Censored by Face Book: Part Two: Hard Ass

This Blog is all about the Tour. Music, places, people, guitars, blues. Life. Art. Ideas. The journey. So when something messes around with that, it messes around with me. It breaks my stride. It breaks the conversation in ways that I don't want it broken. Our conversation. This will, I hope, be my last word here about censorship. Because I'm not going to allow the subject to eat the page.

To think and speak freely. My art derives from that act, depends on that ability, as a first premise. Donald Trump can say negative things about members of the world's largest religion, and these things are reported in detail, on every media platform in the world.

So I'd like to know who is censoring my Facebook pages. Who decides which ideas and language are Bad for the World? Obviously- in some quarters- my ideas are not seen to be as safe as Mr. Trump's. As I am fairly sure that I have Friends and Followers from all of the world's major religions, it's hard to point fingers. Some crazy, right wing Christian cult? Living in a compound somewhere near 29 Palms? A Republican plot? Tories, sore that they lost the election in Canada? Nah, they don't care. They don't mind the words "hard ass." Or if they do, they didn't read the phrase on my Artist page, and didn't complain about it if they did. No, it's not real people: it's a computer subroutine. An algorithm carelessly released into the world by people who likely haven't experienced much of the world. Artificial Intelligence. It's not smart. Nor is it clever. It cheapens the platform, restrains the dialogue, and demeans the intelligence of not only the readers- but also the broader culture in which they participate.

I like to think I express myself fairly responsibly. Context and placement of the right words. Like surgery. Cut here. Now. And sometimes the blood runs off the table. And sometimes it's not real blood, but ideas escaping. Little expressions picked up in the schoolyard. An adventure. A revolution. Or a bottle of red wine shared over conversation. Here's the latest (and last to be reported upon) piece surpressed on my Face Book artist page...

Osgoode, Toronto. Trying to scrape silver off this hard ass town. Somebody took ten shots yesterday, just upstairs and around the corner. This is a place where the stories crawl past me. Or walk past me, done up in perfume to punch. My imagination would have me elsewhere: a younger man with fewer stories. More disposable income. Walking past. Spare change for a busker.

Some days there are people who jump in front of trains. And some days there are people who don't. Walking past. I don't see you, I don't hear you. "I heard your music, and I changed my mind." Driving down the highway is like that, too. When you cut beneath the grime and hit the clear sky you can be anybody. Or somebody. You can find yourself, or chase after your own soul. Win or lose on your own terms. Osgoode.

The life and death of a Tour. The National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour. Wrapped earlier this week in a small, Toronto club. It's had me on the road most of the year. Ten provinces, and as many states. My Lincoln says it wants oil. My arms are getting acupuncture for pain, and Osgoode is waiting. I won't jump in front of the train, but I will imagine it: warm with soft seats. My personal train, headed for the distance. February and March will be shows in Chicago, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Get on board! Like this Page to follow me on the Blues Highway.

Busking the PanAm: Hustler's Games in Toronto

In Toronto, Canada, to busk the PanAm games. By day my virtual office hums, or curses, as I continue to fill dates and detail the upcoming US Midwest and South leg of the Tour. By night, it's me and the hustlers, the dope dealers, pick pockets, ticket re-sellers, addicts, insane street people, tourists, fire eaters and accordian players. Loose change. Blues. Smokestack Lightnin' echoing in the underground tunnels. I could join any of those other groups. I've shared this space with them for years. I know their work well. They make more than I do. The guy with the sign that says "I Lost My Job," makes a few hundred bucks a day. His girlfriend, who works around the corner has a sign that says "Pregnant and Homeless." People are always stopping and handing them $20 bills. There's a sucker born every minute, PT Barnum used to say. And here we are. Me and the other hustlers. Together on these mean, but polite streets. The guy who pretends to live on the hot air grate above me stops by and gives me a couple of beer at the end of his shift. "I had a good day," he says, before jumping the gate and disappearing into the roar and grind of the trains below.

I'm way too smart to die down here. And it's actually been a number of years since I've been robbed, or had a gun pointed at me by some street punk trying to impress his drunken girlfriend. So it's like weightlifting. The playing, that is. Between Tours I put in time, and it helps keep the whole thing running. Strong hands, good tone. But also bone spurs on my wrists and elbows, arthritis in my feet, and God knows my bladder is not what it was when I started doing these three, four, five, six hour sets. This summer, I'm averaging $12 an hour. If you're not playing, you're not making money. That's a whole lotta hours. So I play. I write. I watch and witness. Upstairs, in Nathan Phillips Square, there's a festival going on. I can hear strains of "Caledonia" echoing down the tube. On a hot day, apparently that's a very interesting story. The same band will repeat that same story all summer at festival after festival. Barnum's ghost floats above it all.

Early into the games, the streets of Toronto are much quieter than expected, and there is no sign of any economic trickle down. With festivals and free music all over town, buskers are at a bit of a disadvantage. Last night I went to hear Rikki Lee Jones on a comp ticket. Really, I should of busked the show, I guess. Sometimes I'm simply not as ambitious as I once was. I ran into Rob Bowman there, and figured that his presence was probably more ambitious than my own. Soon enough, I'll be busking Memphis again, negotiating my spot with the guys from the Moss St. Mission. The blind ambition of filling a couple of nights between St. Louis, MO and Clarksdale, MS...

Plenty of Mississippi and Alabama dates still open. Maritimes starting to fill. Newfoundland nearly booked up...