if that's a good thing. A few have told me they want this blog to provide an unfiltered view of the highs and the lows. Usually I get over the shitty times - somethings saves it or I choose not to remember or time simply passes. Much of that anger is fresh still, it raged so strong, but this many days later, happy as I currently feel, I don't want to let it out to burn again. So forgive me for omitting.
Characteristically, my only dollar tips came from an Irish couple. Well besides a haughty dangled quarter shoved in my face first before being placed with a sneer but I said I wasn't going to get angry. Towards the end of the pitch a fourteen year old punk rocker busker passed and sang me his original Pasadena People are Stupid song with understandably juvenile lyrics which I sympathized with anyways.
Church saved the day. No pun intended. I took the bus to the Christian Assembly as directed by Jonathan, with an unfriendly bus driver and fellow commuters as company for the ride. The music and joy within, the commitment to see one another, the strength and goodwill flowing back into me as we joined hands or sang or listened to the very apt sermon. He spoke on humility and loving those customers/clients of yours by seeing where those ornery bits are coming from, forgiving them their cruelties. One verse he read and explicated at the end particularly blew my mind - how Jesus did not lower himself to be a servant, but how service is actually the very nature of God. So for me - serve, remain humble, and love those who love me not.
Jonathan treated me to a sandwich from the cafe, where a singer/songwriter, Austin, played a set of excellently rendered covers, including The Blower's Daughter. I'd been requested that song the day previously, too, but hadn't sung it, and somehow it just kept popping up in conversation this day (3.6). I stayed 'til the end of his set and gave a pointer when he asked. And never in my mind did I compare his quality to mine - and so I was able to enjoy the music, as music.
Earnings: $4.33, 2 hours
Song of the Day: Blower's Daughter - Damien Rice
I returned to the fabulous acoustic spot in Pasadena for two reasons - to possibly meet up with Adele and to be in a a convenient location to go to the church. Jerry stayed out with me for a good bit of pitch, sitting on the little footer just behind me, making requests every now and again. He spent the time doing readings for his upcoming exam, so with his head down he didn't notice as I did how he also received those horrible distrustful looks. One song he requested was The Blower's Daughter which I'd avoided singing for a long while now due to it's particular significance to me, but now feels alright again. It's a really really depressing tune.
As I write this long after the ire has passed, I can't quite capture the fierceness of my frustration and the intensity of my disgust. I'm not sure if that's a good thing. A few have told me they want this blog to provide an unfiltered view of the highs and the lows. Usually I get over the shitty times - somethings saves it or I choose not to remember or time simply passes. Much of that anger is fresh still, it raged so strong, but this many days later, happy as I currently feel, I don't want to let it out to burn again. So forgive me for omitting.
Characteristically, my only dollar tips came from an Irish couple. Well besides a haughty dangled quarter shoved in my face first before being placed with a sneer but I said I wasn't going to get angry. Towards the end of the pitch a fourteen year old punk rocker busker passed and sang me his original Pasadena People are Stupid song with understandably juvenile lyrics which I sympathized with anyways.
Church saved the day. No pun intended. I took the bus to the Christian Assembly as directed by Jonathan, with an unfriendly bus driver and fellow commuters as company for the ride. The music and joy within, the commitment to see one another, the strength and goodwill flowing back into me as we joined hands or sang or listened to the very apt sermon. He spoke on humility and loving those customers/clients of yours by seeing where those ornery bits are coming from, forgiving them their cruelties. One verse he read and explicated at the end particularly blew my mind - how Jesus did not lower himself to be a servant, but how service is actually the very nature of God. So for me - serve, remain humble, and love those who love me not.
Jonathan treated me to a sandwich from the cafe, where a singer/songwriter, Austin, played a set of excellently rendered covers, including The Blower's Daughter. I'd been requested that song the day previously, too, but hadn't sung it, and somehow it just kept popping up in conversation this day (3.6). I stayed 'til the end of his set and gave a pointer when he asked. And never in my mind did I compare his quality to mine - and so I was able to enjoy the music, as music.
