I had this terribly romantic notion of dropping a hundred dollar bill into a street musicians hat. I imagined myself in Paris or NYC leisurely strolling through a Metro or Subway station on my way to something chic. I could hear a violinist or pianist or an ultra rad dude playing percussion on 5 gallon buckets and garbage can lids.

I thought I hit pay dirt when I was on my Road Trip. I was sitting at Cafe du Monde sipping a Cafe au Lait and nibbling on a beignet when I heard some brass. Hardcore brass. Across the street was a group of young men - there were trumpets, trombones and even a french horn. There was one very large bass drum for a little beat. They were singing every now and then but mostly they were just jamming.

I was sitting there working up my courage to walk across the street and throw a hundred dollar bill in their pail when I noticed two ladies walking towards them down the sidewalk.

The ladies were chatting away and sort of looked like they were on their way to work.

All of a sudden the young men had completed surrounded them. They were behind them making crude gestures. They were cat calling.

I was totally grossed out.

They didn't get my hundred bucks.

My next plan was that I was going to drop it into a Salvation Army red can - you know the Christmas time one where the person rings the bell all season long.

I imagined that I'd be doing my Uncle Rocket some mad honor. He liked to put a little somethin' somethin' in the red can.

As neurotic as this sounds I just couldn't find a bell ringer I liked.

I'd walk into the store with my hundred dollar bill burning a hole in my pocket an then I'd think....they are not ringing the bell loudly enough.

Then, I was sitting in church. At home in Hilo on my mini vacay. I was feeling comfortable. I was feeling like life is good.

So I dropped two fifties in the offering plate.