Me vs. the "Chelsea Blues Man" (douchebag)

It's common knowledge -- if you're a busker -- that if someone's playing in a station, you don't play on the platform across from them. Busking is a first-come, first-served kinda thing. Plus, it's about being fair to the other dude; if two buskers duke it out in the same station, neither of their individual musical talents will be distinguishable in the resulting melange. Come on, it's noisy enough down there already. Trains, bums, people inexplicably using payphones. If I had been ballsy enough to share stations with another busker, I would have successfully screwed both myself and the other guy every time I did it. Most buskers follow the Code and don't do this.

Enter El Douche-o, otherwise known as that electric guitarist who plays outside at 23rd and 7th every freaking day of the year. I admire him all right. He's pretty good, and stalwart at that. But for the love of God, how can an acoustic guitar possibly compete with a sweaty, overplayed Fender blastocaster and its veritable black hole of an amp? (Are black holes noisy?) Douchebag.

I'd been rockin' out in the station for about an hour, you know me, Mr. Cool, and all of a sudden I see this audacious freak across the tracks messing with his amp like he owns the joint. And not without reason! This guy gets write-ups in the local (Chelsea) papers all the time! "Bluesman of Chelsea!" "Clapton's less attractive, bummy counterpart!" "Douchebag that Rob now hates!" All these things are true. Well, the first one's the only one I have proof of, but the printers said they're getting back to me on my headline suggestions. Douchebag.

What started out as a sincerely exciting, lucrative set ended up as the most competitive situation I've been in since FOR-EVER. I raised my voice as loud as it could go, bursting countless capillaries; I banged away on Emmylou like she was Judas Iscariot, practically peeling planks away with my pick; I channeled hurricane-like gusts into my harmonica, releasing raping rains upon its reeds. Douchebag.

This succeeded in making me look crazy. It did not boot the douchebag from his spot. I for one think it did annoy him, though. After about an hour, he'd apparently fretted enough over the messy musique concrete we were creating, and hit the road. I ended up doing all right money-wise, though I should really just walk up to this dude next time I see him in "the Nook" and ask for a cut of his money. Douchebag.

On a less I'm-gonna-force-feed-someone-to-death note, my girlfriend recently got me a turntable -- something I've been without for (shudder) a year and a half. I flipped. Records were once my big thing...I've amoeba-ized a few collections here and there, and I've now got around 300 or so. I've acquired so many records since my busted Miracord was put into storage, and the day hasn't enough hours for me to go through all of them. This afternoon I was listening to Stephen Stills' first solo album and got hooked on "Love the One You're With," which meant I needed to learn it quick before I hit the station. I don't know if it's well-known, but I made a pretty penny off of playing it. Maybe it's just my insightful, inspired rendition. Anyway...thanks, Leslie.

A kid (10-12 years old, I reckon) ran up to me sometime after my turf war had resolved and tossed me a coin, and as usual I made sure to give him a, "hey, thanks, man." But when he turned around, he had a pony tail and was very obviously a girl. Sooooo, the moral of the story is, I suck.

Douchebag.