I am not accustomed to the foreign affairs of the common folk walking the French Quarter adornments of Bourbon Street with open containers, nor am I in equal measure accustomed to the cobblestone stumbling of the before mentioned, namely myself enjoying alcohol laden libations as I meander down River Street in Savannah, Georgia in search of secret treasures for the senses, whether they take the form of old buildings, old stories, proposition in prostitution, voodoo and hoodoo gift shops, tales of ghosts, passing relic steamboats and modern freighters alike, live music, and Catfish—the later breaded to perfection, a fluffy, light, and delicious surprise with every bite. Both places have become tourist powerhouses akin to an ancient dinosaur innocently walking into a tar pit. However, I can’t help myself for being both predator and prey to a location that allows me to do nearly all of my favorite things, simultaneously, or at the very least, in rapid succession of one another.

There is a magic to seeing places I have only read about since I was a child. I absolutely have had the assisted lens of television and the silver screen to paint pictures of false pretense in two dimensional simulacrum, but the real treasure is to walk amongst the bonanza yourself. “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” is largely responsible for the second gold rush of tourism afforded to Savannah, Georgia—while New Orleans has obtained the golden age of post-Lent celebration, Mardi Gras, from its predecessor Mobile, Alabama, which celebrated this holiday long before it became the staple character of New Orleans demographic. My second cousins who all live in Mobile, Alabama shared this interesting fact with me while I had the privilege of their company for a few days, playing a house show at my cousin’s place. What a privilege this has all been. To see the Redneck Riviera, as my cousin Bill put it, was a treasure: Bayou La Batre. He punctuated my visit with jokes such as this:

“What do you call a beautiful woman in Bayou La Batre?”, he asked me with a small grin.

I said, “I don’t know, Bill.”

“A visitor.”

… and speaking of beautiful women.

I was briefly the prey of a lady of the night while in New Orleans, operating with a charisma that was quite intoxicating, far beyond what I had been pouring into my person throughout the evening. She was dark and fit and lovely as a mistress as she passed by me with compliments accentuating my masculinity, and initiated the conversation with an assurance that there was nothing in the direction that I was walking in—I asked her how she knew that. She assured me, “because I just came from there.” I playfully mirrored her approximations by assuring her that there was nothing in the direction she was heading. She asked me why I thought such? I assured her, because, “I just came from there.” And while she did shower me with peppered compliments of “gorgeous” and the like—I could not help but feel the salt seasoning being poured in unscrupulous quantity and appetite on my wounded wallet for her consumption. I will however, kindly accept her bouquet of accolades and admire their freshness of uncut potential. It would be a small feather in a hat that I wasn’t necessarily wearing anywhere else, aside from my own imagination.

I became the second-hand tourist on a musician’s budget, listening to ghost stories told on old and ancient streets described by Anne Rice, yet narrated by a young lady, her congregation of paid acolytes, following her every word and movement down a dimly-lit thoroughfare. My ease-dropping was brief, for I never wish to overstay my welcome, especially when it involves the livelihood of another, so it was to be only brief punctuations of dread and fright for me on that evening—both in the realm of storytelling, and gambling for that matter. You can do that in New Orleans as well—and I pursued this vice, if only momentarily in the one casino afforded to the city by ordinance. However, with a $25 dollar minimum buy-in on a hand of Blackjack, my appetite went un-satiated, aside from being given a brief form of entertainment watching many a gambler bet away or receive their fortune for an evening. However, when my interest ran its course, I was back out into the evening to sponge up more of what was to be had in the French Quarter.

Frenchmen Street gave me a bit of what makes my heart sing: jazz and groove music being played by the best musicians that the United States has to offer. I drank my wine and listened to the language of their improvisation with an eager ear and appetite for cold drink and warm jams on a breezy night. Jazz Fest had been cancelled this year, and I tried in vain to use this as returned selling point for booking a few house concerts in the area for myself—I was initially turned away by house concert hosts because of Jazz Fest’s occurrence during my planned occupation. Despite the demise of the festival this year, I had a small taste of what it would have had to offer: a large assortment of college-age students playing inspired renditions of the theme song from the movie “Halloween”, as a groove tune, leaving no stone unturned with tension and release and old scales rarely heard in the realm of pop music. Heaven can be found in the mustached-villain twist of a half-whole scale, modal variations, diminished and augmented approaches over altered dominants, and any number of other fanciful music being spoken, with the effortless of conversation, that are common place when listening to an art form, under appreciated in its difficulty and mastery by the performer, to the common listener.

However, despite all of this goodness, and badness: my first order of business when arriving in New Orleans, was to find The Natchez. I speak eagerly of this vessel. It is like an old friend. It’s a steamboat on the Mississippi River, named after a city. It is still functioning, and still doing its good work for fine folk wishing to see the splendor of the great Mississippi River. I had no greater wish in my heart that to see it with my own eyes, after reading of its exploits in the words of Samuel Langhorne Clemens. Alas, my efforts were to no good effect, satiated. There was an empty dock. My inquiries (only after further strolling down the river, mistaking another smaller boat for The Natchez) proved to be found with the sad news of its repair for several weeks in maintenance, perhaps from the recent hurricane.

