I hit the platform at 7:13p. I made it a point to note the time. I had a stressful day and I was about to shake it. I programmed myself to start out slow build in slowely. I strummed easily with light crescendos and very soft and low volume warm up vocals. Before I knew it, 2 NYPD strolled apathetically from the opposite end of the platform. I felt timid . I watched the male cop lift his untied shoestring to the wooden bench failing 2 or 3 times like a 3 year old. I laughed inside. They cornered me. The vertically challenged male spoke softly and politely. He told me it was illegal to play music on the platform asked me to leave. I began packing up and challenged the official. He defended his request blaming it on his boss. I asked for his business card with his badge number. He politely replied “I don’t have one, but I’ll write…..” I tuned him out. What an ass hole to hassle me. I knew I was abiding the law, with the exception of my special Tropicana surprise.
I caught the next train back to Manhattan. I couldn’t decide if I would challenge them further by coming back in 20 minutes. As the train pulled out, I notice the NYPD pair walking the opposite direction. I barely made eye contact whit them. They were definitely checking up to see if I left.
I tried the 14th St Station. I was so angry; I couldn’t recover from the dissapointment. I ran into another musician. Gonzalo. gonzalosilva.com was written on his little flyers. I waited for a break in his set and pleaded my case. He told me about both of his jail experiences, the latter being shorter because he was “already in the system.” He then told me that the law allows me to play so long as it is not amplified. However, if a particular officer wants to challenge me, he/she will likely win. They can give me a summons, which will likely be thrown out, but could result in numerous time consuming visits to the court house.
Whatever.
I made $0.00 dollars.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Day 8 marks one week
Last night marked one week at the L-Train platform. It felt uneventful. I sorta thought it was a wasted effort. Saturday went so well; I was nervous and anxious prior to my arrival. Waking up this morning I realized that reading the energy of the people around me needs to be part of the nightly exercise. I need to be able to choose the right song and mood like a perfectly tailored suit for an audience. I pulled it off on Saturday. That night, there were times when my soul was hovering over my body acting like an orchestra conductor. I have plenty of songs ranging in moods. Now I need to learn how they work with different crowds.
I played a little over an hour. 7:30 ish to 8:30 ish. I just counted $3.65 over my $11 float. I’m reasonably certain that three dollars came from one mother who gave her son money to put in my case. I leave the hard case open right next to the surveillance booth and I face away from it. Early in the evening, I this kid caught the corner of my eye and after he ran off I noticed more then a couple of bucks more than I started with. I was about to break from singing but suddenly felt an obligation. The kid may have thought I was a human jukebox. I played Welcome To My Song. The end of the song brought the train and the mother and son were on their way.
I played a little over an hour. 7:30 ish to 8:30 ish. I just counted $3.65 over my $11 float. I’m reasonably certain that three dollars came from one mother who gave her son money to put in my case. I leave the hard case open right next to the surveillance booth and I face away from it. Early in the evening, I this kid caught the corner of my eye and after he ran off I noticed more then a couple of bucks more than I started with. I was about to break from singing but suddenly felt an obligation. The kid may have thought I was a human jukebox. I played Welcome To My Song. The end of the song brought the train and the mother and son were on their way.
DAY 6 (a pay off)
Last night I stepped onto the L-Train Platform after10pm. Compared to all my visits over the past week, it felt like a completely different stop all together. It was Saturday Night on another planet. I believe I was in the middle of the pre-party crowd. A guard occupied the shack. His back is to my performance spot. I strapped on my guitar and began to strum. My improvisation began to evolve into Building A Mountain. I felt the positive energy from the small crowd. I came natural to recycle it. My right hand took control. I felt like I was watching someone else play my guitar. It felt good. It was apparent that a steady week of 2 hour consecutive performances was paying off. I used to space of the station to assist in the dramatic dynamics of my song. When I looked up after a short zone out, everyone in the station seemed like one.
Somehow, I was on a roll. It was as if I was taking requests. Penelope Claire pulled in a dollar. There was a couple guys that grinned and knoded. It’s so nice to be appreciated. There was a girl too. She seemed impressed and inspired. She was reluctant to approach, but finally made her way to my guitar case and reached in for my promotional card.
I made $5.95.
