GOIN' FISHIN': AN ESSAY ON PSYCHIC READINGS

The morning sky was damask and the air sticky.  Wearing a t-shirt and jeans and slinging my guitar, I strolled eastward bound on a Victoria Avenue sidewalk in Regina, Saskatchewan.  The vehicular traffic was thin, the pedestrian traffic thinner, and the merchants along the way were just opening their shops.  I passed confectionaries, laundries, coffee shops, and lube stations.  The farther east I strolled, the more industrialized and grayer the signs of the neighborhood became.   And this is why the lawn sign, Psychic Readings by Mrs. Johnson, stopped me in my tracks.

Psychic Readings by Mrs. Johnson also brightly shone in neon through the front bay residential window. By Mrs. Johnson, I thought seemed somewhat vanilla, even milquetoast, especially when accustomed to the more gimrack monikers such as the Psychic Readings by Ms. Moon or Madame Star, Ms. Gabriella or even Madame Zoradamus.

I later googled Psychic Readings by Mrs. Johnson, and surprisingly discovered it to be not an uncommon business title; it may even be a franchise.  And reflecting on this, of course it could be and why wouldn’t it be; after all, communicating with the spirit realm is big business.

A psychic is one who professes to have extrasensory perception (ESP), an ability to perceive information that is hidden from the ken of normal senses.  It is commonplace for a psychic to express aloud to an audience something like: I am receiving a J, the name Jack … Jake … James … Jamie … Jeremy or I am hearing a loved one who has just recently passed by the name of Helen … Ellen … Eleanor …or Lenore.  Psychics refer to this as a cold reading.   Critics call it fishing.

It is always the case that psychics need assistance from their audience members and clients for clarification and interpretation of who these senders from the spirit realm may be, and why they want to momentarily cross over, given to suggest that either psychics are hard of hearing or, heaven forbid, when attempting to communicate with the quick, the dead can only mumble.

In years previous I taught high school Psychology.  You do know why I teach Psychology, I would say to them, because I am psychic!  Predictably every Friday a certain few would be stunned by my proffering some general adolescent behaviors:

• One of you swore at your parent this week, and even slammed the door when you left your house.
• One of you were just recently dumped by your girlfriend.
• One of you has serious boyfriend issues.
• And one of you, sitting in this classroom right here, right now, is very, very sad.

All such soothsayers, clairvoyants, astrologers, graphologists, tea leaf readers, new-age healers, and mooniacs have similar speils.  Here are some made-up examples:

• You are most certainly not what you seem. There is this shadow within you that longs to defiantly spring forth during the sunshine of day.

• Something is troubling you and I am getting that it is work related.  You are feeling that you are not appreciated for what you do and are wishing to move elsewhere, move on to where there is recognition and opportunity.

• Not all of your family members make you happy. Remember you need to treat yourself as number one, for you deserve it.

• I am getting thoughts you are having about your significant other.  Sometimes keeping the harmony is difficult.  Even though talk is cheap, it is time for you to speak up.

• Right now you are having grave concerns about your personal health and well-being.  You must stay positive, treat yourself to an apple a day, so to speak, and the world will spin your way.

And some more just made-up examples:

• Sometimes your dreams seem unrealistic to others that are close to you, and to keep the peace, you simply agree.

• Outwardly even people who are close perceive you as being in control, though inwardly you have angst.

• Your honestly, as of late, has been detrimental to your sociability.

• You wish you could be candid with your comments, but your social conscience prevents you from doing so.

• You are infatuated with someone … a situation that is either untenable or socially taboo or morally wrong.

The psychics provide the words, banking on their clients' inclinations to find and provide the meanings.  We, as humans, tend to find meaning in just about anything (e.g., Jay Leno’s image on a potato, e.g., the Virgin Mary’s image in a water stain), and oftentimes sideload these discoveries to the tramontane of trumpery (and to the psychics).  In short, tell people what they want to hear and they’ll always come back for more.

I am writing this essay to neither debunk nor investigate psychics and their readings.  I am writing only to express that it is both mysterious and magical to think that when people pass on, they continue to live beyond our memories. For consumers, the words of a psychic may be full of wonder or full of folly.

