I Am Revived!

The ladies who gave me food Saturday Afternoon, also invited me to go to the revival at 10:30 a.m., the following day. I told them that, if I woke up "like at 10:20," I would strongly consider going. I try to heed the significance of coincidences such as that. Of course, setting my alarm clock would take the magic out of it.

I woke up at 10:10 a.m. and I really didn't feel like going. I didn't believe that it would do me any good and I realised that, since I didn't believe that it would do me any good, it probably wouldn't. I also dreaded facing the ushers, one of whom I almost punched in the face last year, after he grabbed me in an attempt to impede me from going down the center isle, where the TV cameras were focused. This, I interpreted to mean that they didn't want my scraggly, guitar carrying ass to be seen by their million viewers worldwide, who tune in online, so that they can be in the (cyber) presence of the Holy Spirit.

I was drunk, and I squared off to hit him, but I think his guardian angel blocked the punch, I'm not sure... 

I had slept at the railroad track spot, where I hadn't slept in months, so as to be in the vicinity of The Mobile Convention Center. I did this to make my decision that much easier, along with packing an energy drink to help motivate me.

I decided to go.

The ladies had been nice to me and asked me to attend in a way that didn't make me feel pressured. Plus, that was the day that my food card was to be recharged, after an almost two month hiatus, and the ladies had used a food card to feed me the day before. They also had mentioned a bible verse about taking the example of ants and not being slothful. The ants had woken me up, there at the railroad track spot, and that was enough of a sign.

...All the way down into the basement....

I walked into the place, having to climb to the second level in order to find one of the dozens of doors which was open. I encountered a uniformed lady, whom I asked: "Which way is God?"

She directed me to an escalator, which I rode down into the cavernous basement. I could hear the booming reverberations of music, and I couldn't stop myself from analysing it for key and time signature. It was simple music, but I wasn't faulting it for that quality, like I had last year.

To make a long story short, I made an effort to suspend my cynicism, especially when the jumbo-tron bore an announcement about how tithing by check has become even easier than ever. I tried to capture a picture of that billboard, but just as I snapped the camera, the image changed to the preacher shown at the top. There was something cosmic about that.

I fought back more cynicism when, after a substantial talk about what tithing is all about and what it can do for "you," we were instructed to stand and hold our tithes in our hands, which we were told to raise over our heads. Then the Pastor, who seemed to be very much revered by all, actually prayed things like that we would find money laying on the ground, and that we would get promotions and better jobs and we would come up with witty ideas and inventions, among other very concrete supplications.

Faith Like A Molecule In A Mustard Seed

The prayer caught my attention, especially the parts about finding money on the ground (who else in there walks around all day with his head down, looking for half smoked cigarettes and money on the ground?), and the part about coming up with witty ideas and inventions (I am in the business of inventing, often witty -at least to me- songs).

He mentioned 10 percent as being an appropriate tithe. I did some math, and realized that in order to align myself with the program, I would have to come off of about $1.50, because of the 15 bucks I had made the night before. That seemed like an awful lot, despite the preacher's telling us that we were only giving it back to God; that He was the one who gave it to us in the first place; and don't think otherwise!

I decided to turn cheapskate and put 55 cents in my hand and raised it over my head, in order to receive half a blessing, kind of like a trial offer. I rationalised this away, contending that I pretty much have faith like a molecule in a mustard seed, what can I say?

The ushers couldn't have been nicer to me. I know that they remembered me. The one who got a chair for me and placed it next to the ladies who had invited me, said: "Daniel..." The ladies must have talked to them about me. I understood how forgiving really works. They were so nice, that I really felt like a heel for having come in drunk the year before with my mind already made up that it was a crock of you-know-what, and almost punching one of the well dressed, clean-cut ushers. I felt extremely penitent and like I had a broken spirit.

The preaching was not bad at all, talked about the difference in the attitude of David, who could be king, from the attitude of some other guy whom I forget, but who had said something like "I DID listen to the Lord and follow His leading," but then blamed the people for something, and then wanted to enter the temple with some important figure, so that he could be honored. It was from the book of Samuel, and the guy really made a lot of sense, and he wasn't afraid to go into depth on the subject of pornography, for example, which is something that other preachers seem to not want to be pretentious enough to assume could be a stumbling block for anyone in their church -other churches...probably....

The guy did a good job, and covered a lot of bases. When I stepped out for a cigarette, his voice got louder, in fact he began to shout; so that I could still hear every word. If he had changed subjects to the evil of tobacco, then I would have known that the whole gathering was set up just to address me; Daniel.

After the blessing of the tithe, and before we all approached baskets, which had uncanny resemblances to the kind of cases that some of the street musicians use, one of the ladies handed me one of her dollars, so that I would have something to put in the tip jar, er, basket (she didn't know about the 55 cents) making my tithe $1.55, or about exactly what it should have been. *twilight zone theme plays*

Somewhere along the way, I ran into
Gerald, the guy who carries everything
he owns in a huge bag, like a poor man's
Santa Clause, in Cathedral Park. 