Somehow, I was on a roll. It was as if I was taking requests. Penelope Claire pulled in a dollar. There was a couple guys that grinned and knoded. It’s so nice to be appreciated. There was a girl too. She seemed impressed and inspired. She was reluctant to approach, but finally made her way to my guitar case and reached in for my promotional card.
I made $5.95.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
DAY 5 (The Confrontation)
I couldn’t wait to get back to the station after my night off. I had to work during the day, but somehow arrived to the station about 30 minutes sooner that normal. As I stepped off the train, I practically tripped over a bag of loose change and crumpled dollar bills. There stood a sixfootsix black man playing a hand drum and singing the Phil Collins tune In The Air Tonight. It sounded great, but I knew that this would be my first official subway musician confrontation. I smoothly proceeded to my usual spot. My potential rival had stationed himself in the middle, whereas the guard shack was near the high traffic exit. I couldn’t remember what key In The Air Tonight was in, but as I strummed my first open chord, E seemed to work. The drum demanded all the sonic space available, and it was immediately obvious that I was going to have to try to blend in with the drum. At first it seemed to be working, but the hand drummer had different tempo ideas. It didn’t take but a few minutes when he stopped and shouted in my direction “HEY GUITAR MAN,” That part being clear, but I couldn’t understand what else he was mumbling. I replied and made it clear that I was open for negotiation. He finally strolled over with his drum strapped on and clearly scolded me. “Don’t you know it’s an unspoken rule that once someone starts playing a station, they own that station until they are done.” He was easily twice my size and had a pleasant but commanding attitude. So I thought it was odd but professional when he mentioned something about wanting to resolve the issue “peacefully.” I explained that I had been playing all week. I added that this was also my first week and I had not run into anyone else before. I tried to negotiate “How about I play to your songs and you keep all the money?” (after all, I think I could go without the $2.60 for one night) “Ha, . ,Ha, . ,Ha , ., Ha.” It was hardly genuine laughter and his deep tone reminded me of the old 1980’s 7up spokesman.. “I don’t think so.” He said slowly and definitively.
After a minute or two I could tell that he was tired of talking to me. I had been lightly strumming my muted strings throughout the entire conversation. I finally stopped and took off my sunglasses to show respect. “I’ll be done at 7:30,” he said. “Then the station is yours.” He turned around and hardly retreated to his original position. I felt defeated. His point made sense but I felt like I had lost something. I grabbed the next train headed deeper into Brooklyn. Lorimar was only a minute away and I set up quickly. It was now about 7:10, so I only had to buy about 15 minutes before I could return to the station. I didn’t have a watch. When I returned, I planned exit was off the front of the train and I kept a low profile. The station clock read 7:30, and he was still there beating his drum. Another train roared into the station and dumped its anxious passengers. I looked at the clock again, 7:31. I blinked my eyes, and he was gone. I didn’t even see him pack up. I felt tired. This diversion had cost me energy and practice time.
I played a few tunes before Don Gilman appeared grinning and taking my picture with his cell phone. Don’s another corporate contact and friend. It was really nice to see him. I rattled off the abbreviated version of my hand drum guy confrontation. We had a good laugh; I saw his full smile for the first time. I think he tends to find me humorous, but doesn’t encourage my humor in working situations.
I left the station early and jumped off the F Train at 2nd avenue to deliver a few tunes before heading home. At the 14th Street transfer, I listened to a couple of well versed violin players while I watched at least four or five dollars get dropped into their cases within a few minutes. It was a little discouraging. I thought the hand drum guy also did well. And after work I noticed a 10-year-old kid with and accordion earn dollar after dollar as a few women even struggled with their purses to award his efforts. In this first short week, the dollar tip has taken on a new meaning. To me, it’s more of a pat on the back, or a wink from a stranger. Usually, I notice someone dropping money into my guitar case. This morning I was surprised to learn that I had five winks more than I started with.
After a minute or two I could tell that he was tired of talking to me. I had been lightly strumming my muted strings throughout the entire conversation. I finally stopped and took off my sunglasses to show respect. “I’ll be done at 7:30,” he said. “Then the station is yours.” He turned around and hardly retreated to his original position. I felt defeated. His point made sense but I felt like I had lost something. I grabbed the next train headed deeper into Brooklyn. Lorimar was only a minute away and I set up quickly. It was now about 7:10, so I only had to buy about 15 minutes before I could return to the station. I didn’t have a watch. When I returned, I planned exit was off the front of the train and I kept a low profile. The station clock read 7:30, and he was still there beating his drum. Another train roared into the station and dumped its anxious passengers. I looked at the clock again, 7:31. I blinked my eyes, and he was gone. I didn’t even see him pack up. I felt tired. This diversion had cost me energy and practice time.