Speaking of wonder and folly, the members marching in my Chaucerian Parade this week:

• Hey man, can I borrow a couple bucks to buy some strings for my guitar? asks Brian, a busker who is wailing in front of the liquor store next to me in the Extra Foods parking lot.  Brian refers to himself as a musical performer – he hates the word, busker.

• I love that hat! expresses a consumer greeting me as I strum in front of Shoppers on Broad.  He is referring to my brand new Brixton Tiller Ranch Hat, a gift from my nephew, Brad, purchased at the Chinook Mall in Calgary.

• You know what you should do, states a fellow dressed in suit.  You should rent a big hall, play just like you’re playing, and charge admission.  You’d make a lot more money!

• You know about the effects the residential schools had on our people, states a fortyish fellow walking with two children.  Well, it wasn’t all bad … Some good, too, came out of those schools.  My uncle learned to play the fiddle and the guitar while in one of those schools.  You should hear him play!

•  A young man wearing a derby hat shows me a fifty dollar bill by holding it in both his hands up close to my face.  He then pretends to toss it into my guitar case. But he keeps the fifty in his fist and laughs.

 Goodnight, Mrs. Johnson, wherever you are!

             

MY CHAUCERIAN PARADE: AN ESSAY ON FACES, PHYSIQUES, AND PHATIC CHATS

 Each week I meet a callithump of characters while busking. Some of these characters spark interest enough for me to first etch them into my mind, then later type them into my blog, to march in my Chaucerian Parade so to speak.  As I’m sitting with my laptop determining which of these passers-by to be worthy of publication, I’m also pondering the sidewalk laws of attraction that makes them so indelible.  As a buskologist, I’ve come to comprehend the criteria for which I choose to march certain characters in print across my page.  Those chosen have piqued my interest by their face, physique, or phatic chat.

Face:

Peoples’ faces represent their first line of communication. Besides those symmetrical visages of Hollywood cover girls and chiseled Marlboro men, funny and strange faces that are chubby, patchy, and pimpled, too, are notable.  Talking to consumers I notice whether they have a countenance that is square, oval, triangular, or stoned. When I’m talking to folks I am actually with faces that are fronting big heads, little heads, empty heads, and talking heads.

Physique:

Physique refers to the degree to which a person’s physical traits are regarded as aesthetically pleasing or not.  Men, generally, are attracted to women who have a youthful appearance, and exhibit a symmetrical face, full breasts, full lips, and a low waist-hip ratio. And women, generally, are attracted to men who have broad shoulders, narrow waists, and v-shaped torsos.  However, to march in my Chaucerian Parade, none of these attractive descriptors are necessary.  Besides, most women and men do not possess such porn presenting bods. Most people are not pretty, or dainty, or delicate, or brawny, strapping, or handsome.  More people are gawky, or homely, scrawny or rotund.

Phatic Chat:

Phatic chat is the rather insincere small talk that simply impresses or not, a deeper sense of sociability.  How’s it goin’, Have a good day, Nice weather, are just three examples.  There are consumers who want to express further their day-to-day themes of discontent, presenting discourse on politics, religion, and their personal state of affairs.  Such consumers, especially, make discursive fodder for my blog.

This week in my Chaucerian Parade:

• Gus, the 88 year old returns to chat.  How was your birthday? I ask.  Do you feel any older? Actually, it wasn’t really my birthday, he confesses.  My birthday was in March.  (I am wondering why Gus would fib about his birthday!)

• And Hank’s Potatoes, too, returns for a chat.  His is sipping a Big Gulp.  I’ve seven bags left to sell, he says, I'll just open the back gate and they'll sell like hot cakes!

• There is a little boy and girl who keep peeking out the glass door while I play.  They look to be eight and five, respectively.  Do you have a home? asks the little boy.  Moments later he asks, Do you have a family?  

• Leo, the mad hatter stops for a chat. Leo shops at Value Village only to buy cowboy hats. Fourteen dollars is the most I ever paid, he states.  Come summer at Native Days I sell them at my reserve for around a hundred bucks apiece. 

• I'm clean now, says Christie the pan-handler, and I've got a good man!

• You should be playing at the Fainting Goat, states a sixty something guy in a suit and Yankees baseball cap. 

• You should be playing at the Fainting Goat for sure, states his female companion as she slips a fin into my shirt pocket whilst the Yankee has his back turned.