There was evidence of this everywhere, in the neighborhood in which I stayed, which was just outside of the French Quarters: large piles of tree trunks and branches piled to the 15 or 20 feet high, occupying precious sidewalk and street space, the later with tremendous water damage. The drive in to New Orleans, was the most revealing evidence of heartbreak, as I witnessed tremendous amounts of homes, left to Lucifer matches, with little evidence that the pile of rubble was ever a living quarter for a loving family. Entire roofs missing. Tremendous holes punched into the sides of both commerce buildings and residence, alike. Given that it has been months since the original occurrence of the event, it can only be said that I feign the sight New Orleans and its residents at the storm’s recent precipice.

I have, dear reader, been a sponge. A murky little sponge that perhaps belongs on the bottom of the ocean, but has found itself meandering amongst new places in search of joy. It has been my wish to see new things while I play new things for new people. I have done all of these things, and continue to do so today. I am off to go explore Charlotte now. May this find you smiling and well.

The Houston, Texas House Concert was a huge success and I met and had the opportunity to play for some absolutely wonderful folks, from all walks of life, and from many different countries, who have all found themselves coming together in their own home community to hang out and listen to a songwriter from Los Angeles, CA.

I was told by my new friends that hosted the event, that we had about 50 or 60 people on the yard listening to me for the first set, before the concert

was interrupted by a brief shower—which I am coming to find is sometimes common this time of year in Houston? To be completely honest, I don’t know that for certain. No one in particular really provided any sage wisdom on the subject—there was much discussion of rain and its frequency in the weeks leading up to the event, albeit in passing, by text or email. I’m a human being, and sometimes I operate under assumptions, so bear with me if you are from Houston and are thinking, “self, this guy doesn’t know dick about Houston and its weather.” You would be correct—and there is no need for that language.

There are some things in life that are deeply refreshing to the soul of an artist, if I may be so bold to refer to myself in such a manner, on both fronts: spiritually and artistically. I do make art, and I am hardly recognized in a scope outside the realm of individuals who may have heard my name in passing or have lived within southern California for the past 20 years or so—and have blessed me with their company throughout the years while I have occupied the space of a stage, playing the music of my life. So, imagine my surprise to see all of these people here in Houston, Texas. I found myself asking them, “ so what are all you beautiful folks doing here tonight?”

The truth of the matter is that I have had some wonderful hosts not only here in Houston, but also in Austin, and San Antonio, who took the time to invite friends, family, and colleagues out to hear me play some music and to give me the opportunity to entertain them for an evening. Beyond this, I have never been to the southern United States before the month of October, with the exception of what states I visited in the earlier portions of my tour in August and September of this year. I am writing this to you from New Orleans, Louisiana. I have never been here before either.

If I may share something with you: I made it my goal several years ago, to travel the United States, on the back of my own music. I maintained and stayed true to this desire for more years than I care to admit—and while I have lost my way on several occasions, I feel some levity and forgiveness should be afforded—considering the immense amount of things I have had to teach myself in order to get to where I have arrived this year. This was an intention I had been planning to execute in 2020—well, before COVID-19 delayed these events. However, they were originally conjured many many years before that by a kid from Visalia, California that dreamed of traveling the world playing the music that he wrote.

In order for me to accomplish this though, I needed to learn how to make friends everywhere I go, to network, to multitask, to be my own boss, to be kind to myself as my own employee, how to write a song that people would want to listen to, how to be earnest in my art, how to write creatively, how to have a basic understanding of marketing, how music works in theory, how to arrange music, how to produce it, how to communicate with artists (as we are sensitive folk at times), how to be mildly charismatic (or even funny at times), how to use social media, how to create a website, how to influence search engine optimization, how to operate as my own record label, how to generate a mailing list, how to say “no” to some things, how to say “yes” to nearly everything, how to accept the kindness of others no matter what your pride has to say on the matter, how to maintain my pride through embarrassment and mistake (regardless of how subjective or objective either may be), how to know what I want and to pursue it to the best of my capability, how to create social events for my community, how to record, how to mix music, how to communicate with people that are experts at sound and mixing, how to do graphic design, how to explain what I am picturing in my head to someone helping me to realize whatever that creative thing might be, how to publish music and what are the necessaries to collecting money in a constantly fluctuating business model, how to shoot video, how to edit video, how to organize my own tours, how to do a tour in a cost effective manner that allows me to come back in the black, how the ego leads to the use of passive aggressive behavior and how to not behave passive aggressively, how to simply ask or express to someone that what he or she did does not make you feel good, how to ask if someone wants your opinion before giving it, how to not jump to conclusions, how to realize when someone is trying to convince you of something, how to apologize and when to say thank you, how to deal with a heckler in an audience, how to show appreciation for the kindness of others (always), how to be patient, how to push myself out of my own comfort zone in order to grow, how to deal with moving somewhere new where you don’t know anyone or have any friends, how to be the best version of myself and to live with as much kindness in my heart as I can muster, how to not dwell…

I know that deep in my heart and recollection, there is more than this. But, this is what I could think of over a cup of coffee in my hotel room. Everything is a work in progress too. But, have no doubt: all of these things play into trying to realize a dream, by my own approximation. Mine is not fully realized—but in equal measure, I realize that “life is a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.”

So, Houston—John and Neda: thank you. I am patient. I am resolute. I am grateful. I am taking notes. There is much to learn and much to teach when the time is right—and there is much to see. Please excuse me dear reader. I’m going to see more of New Orleans right now. It is beautiful and rich with unexplored treasures.