I played a few tunes before Don Gilman appeared grinning and taking my picture with his cell phone. Don’s another corporate contact and friend. It was really nice to see him. I rattled off the abbreviated version of my hand drum guy confrontation. We had a good laugh; I saw his full smile for the first time. I think he tends to find me humorous, but doesn’t encourage my humor in working situations.
I left the station early and jumped off the F Train at 2nd avenue to deliver a few tunes before heading home. At the 14th Street transfer, I listened to a couple of well versed violin players while I watched at least four or five dollars get dropped into their cases within a few minutes. It was a little discouraging. I thought the hand drum guy also did well. And after work I noticed a 10-year-old kid with and accordion earn dollar after dollar as a few women even struggled with their purses to award his efforts. In this first short week, the dollar tip has taken on a new meaning. To me, it’s more of a pat on the back, or a wink from a stranger. Usually, I notice someone dropping money into my guitar case. This morning I was surprised to learn that I had five winks more than I started with.
Day 4 (Professor Murder)
I took the night off from subway performing. My wrist is tingling. I would rather miss one night now then the all-next week. I struggled with the decision. I decided to hit a few live music clubs. It’s something I haven’t really done since I’ve lived in NYC. I started at Arlene Grocery. I slipped past the door girl while she was having a smoke. Inside was dead. The 4-piece band on stage had some bad haircuts and even worse stage presence. My stay was brief. The Living Room was the next stop right down the street. Same vibe, if not worse. These guys reminded me of the Gilbert and Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds. Some people can make this look work in their favor. I stayed for about a song and a half before making my escape. There was a mob of what I perceived as teenagers, although they were probably all in their 20’s. It reminded me of recess. The bell must have rang because they all suddenly moved inside and formed a line near a staircase leading down to a basement. I pretended to be standing in line for the bathroom hoping the cashier would get distracted, but she was on to me, so I paid the six dollar cover and gave her an extra dollar for being so observant.
I worked my way up near the front of the stage, getting as close as possible without displacing the front row Joes. The sound check was painfully loud. The singer had a whinny voice reminiscent of the Beastie Boys. He was drowning in an obviously desired vocal effect the he required even during speaking parts. It was an obnoxious and overbearing slap echo that eliminated any chance of understanding what the hell he was saying. They finally kicked in. It was GREAT. Solid bass and drums. I think they were playing to a backbeat track. There wasn’t a guitarist at all. I was close, but I still couldn’t see past the thick wall of bodies. The blend was terrible. The lead vocal was obnoxiously loud and the sharp keyboards forced people to cover their ears. But I loved them and I loved their sound! They were totally original and grooving. Between songs the singer shouted in the mic…. “CAN YOU HEAR THE VOCALS?” it was with the same whiney voice he sings with. I found a little space in the noise and replied, “YEAH, THEY ARE TOO FUCKING LOUD, MAN.” Someone behind me tapped my shoulder in support. They closed their set with a guest baritone sax player. Damn I love that instrument. I didn’t catch their name, nor do I know what club I was in. A clever internet search revealed: CAKE SHOP (the club), PROFESSOR MURDER: the act
I worked my way up near the front of the stage, getting as close as possible without displacing the front row Joes. The sound check was painfully loud. The singer had a whinny voice reminiscent of the Beastie Boys. He was drowning in an obviously desired vocal effect the he required even during speaking parts. It was an obnoxious and overbearing slap echo that eliminated any chance of understanding what the hell he was saying. They finally kicked in. It was GREAT. Solid bass and drums. I think they were playing to a backbeat track. There wasn’t a guitarist at all. I was close, but I still couldn’t see past the thick wall of bodies. The blend was terrible. The lead vocal was obnoxiously loud and the sharp keyboards forced people to cover their ears. But I loved them and I loved their sound! They were totally original and grooving. Between songs the singer shouted in the mic…. “CAN YOU HEAR THE VOCALS?” it was with the same whiney voice he sings with. I found a little space in the noise and replied, “YEAH, THEY ARE TOO FUCKING LOUD, MAN.” Someone behind me tapped my shoulder in support. They closed their set with a guest baritone sax player. Damn I love that instrument. I didn’t catch their name, nor do I know what club I was in. A clever internet search revealed: CAKE SHOP (the club), PROFESSOR MURDER: the act
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
DAY TWO - The Mellophone couldn't wait
Last night marks my second performance on the L-Train platform. Same time, Same place, different experience. The crowd seemed to diminish more quickly than before, and this stop was showing signs of the night party crowd heading into the city.
