Call me Piecemeal.

Emmylou's back from repairs! And she sounds freaking awesome. I bought a humidifier to make sure she doesn't get all wonky again. Apparently humidifiers are pretty standard for acoustics in the winter when heat is on. Whodathunk? Well, now that that's taken care of, I can move on to other things on my "to pay for" list. Loans, rent, food. Ah, the day-to-day life of a wandering soul.

I've been trying to learn the sea shanty "Blow Ye Winds in the Morning," which has got to be one of my all-time favorite songs. Thing is, it's got about 19 verses (probably more hiding somewhere, as it's a song that got tossed around from ship to ship, changing just like any good folk song). That's a mite more than I'm used to, even after memorizing my fair share of Dylan tunes. It doesn't help that in the 1800s, sailors didn't seem to care much for rhyme scheme. I'm confident I can do it; this busker at Mystic Seaport knew all of it. There's hope.

Pretty epic set tonight. I don't think I repeated anything except for "thank you." About 54 times. 'Cos I got 54 donations tonight! Awwww yeeeeeah. Next stop, Carnegie Hall. The lobby.

Some creepy fella hustled over to me as a train pulled in and handed me a pen, informing me it was to be my "lucky pen." I awkwardly smiled, nodded, and cupped myself in fear. On the walk home, I realized that this thing really is going to be my lucky pen. It's double-sided! I haven't checked if there's ink in either side, but c'mon! I can sign two recording contracts at once! Autograph two headshots at once! Sign two living wills at once! Okay, that's less fun. But with this pen, I'd find a way to make it memorable.

(Apparently this racist old political cartoon suggests that the Irish and African Americans are equally dumb and worthless or something. Just to be clear, I don't feel this way. I just think it's funny looking and cool in that 'old' way. Don't be mad. I am part Irish, actually. And I like African Americans. We're cool, right?)

You oughta be a fool about me

Emmylou has gone into repairs, at long last. I had an audition today that required guitar playing, and afterwards I realized how much it sucks to not be able to play anything on the first five frets. So I took 'er straight to good ole Rudy's music repairs. In addition to her bad frets needing to be fixed long ago, it turns out I should have been humidifying her during "this time of year." Who knew? I never heard of that. Then again, up until two days ago, I thought Special K was just the name of a cereal.

She should be done next Monday. This seemed reasonable to me in the repair shop, and I gladly handed her over and took the subway home. Thing is, home really isn't home without my guitar. I live in a tiny apartment where I can see everything I own from any vantage point. But now there's a vacuous space where she normally is, and I had to drape a blanket over my guitar stand so as to not get irrationally glum.

It doesn't help that I was working on a handful of songs over the weekend, one of which I'd like to finish and play for someone soon. Then again, I've always got this wicked hot 90's Casio keyboard that has some pretty slick preprogrammed arpeggiated melodies. That's romantic, right? Oh, I have egg shakers, too. If that ain't a recipe for a masterpiece, I don't want to know what is.

The Secret...

First, it began with my friend Jason talking about it all the time. Then people in my improv class began citing it. Then Larry King, debatable sultan of tv interviewing, had to go and make it officially buzzworthy. The Secret. The Law of Attraction. And now I've gone and brought it to thousands of people by writing about it on my world-renowned blog (that I haven't updated in a month). I am but a cog in the penny-pressing touristy machine of the Secret.

Anyway, I decided to try it out last night when I busked. Hey, I need money. So I willed money to come flyin' at me. The only thing is, this doesn't work if every patron of the subway woke up this particular morning, kissed their lip-worn copy of the Secret, and willed their money to stay in their pockets, wallets, jars, or even that little hollowed out window sill they think no one knows about. That screws up the whole system! There I was, attracting money from all over the place, while the same money felt obligated to remain where it was. Well, that doesn't help me. Especially if they don't bring the window sill into the subway station.

My guitar is in serious need of repair. I can't play anything lower than the fifth fret without getting a horrible, Harry Partchian buzz from the strings because all the frets have practically melted away. And I can't get ole Emmylou repaired until somebody gives me money. And I can't get money from busking unless people will their money to go where it pleases! Damn you, Secret! Why can't people get back into Ishmael or something? Actually, I don't know if that book champions the donation of money, but I can't think of anything better. A Christmas Carol? Wait, everyone go see Wallace Shawn in The Fever! Then again, in that play, he just points out that the affluence/poverty scales seem hopelessly tipped...

Okay, just go see Zodiac, because it's pretty good.

Latest busking song: "Jokerman" by Dylan.