Earnings: $4.33, 2 hours
Song of the Day: Blower's Daughter - Damien Rice
Thursday, March 10, 2011
So Passé en Pasadena, Day 1
Jerry figured Pasadena Old Town might be a bit better, seeing as Palisades Park isn't heavily trafficked and is the de facto home for the homeless (does that make them not homeless?. Roofless. As we drove down the main drag I rejoiced; it looked perfect! People strolling, wide sidewalks, slow car traffic down the middle, shops everywhere, little alcoves for good acoustics. The only thing I worried about was the names of the stores. Rather than South Congress in Austin's New Bohemia, the stores bore names like Abercrombie & Fitch, American Apparel, Apple Store, H & M. These do not usually entertain generous patrons.
Which defined the pitches. I played somewhere around an hour to the tune of $1.15. The fifteen cents came from a man in a Hawaii shirt who bounced delightedly along for three or four songs as his torn jeans daughter and aviator sunglasses wife roamed the Abercrombie I played in front of. His expression sort of spoke "Dance, minority, dance." It made me feel like I was on a minstrel show. And that fifteen cents. Seriously. He counted it out. Fifteen cents. That's how people are out there. Disgusting. I originally intended to expound on their attitudes but I think there's been enough negativity in the blog recently. So just know they're the worst kind of people you'll ever meet; the reason I never want to visit Los Angeles again unless I'm passing through LAX, and the reason I never want to become rich. What if my kids end up like that?
My only other tip from the first go came from a group of barefoot youngsters being young, doing handstands, laughing - like hippies in the best most positive way. They dug my song list, requested three songs, took photos, tried my honey water and liked it, sat behind me to listen etc. A little dash of life in a soul-less place. Naturally they earned us more disapproving glances. That kind of sharp head turn with slitted eyes and a "Get in line, what has the world come to." just as we smile back at them and wonder the same thing.
The day passed strangely, with these dottings of positivity strewn among long moments of blight. After my increasingly depressing stint I spoke with a sympathetic man with a prosthetic arm who seemed to be documenting the street life. He interviewed me, asked me to sing Hallelujah for him to film after we walked to my new pitch - a brilliant acoustic gem of a defunct theatre front vacated by a street poet, and tipped me five dollars. I'll let his excellent footage describe our interaction more. Know also that a Chinese woman lingered in front of the ice cream store to the right emotionally (but ungenerously :) ) the entire song.
He bid me farewell and I played a moderately better pitch what with the ethereal acoustics to stop people in their tracks. I exploited them to the fullest, channeling frustration into my slower, more mournful tunes to almost instant effect. A middle aged Chinese woman stopped her brother during Scarborough Fair, tipped a dollar, and demurred from making a request. I sang them Gotta Have You as the first thing that came to mind. She quietly and kindly told me she loved how the acoustics worked with my voice, bowing in a slight particularly Chinese way and a nostalgic smile before leading her silent and antsy brother on. I feel like I helped her remember something beautiful.
With only a few smiles or remotely positive reactions from the appallingly stereotypical So Cal-ers - faces so obviously painted on, dark dark sunglasses, draped midriff and shoulder baring shirts and short shorts, permanent frowns filled with haughty entitled disdain, arms cocked at the elbow to support massive shopping bags sporting photographs of shirtless muscled men, anorexically thin, stilettos - I needed the unusually positive interactions I got. A young man of eighteen, Jonathan, offered me a bottle of water and then requested and sang Mario Kart Love Song with me. He invited me to his church the next day, offering to treat me to dinner afterwards. He gave me instructions and a bit of a break, but most importantly the strength to go on.