I didn’t have nearly as much energy as I did Monday night. My left wrist was stiff and my fingertips really sensitive. Towards the end of my stay, I ran into Alfonso Canto, one of the first guys in met as a PA 5 years ago. He is a painter and a sculptor and a really great person. It was good to see him and I think he felt the same.
I added an augiealexander.com sign to my nightly performance. It’s four feet wide and eight inches tall. I enlarged an augie logo mounted on a piece of show card and stuck to the guard shack perfectly and convenient behind my head. The sign redirected the attention I had been getting yesterday. This sign really adds to the promotional value of the performance.
Once getting back to my apartment in Brooklyn, I got a second wind. My wrist was still sore but I had an idea to continue without over straining my voice or agitating my CTS. I grabbed my mellophone and headed out once again, this time to my local F-Train stop, Bergen. I didn’t even make it one block before passing two women, one saying to the other, “Now there’s something you don’t see everyday…” Speaking just loud enough to get my attention. I think I may have something new for Smith Street to be famous for.
I swiped my weekly pass and made my way onto the Brooklyn bound platform. I noticed two police officers on the other side and they made me a bit nervous, so I began walking towards the opposing entrance. My horn chops have greatly deteriorated over the years, I have just enough stamina left to get out a little recording here and there. I started warming up with whole notes. The horn sounded great (to me). Not at all musical, a perfectly unusual but suiting sound for this subway stop in particular. Ironically, I think the lowest open valve note on this horn is an “F”. One after another, I filled my lungs and pushed out a super whole note occasionally dropping it one half step, and then another. I recall my high school teacher Mr. Mcquilcan telling me about whole notes practice and how it was a great exercise.
As the trains pulled in and out of the station, I shaped my whole note to blend with their sounds. Each train can sound a bit different. Occasionally I worked up a bit of confidence and would play a little lick. The reverb is brilliant, as I studied it, It began sounding sorta like a human voice, I begin playing staccato when I noticed that the echo was peculiarly inconsistent …… it was a human voice. Someone at the other end of the station, on the opposing platform was mocking me. The two NYPD officers were not in site. I began slow strolling towards the voice, as I blew each note, it inspired another outburst, followed by giggling by a couple of girls on my side of the station. I finally settled in directly across from this guy. My lips were tired, so I just postured and stared at him from behind my sunglasses and bright yellow “29 mules” ball cap. “YOU SUCK,” he shouts. It was almost a sorts friendly, kidding tone. but insulting nonetheless. It didn’t bother me. Number one, I am way out of practice and that’s why I am here; So I probably do “suck” . . . or “blow” would be more appropriate. Number two, this guy doesn’t have a hobby to speak of, much less a talent, so who is he to judge. “YOU SUCK,” he says again. I kept bringing my horn to my mouth as if I was going to play another note, and he would cringe and grab his ears…. “NOOOOOO” he says, “YOU SUCK SO BAD” He and I both shared an inflated sense of confidence due to the fact that there were two sets of train tracks separating us.
Eventually, I felt rested and I blew more whole notes directly at my new heckler friend. I spared him a bit only giving 35% of sound capacity. He continued to expand his vocabulary and used some other colorful words. Out of nowhere, I startled myself when I blurted out with in my loudest most powerful voice… “It’s the soundtrack of Warz ofs those worlds, yo” Somehow I had quickly developed a Chinese/Mexican accent hybrid with a touch of Ali G slang. “What?” he responds? I knew he wouldn’t understand me, I tried to slur my words just enough to make him listen closer. The girls stopped giggling, I think they may have though I was retarded and didn’t know how to react. “Waz ofs those Worlds… The moviez, yo!, Tommy Cruz ‘n’ shit, You See it?” When I first started playing the station, my tone did remind me of the of the alien tripod machine sound in War Of The Worlds. I had seen a bit of the movie the night before. So I blurted again. “I play whole tone, like alien in Waz of those Worldz , , yo. “ At that moment a train flew into the station and broke our senseless chatter.
