9/27/12 New Orleans, LA
My career was a long shot, and I missed it. I hit rock bottom a long time ago. I just stayed here. It's not gotten any worse. It only moves locations.
My dad had always said to have a backup plan, but it was nonsense. If there’s a backup plan, it’ll inevitably become life. All my eggs were in one basket, and the basket was broken.
Playing piano in two sloppy, drunken blues bands with two weekly gigs on Frenchman was enough to afford a little FEMA trailer in the dusty West Bank of New Orleans next to a huge casino.
It looked as though neither RIDE nor Lullaby would be picked up and the publishers weren’t doing anything. Genius, my ass. They were lousy. The music industry was the most corrupted and broken of all baskets.
When I was 8, I asked my grandmother why I didn’t have a grandfather. She said he had killed himself, and he always wanted to play piano in New Orleans but his parents pressured him into becoming a doctor.
At least he had money, that psychiatrist grandfather I never knew. At age 26, I had fulfilled the promise I made to myself at age 8 to move to New Orleans if I ever wanted to kill myself.
I walked to Boomtown Casino, and when I walked in I had to show ID. The Creole lady at the front was very friendly. We exchanged laughs. Luck was a funny thing. When I started walking away she said, "I hope you win."
I turned around and responded, "You hope I win? Over all these other people, you want me to win? Thank you!"
"Well I want everybody to win SOMETHING!"
"Ma'am, if everybody won something, you'd be unemployed."
"Hahaha, you know that's right."
People were always saying things like that. “I want to help.” “I’m on your side.” “I want you to win.” Empty words in a broken basket make for a perfect basket case.
All I had was eight dollars and an ID in my pocket. I played video poker very slowly, tipping back free drinks, a Bloody Mary, two beers, several bourbons and a white Russian for dessert.
It's good to know that with all my problems, gambling isn't one of them.