Near the end of my pitch a rich black couple wanted a photograph and procured one from a couple of hipstery girls standing nearby. The girls asked if the couple wanted me in the photo and they said yes (note, they never asked me about it). This stop, however, got them to listen to what I sang. While the couple moved along hastily, the two girls chatted brightly with me about the song - Trapeze Swinger. I sang it again with them. One girl knew more lyrics than the other, maybe 10% of them (it's a looong song), but harmonized very prettily over the recurring "remember me"s.
As if to remind me of the passersby prevailing opinion, however, just before I packed up a dirty man who seemed not too poor to clean up but too rich and lazy chucked a single quarter at the back of the case with a odious dark look on his face. I'm grateful for the young, and for the hope that remains in them.
Another mix of video from the same guy.
Earnings: $10.65, 2.5 hours
Song of the Day: Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
Which defined the pitches. I played somewhere around an hour to the tune of $1.15. The fifteen cents came from a man in a Hawaii shirt who bounced delightedly along for three or four songs as his torn jeans daughter and aviator sunglasses wife roamed the Abercrombie I played in front of. His expression sort of spoke "Dance, minority, dance." It made me feel like I was on a minstrel show. And that fifteen cents. Seriously. He counted it out. Fifteen cents. That's how people are out there. Disgusting. I originally intended to expound on their attitudes but I think there's been enough negativity in the blog recently. So just know they're the worst kind of people you'll ever meet; the reason I never want to visit Los Angeles again unless I'm passing through LAX, and the reason I never want to become rich. What if my kids end up like that?
My only other tip from the first go came from a group of barefoot youngsters being young, doing handstands, laughing - like hippies in the best most positive way. They dug my song list, requested three songs, took photos, tried my honey water and liked it, sat behind me to listen etc. A little dash of life in a soul-less place. Naturally they earned us more disapproving glances. That kind of sharp head turn with slitted eyes and a "Get in line, what has the world come to." just as we smile back at them and wonder the same thing.
The day passed strangely, with these dottings of positivity strewn among long moments of blight. After my increasingly depressing stint I spoke with a sympathetic man with a prosthetic arm who seemed to be documenting the street life. He interviewed me, asked me to sing Hallelujah for him to film after we walked to my new pitch - a brilliant acoustic gem of a defunct theatre front vacated by a street poet, and tipped me five dollars. I'll let his excellent footage describe our interaction more. Know also that a Chinese woman lingered in front of the ice cream store to the right emotionally (but ungenerously :) ) the entire song.
He bid me farewell and I played a moderately better pitch what with the ethereal acoustics to stop people in their tracks. I exploited them to the fullest, channeling frustration into my slower, more mournful tunes to almost instant effect. A middle aged Chinese woman stopped her brother during Scarborough Fair, tipped a dollar, and demurred from making a request. I sang them Gotta Have You as the first thing that came to mind. She quietly and kindly told me she loved how the acoustics worked with my voice, bowing in a slight particularly Chinese way and a nostalgic smile before leading her silent and antsy brother on. I feel like I helped her remember something beautiful.
With only a few smiles or remotely positive reactions from the appallingly stereotypical So Cal-ers - faces so obviously painted on, dark dark sunglasses, draped midriff and shoulder baring shirts and short shorts, permanent frowns filled with haughty entitled disdain, arms cocked at the elbow to support massive shopping bags sporting photographs of shirtless muscled men, anorexically thin, stilettos - I needed the unusually positive interactions I got. A young man of eighteen, Jonathan, offered me a bottle of water and then requested and sang Mario Kart Love Song with me. He invited me to his church the next day, offering to treat me to dinner afterwards. He gave me instructions and a bit of a break, but most importantly the strength to go on.
Near the end of my pitch a rich black couple wanted a photograph and procured one from a couple of hipstery girls standing nearby. The girls asked if the couple wanted me in the photo and they said yes (note, they never asked me about it). This stop, however, got them to listen to what I sang. While the couple moved along hastily, the two girls chatted brightly with me about the song - Trapeze Swinger. I sang it again with them. One girl knew more lyrics than the other, maybe 10% of them (it's a looong song), but harmonized very prettily over the recurring "remember me"s.