A while later, the two NYPD officers appeared again. I got the sense that my whole tones were as entertaining as they were annoying. While I was resting my mouth, one officer made contact…”Excuse me, Sir,” he says to me, “What kind of Trumpet is that?” He and the other office must have been struggling with this for a while, I noticed a few minutes prior that he was playing air trombone. “It’s a Mellophone,” I replied with pride and confidence. I paused, “also known as a Marching French Horn”
I’ve had enough for one night.
OH Yeah….., almost forgot again, This Williamsburg stop awarded me $2.59 this evening. Only one penny less than before. I’m on a roll.
I didn’t have nearly as much energy as I did Monday night. My left wrist was stiff and my fingertips really sensitive. Towards the end of my stay, I ran into Alfonso Canto, one of the first guys in met as a PA 5 years ago. He is a painter and a sculptor and a really great person. It was good to see him and I think he felt the same.
I added an augiealexander.com sign to my nightly performance. It’s four feet wide and eight inches tall. I enlarged an augie logo mounted on a piece of show card and stuck to the guard shack perfectly and convenient behind my head. The sign redirected the attention I had been getting yesterday. This sign really adds to the promotional value of the performance.
Once getting back to my apartment in Brooklyn, I got a second wind. My wrist was still sore but I had an idea to continue without over straining my voice or agitating my CTS. I grabbed my mellophone and headed out once again, this time to my local F-Train stop, Bergen. I didn’t even make it one block before passing two women, one saying to the other, “Now there’s something you don’t see everyday…” Speaking just loud enough to get my attention. I think I may have something new for Smith Street to be famous for.
I swiped my weekly pass and made my way onto the Brooklyn bound platform. I noticed two police officers on the other side and they made me a bit nervous, so I began walking towards the opposing entrance. My horn chops have greatly deteriorated over the years, I have just enough stamina left to get out a little recording here and there. I started warming up with whole notes. The horn sounded great (to me). Not at all musical, a perfectly unusual but suiting sound for this subway stop in particular. Ironically, I think the lowest open valve note on this horn is an “F”. One after another, I filled my lungs and pushed out a super whole note occasionally dropping it one half step, and then another. I recall my high school teacher Mr. Mcquilcan telling me about whole notes practice and how it was a great exercise.
As the trains pulled in and out of the station, I shaped my whole note to blend with their sounds. Each train can sound a bit different. Occasionally I worked up a bit of confidence and would play a little lick. The reverb is brilliant, as I studied it, It began sounding sorta like a human voice, I begin playing staccato when I noticed that the echo was peculiarly inconsistent …… it was a human voice. Someone at the other end of the station, on the opposing platform was mocking me. The two NYPD officers were not in site. I began slow strolling towards the voice, as I blew each note, it inspired another outburst, followed by giggling by a couple of girls on my side of the station. I finally settled in directly across from this guy. My lips were tired, so I just postured and stared at him from behind my sunglasses and bright yellow “29 mules” ball cap. “YOU SUCK,” he shouts. It was almost a sorts friendly, kidding tone. but insulting nonetheless. It didn’t bother me. Number one, I am way out of practice and that’s why I am here; So I probably do “suck” . . . or “blow” would be more appropriate. Number two, this guy doesn’t have a hobby to speak of, much less a talent, so who is he to judge. “YOU SUCK,” he says again. I kept bringing my horn to my mouth as if I was going to play another note, and he would cringe and grab his ears…. “NOOOOOO” he says, “YOU SUCK SO BAD” He and I both shared an inflated sense of confidence due to the fact that there were two sets of train tracks separating us.
Eventually, I felt rested and I blew more whole notes directly at my new heckler friend. I spared him a bit only giving 35% of sound capacity. He continued to expand his vocabulary and used some other colorful words. Out of nowhere, I startled myself when I blurted out with in my loudest most powerful voice… “It’s the soundtrack of Warz ofs those worlds, yo” Somehow I had quickly developed a Chinese/Mexican accent hybrid with a touch of Ali G slang. “What?” he responds? I knew he wouldn’t understand me, I tried to slur my words just enough to make him listen closer. The girls stopped giggling, I think they may have though I was retarded and didn’t know how to react. “Waz ofs those Worlds… The moviez, yo!, Tommy Cruz ‘n’ shit, You See it?” When I first started playing the station, my tone did remind me of the of the alien tripod machine sound in War Of The Worlds. I had seen a bit of the movie the night before. So I blurted again. “I play whole tone, like alien in Waz of those Worldz , , yo. “ At that moment a train flew into the station and broke our senseless chatter.
