I have returned to the internet after what feels like ages.
One might think that this means I have oodles of yarns to spin on this blog.
Unfortunately, I don't.
I'm currently in a cosmically-significant production of The Full Monty at the Studio Playhouse in Upper Montclair, NJ, so my time hasn't been flowing quite as bountifully as my unemployed self is accustomed to. Come check out the show here. It's going to be a crazy good time. I mean, just look at the above photo. Any time people make that pose, you know your mind is about to be irreversibly blown. And besides: I know all you people who read my blog/see me playing in subway stations really just want to see what I got goin' on beneath my clothes. Now's your chance!
Oh, right. Busking. Let's see...I went out about three nights ago around midnight. Yeah, pretty late. But I was in the right mod for it, and had reconciled myself to the reality of not making a whole lot of money. It's interesting who you see late at night. I actually got quite an audience at the 23rd St Station. Not a large one, just an attentive one. Late at night I usually do all originals since I don't have to be as loud (I write a lot of fingerpicking type stuff that gets drowned out during busier hours), and the small group of tired commuters I found that night seemed to genuinely enjoy themselves. Sometimes I really have no clue if what I write works at all...sometimes all it takes is me finding enjoyment in playing the song, and that being strangely translated as talent to passersby. I don't know. This stuff is all a delightful mystery to me.
I almost had to go all Dirty Harry on a guy, though. Some bastard that works in the MTA booth barged out after I'd been playing for at least half an hour, to inform me that if I didn't have a permit, I'd have to high-tail it outta there. Now let me be clear about something. I've only ever had one run-in with the cops. It was fine; I just said I'd go home, then went right back to busking (in another station). Anyone who cares to thumb through these archives can remind me of when that was...I think June maybe. Anyhow, that was during rush hour, so I was not, at least, surprised that the confrontation occurred.
This was at 2:00 am. Two friggin' am! Who did this guy think he was? The only people in the station were me, a sleeping bum, and somebody's legs I could see from around the corner where they were sitting on a bench. I was basically playing for myself! Didn't matter to this Eisenstein. He threatened me with a call to the coppers. I stood up to this douche and told him that what I was doing was perfectly legal (again, this is true), and that he could call in the Navy SEALS for all I cared. Sure enough, he called. And, sure enough, no one came. Just as I suspected. What cop is going to make a pit stop at some god-forsaken MTA station to boot out a red-haired kid who's quietly plucking his guitar, lulling some poor homeless guy into a sleep that may result in an untimely yet inevitable death? NOBODY.
I still wished the MTA worker a good night when I left. What can I say? I didn't have any hand grenades on me.