As if to remind me of the passersby prevailing opinion, however, just before I packed up a dirty man who seemed not too poor to clean up but too rich and lazy chucked a single quarter at the back of the case with a odious dark look on his face. I'm grateful for the young, and for the hope that remains in them.
Another mix of video from the same guy.
Earnings: $10.65, 2.5 hours
Song of the Day: Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
Sin Moneda en Santa Monica, Day 1
A road that looks like money.
Ah smog.
I had very high hopes for Santa Monica. Buskersadvocates.org touted a lively scene and friendly locals. The information must be quite out of date. Jerry drove me over and went off to study in the Santa Monica library and I checked out the scene in Palisades Park, a little strip of green just before the cliff before the beach before the sea. Jerry's roommate alerted me that the Promenade and Boardwalk both required licenses, which I confirmed with a call to the city with a number from the Visitor Center. With this in mind I set up on a bench at the best possible place in the little park, across from that Visitor Center at a bottle neck where the tour busses dropped off and picked up.
And received almost nothing. Santa Monica's population boasts a inordinately high proportion of Asians, and the tourists, too are chiefly Asian (Chinese). They don't tip. The younger ones in their nice kicks and gelled hair and porcelain hide from the sun skin gave confused looks, the older ones put as much scorn into their eyes as possible. I think throughout the entire pitch only one group of young white people spoke anything remotely encouraging. And I think I sang alright.
Three of my tips came silently. The first of these, naturally came from a homeless man who shuffled over and slowly counted out the coins he dropped into my case one with his thumb in a shaking hand, thinking over each dear bit of metal as he considered just how much he could give me. 89 cents. I think I've alluded to the parable of the poor woman and her two coppers many times, but oh how that rings true in Los Angeles. Here a destitute man in rags permanently hunched from the suspicious and hateful looks of the rich passersby bequeaths me a large part of his entire livelihood, while high schoolers who are wearing 890 dollars pass by and laugh with each other on seeing me like I'm some monkey like joke.
A very shy woman with dyed red hair took half of Somewhere Over the Rainbow to work up the nerve to tip me, most likely feeling the sharp stinging stares of disapproval emanating from every other passersby. The first notes shook her and the first verse stopped her. She trembled as she passed the dollar but looked in my eyes only a moment. My last tip went similarly, from an elderly couple performing the same hesitant motions and quick birdlike peck of a tip without an upward glance for In My Life. But they stayed for the whole song and tipped me another dollar at the end.
Now the most telling interaction happened just before this couple passed me. A middle aged woman who'd passed me heading south an hour before asked me "Rough Day?" in a mildly sarcastic tone as she passed again heading back, again with a silent college aged Asian (Korean?) boy in tow. Naturally she noticed how the contents of my case looked identical. The rich never fail to look down and find disapproval with the amount. I answered honestly and after some banter where she found out some about me she decided to tip me, though I can't really call it a tip. She took out some money from her purse, a bunch of twenties and some ones and said sharply, "I'm not going to give you twenty dollars." with a decrying laugh as if I wanted to take it from her, and counted out three ones. Now I can't really dislike her as she actually gave me money - I must be grateful, no? But everything about her attitude... ugh it made me absolutely despise the hubris of wealth. "Here I am being so good and benevolent and kind and I want you to know it, yes really know how much it's costing me and how much pity I have for you, you lower class rabble and your lazy hanging out with the homeless ways and I know this because I have money and I know everything I dont question how I came into this wealth because I deserve it, in fact I'm entitled to it and no you're not getting any of it but here, here's three dollars and you be damn grateful."
I took it. Am I grateful?
Earnings: $6.89, 1.8 hours
Song of the Day: In My Life - The Beatles
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