The Bike And The Food Card
My immediate order of business after leaving and walking down Water Street with incredible musical ideas ringing in my head (I could have blown their guitarist off the stage) was to check and see if my food card was credited with the 200 bucks, which could turn New Orleans from a hell, to a hell with food. I also needed to make the odyssey to get the bike, which I had thrown in the tall grass at the far end of the rail yard, some two miles out of town.
More Shenanigans From The Man With The Hat
A stop at the Exxon enlightened me to the fact that I wasn't "supposed to be in here," told to me by one of the cashiers who could give me no explanation for why I wasn't supposed to be in here, except to say that her manager had told her so.
The man with the hat has struck again, I think.
He has embarked on a crusade to run me out of town, because it is his opinion that, only through my lawyer's maneuverings did I escape being convicted of possession of under-aged pornography, and that I am a sick individual that should not be allowed to buy or sell in Mobile.
My friend, Sajid, at The Dauphine Market told me that the man with the hat visited him and said that he would no longer do business with The Dauphine Market should they continue to allow me into their store. Sajid's friendship was stronger than his desire to retain the business of the man with the hat, and I have not been barred from there.

We formulated the opinion; Sajid and I; that Mr. Ron Pope Jr., as that is his name (and is a lot easier to type than the above) is on a "smear campaign" against me. Since Sajid is of a religion which believes in an eye for an eye etc., he admonished me for not "fighting back," saying that what Mr. Pope, Jr. is doing is "unjust."

Naked Children Eat Free

Some ideas that we kicked around were: #1. Having my brother and his associates, the next time their business takes them into the area, visit Buscaba's Thai Restaurant, and then leave complaining about stomach pain, calling ambulances and making sure that the local paper, which Mr. Pope seems to take as gospel, prints a story with the headline of "Food Poisoning Incident," or words to that effect. That was my idea.

Sajid thinks that I should go to the police, who could talk to the business owners who are barring me, and maybe get more of an answer out of them than "Because we don't like him."

They could possibly be subpoenaed to testify about just what Mr. Pope Jr. told them, and if such statements turned out to be slanderous, then Mr. Pope Jr. might have to sleep on the floor of the Metro Jail, next to a bunch of homeless guys whom he helped put there by calling the law on them after seeing them emerge from The Dauphine Market and saunter into Bienville Park with their goods. This has been a hobby of Mr. Pope's, who also has "Don't give to the local beggars" posters in his front window.

This Morning, I came up with idea  #3: I could print out a picture of a family on a clothing optional beach from nudismprovider.com, for example; affix the Busaba's restaurant logo in the corner of it, and include the text: "Naked Children Eat Free," then tape them to the restaurant's windows late at night, next to the beggar posters; then hide somewhere to videotape his reaction, for fun.

The Trek To Get The Bike

Then, that evening, after getting someone else to go into the Exxon and get me two cans of beer, I set off down the tracks to get my bike from where I had thrown it from the train.

It was a long walk.

I had stashed my backpack in the holly bushes and was carrying my guitar. It took me a full 45 minutes to get to the bike. As soon as I started pushing the bike, my guitar strap began to unlock and I had to catch my already damaged guitar before it fell. I got to the narrow bridge, wide enough for only two tracks, and was half way across it when a train came barrelling down upon me. Of course a train came.

I had to squint into the oncoming headlight to determine which of the two tracks it was on and then, get over onto the other track, being ready to catch the guitar if the strap let go for the tenth time.

I picked the right track and was out of the trains path with about 10 seconds to spare. The engineer gave his horn a short burst, as if to say "Get out of the way." No shit, I think I will.

Then, a vehicle rode past me as I stumbled over the gravel, wondering if my sneakers were going to survive the night. I turned around and stopped in front of me. Soon, I was face to face with a hale and hearty man of about 50, who was about six foot five and stood erect in front of me. He said "We're going to turn around and go that way," pointing in the opposite direction of my progress. "You're trespassing, I've already notified the law."

I then explained as much as I could about getting the bike and how I was trying to get back to Mobile and knew no other way out of the yard.

He directed me to a hard pan road and told me to take that to get back to Mobile. He said that, if I was to continue the way I was going, I would have to walk in between cars, and that he said he had trains coming in soon and it would be dangerous for me, especially carrying a guitar and pushing a bike with flat tires. "I don't want to see you get hurt, that's all."

Maybe it was because of my honesty in telling him that I was new to the whole train hopping experience, and the gratitude that I showed after he pointed me in the safer direction; or maybe I had been blessed at the revival, I don't know, but, he soon pulled up aside me and offered me a ride. We put the bike in the back of the SUV and headed for the Exxon.

He told me a few stories of unlucky people who had tried to hop on moving trains and "slipped." He then beseech ed me not to ever try to hop on a moving train. He asked me where I was from.

"Massachusetts...I'm a Yankee, I'm afraid," I said.

"Nothing wrong with that, I'm from Pittsburg," he said. I told him that I had met about 5 people in my life from Pittsburg and that they were all nice folk.

He let me out at the Exxon, pulled out some money and handed me 10 dollars, then cautioned me about the Exxon station, telling me not to "flash" the 10 dollars there.

"Good luck," he said "and remember..."

"I know, no moving trains!" I said, and he drove off, smiling.

It was like finding money on the ground, sorta...

Food For Kooky

That about brings this journal up to date. The rest of the time has been spent on this journal. Sometimes I think I could spend 15 hours writing about the other hour that I'm awake each day..

The food card had the 200 bucks on it this morning, much to my relief. I guess they never tried to verify my mailing address, which is good because I've tormented the Knightons enough with mail and swat teams...
I immediately thought about Sue, and how her card ran out and she is down in New Orleans, unemployed and with a cat to feed.
I bought Kooky some baby food, turkey and gravy flavor. Kooky eats baby food, not cat food. There is something Freudian or Skinner-ian there, I suspect. I took a picture of myself holding the food and e-mailed it to Sue as the first step in the long journey to her forgiveness of me for the reckless endangerment of her baby, er, cat.