Zombiful

 362nd day sober.  I woke up late in the afternoon, after being up until nearly 10AM futzing around with the trumpet and then the flute. 

I still have no idea why my trumpet playing has suddenly gone to shit. It's forcing me to have a real re-think of things. 

I was thinking I might start a business making pull-through swabs of my design, but I've found that mine are shit compared to the ones I ordered from Tim Wendt. So that's out. 

Any idea of learning to work on trumpets is out because I don't have any kind of space that can become a workshop. The loft is out, being too hot 80% of the time and freezing cold the rest of the time. Plus being full of packing stuff as well as my personal stuff. Without a dedicated area, forget about it. I can rent one, downtown, in this artists' collective sort of place, costing me about $1200 to move in and $350 or $400 a month. But that would actually make more sense for sign-painting than brass repair, and I can't even get interested enough in sign-painting. 

The problem with sign painting, while it's needed back home and everywhere, back home a white person can get in real trouble if something physical is being sold. I can't exactly "busk" signs. And trying to get paid for sign work in the conventional way is out - having less rights, in any payment dispute I'll end up owing *them* money. Music is one of the very few fields where I'd not end up in and out of jail. 

There are even white guys playing electric guitar in Waikiki, for God's sake. And getting away with it. 

I was thinking that back home, I'd play trumpet *and* shakuhachi somehow, because being able to play the shakuhachi would really win points with the group that's in power - Japanese. Besides it being a great instrument anyway. But I've been devoting what time I can to practice, to practice on the trumpet and falling behind. It's just not adding up. 

Finding that the busking season in this part of the country is only 5 or even 4 months long is a come-down although it does give me more time to experiment around. Maybe this year I'll just suck on the flute and see how that goes. I've played flute before and did about the same as I was on cornet, playing in Mountain View. What's funny is I can't remember what my repertoire was. I know I played a handful of songs and I know a decent session paid me $20 or $30, about the same as it would now. 

I packed one big thing and had two medium-big things packed, and took off just a bit before 7. There were zombies everywhere. I'm back to calling them zombies. It's one less syllable than NPC, and it trips off the tongue better. There was a zombie walking a large dog, at least on a leash, on Queen's Lane. There was another zombie with a heap of trash and some kind of Mad Max bicycle and trailer tangled up in it all, on the side of the road under the bridge. The bike was a pink girl's model, so yeah, while I like to give the benefit of the doubt, this bike was certainly stolen not bought. 

I dropped the things off at FedEx, and on the way back visited the first-floor storage unit and got some things out to sell. Then I went over to Tom's and knocked on the door - lights on but no answer. And a fast-walker zombie walked past - I made sure it saw the "explainer" in my hand and it walked on by pretending not to notice. I then made the questionable decision to ride on Rogers Avenue and there were zombies all over the place including one undead dog - unleashed, but it didn't go after me, as I think the think sensed I'd happily make it the rest of the way dead.  Then coming in here, coming in the other side of the complex which I normally avoid doing, there was a zombie staggering around and a bunch of zombie clothes hung up to dry on the fence. A zombie that cares about hygiene, which is odd. 

I got back in here and put things away etc. Presently I heard a clatter going by and looked at the video monitor - it's that same care with the smashed-out rear window that always drives through. The thing barely runs. I don't know why it comes by here, unless the zombie(s) driving it are hoping to catch me with the roll-up door open. That won't happen. It's only ever open these days when Ken's over and then, I'm on a hair trigger watching out for zombies. 

I made an egg salad and was relaxing when Ken showed up. He brought boxes, stuff to sell, and a letter from the Treasury Dept. The letter was a bill for $1600-odd, just as I'd been expecting. They've been talking on the radio about the IRS being behind, and I guess they're catching up now. A quick glance at the few pages showed the charge, the reason for it, and it looks like a $50 fee for goofing up. Well, that's OK because that's less than a tax preparer would charge around here. So I can just do my taxes as best as I can figure out, and if I owe more they'll get around to sending a bill if I didn't pay enough. That's fair.