A while later, the two NYPD officers appeared again. I got the sense that my whole tones were as entertaining as they were annoying. While I was resting my mouth, one officer made contact…”Excuse me, Sir,” he says to me, “What kind of Trumpet is that?” He and the other office must have been struggling with this for a while, I noticed a few minutes prior that he was playing air trombone. “It’s a Mellophone,” I replied with pride and confidence. I paused, “also known as a Marching French Horn”
I’ve had enough for one night.
OH Yeah….., almost forgot again, This Williamsburg stop awarded me $2.59 this evening. Only one penny less than before. I’m on a roll.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
L-Train Platform Performance (the first one)
I played my first subway platform last night. I’ve been in NYC for almost 5 years now, and it’s been something that I’ve always wanted to do. I planted myself at the Bedford L-train stop right in front of the guard booth next to one of only two exits. The booth has a chair and security monitors and it is a fork in the road for the mob of people as they make their way out of the hot muggy station. I strapped my 6 string on and stood with in front of the booth. There’s not quite enough room for me to face the crowd as they anxiously follow each other towards the exit, so I have to rotate my acoustic to my right hip during big train dumps. It’s almost as if the sharp end of my capo is splitting the horde in two as they flood towards me. When train moves in and out of the station it completely drowns out the sound of my guitar. It’s almost as if someone is pressing my mute button. I strum and strum watching the working classes from behind my shaded glasses. Almost everyone look at my face for a single perfectly rounded second before looking away. One after another, as if they planned it. Even if someone was interested in what I was doing, they couldn’t stop without getting trampled by human traffic. I am almost an unnecessary obstacle, but due to the guard shack, they tolerate additional navigation.
I am certainly not the first to perform here. I scouted this location the week prior and listened to a guy blowing on a saxophone. He had more luck getting a tone over the sound of the train. I thought Monday at 8pm would be a great for a novice platform performer because the city workers would have already finished their commute and the station would be relatively quiet. I was wrong. I played until 10:10p and only then did the flow begin to taper. I was also concerned of the officer occupying the guard shack. The NYPD guy present during the sax solo was tolerant. I left my apartment at 7pm and I prepared an Absolute greyhound in a 12 oz Tropicana grapefruit juice bottle. I thought it would help. Yesterday kicked off out 2nd heat wave this season, so I brought a bottle of water as well. Today is supposed to get in the 100’s. Another reason to go later in the evening. Fortunately, last night the NYPD only popped in and out of their little shack twice for about 3 minutes each. Tonight I will see if I can attach an augiealexander.com logo to the top of the guard shack ( above my head ). I may go earlier and try to show the working class Williamsburg folks that I’ve taken over their station. They may not be able to hear my guitar, but with my web site posted, they will certainly know why I am there.
Oh Yeah, I almost forgot. My voice feels great! What a great exercise. And I also think I made $2.60, but I can’t be certain because I don’t know what I started with.
I am certainly not the first to perform here. I scouted this location the week prior and listened to a guy blowing on a saxophone. He had more luck getting a tone over the sound of the train. I thought Monday at 8pm would be a great for a novice platform performer because the city workers would have already finished their commute and the station would be relatively quiet. I was wrong. I played until 10:10p and only then did the flow begin to taper. I was also concerned of the officer occupying the guard shack. The NYPD guy present during the sax solo was tolerant. I left my apartment at 7pm and I prepared an Absolute greyhound in a 12 oz Tropicana grapefruit juice bottle. I thought it would help. Yesterday kicked off out 2nd heat wave this season, so I brought a bottle of water as well. Today is supposed to get in the 100’s. Another reason to go later in the evening. Fortunately, last night the NYPD only popped in and out of their little shack twice for about 3 minutes each. Tonight I will see if I can attach an augiealexander.com logo to the top of the guard shack ( above my head ). I may go earlier and try to show the working class Williamsburg folks that I’ve taken over their station. They may not be able to hear my guitar, but with my web site posted, they will certainly know why I am there.
Oh Yeah, I almost forgot. My voice feels great! What a great exercise. And I also think I made $2.60, but I can’t be certain because I don’t know what I started with.
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