• You know what the best thing about busking is, states a beer breath fellow who claims to be a busker from Ontario.  Watchin' the babes! he responds to his own question. 

I must confess, that most of my consumers are quite unlike my self.  Most consumers are unpretentious; they come as they are, forthright in their grace or their grossness, exposing their wisdom or their folly for the world to read.  I remind the reader that my stand-and-deliver performance is all pretend, not the guitar-slinging cowboy my consumers think me to be.

Some factoids on a social theory of human attraction: There are times our conscious selves are drawn to those people having the positive qualities we yearn for, and there are times that our unconscious selves are drawn to those people having the qualities that will wound us. Given this, still it is uncommon and exceptional for any of us to be lustily attracted to someone we deem physically unappealing.

From a buskologist perspective, there is but one factoid of human attraction  ...
All the world’s a consumer parade, of which its marching members unwittingly display their chevrons of face, physique, and phatic chat. 

MIGHT IS RIGHT: AN ESSAY ON TOUGH GUYS

The first tough guy I ever met was Rodney Wedge.  When I was six years old Rodney Wedge wrestled me to the ground, straddled me face up, and spit in my face.  Nobody I knew liked Rodney.

Over the years, of course, I met more tough guys, and looking back, three especially come to mind: Reg, Larry, and Johnny.  All three of these guys were hockey players with the Vanguard Eagles of the NHL (Notekeu Hockey League) and unlike Rodney, everybody I knew loved them.

Reg was a debonair Adonis.  Being Superman tough, Reg was always clean cut and extremely charismatic.  He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and didn’t swear, but he did run two miles to the bridge south of town and back each and every day until he finally landed a right wing spot with the Swift Current Broncos of the Western Hockey League -- the same league that Don Cherry has referred to as the toughest in junior hockey! (Reg returned to the Vanguard Eagles when his junior hockey career came to a close.)  

If Reg was Superman tough, then Larry was Batman tough. Larry liked to party and, strangely, liked to fight. No one who knew Larry would dare take him on in a punch-out. As a pugilist, Larry had class, as he had established a bright-line between who he would and would not fight. He never once fought any of his friends, nor anyone from our town, for that matter.  Larry’s prey was mainly strangers who drove into our town, to party hard and flirt with our girls. In the rink, Larry was the Vanguard Eagles’ Paladin, controlling the game with his phenomenal goal scoring ability. Larry never had to run to the bridge and back to create a spot for himself in junior hockey, for in any game at any rink, all scouts recognized him as an uber-player.  At fifteen years of age, Larry was assigned third line left winger for the Regina Pats of the Western Hockey League.  (When Larry finished his junior hockey, he returned to the NHL (Notekeu Hockey League) and coached the Simmie Senators.

Johnny, unlike Reg and Larry, was Joker tough.  Jocund when sober, and not to besmirch the straw- thatched Johnny too much, after a few beers he would transmogrify into a narcissistic braggadocio. Drinking with Johnny was always risking an ambuscade of fisticuffs. You just never knew when he’d turn on you.  Johnny’s hockey zenith both began and ended on left defense with the Vanguard Eagles.

One of my first tough guy moments came while drinking with Johnny.  One time in my emerging adulthood, the two of us, Johnny and self, were drinking beer in Johnny’s truck.  Getting drunker, Johnny got nasty, so much so that he called on me to take it (the fight) outside, and I complied.  We stood facing each other with our fists up.  Johnny took the first punch, a swing and a miss.  I ducked and returned with my fist to his jaw.  Thrice more he tried, resulting in three jabs to his jaw.  To my surprise, when Johnny tuckered he extended his arm for a handshake.  We shook hands and climbed back into his Fargo for some more beers.  Sad for me to say there were no witnesses to my victory, but so what. I am the hero in my story because I have the power and bravado to write whatever I want.

Since then I’ve made feeble and narcissistic attempts to continue my imaginal tough guy status -- in the cool style of Steve McQueen no less.  I’ve been a student of Karate and Mu-ay Thai.  I’m a long-distant runner and I love lifting weights (Olympic style) on a regular basis.  Alas, I've not fought since my salad days at university, during which I even spent a night in jail because of a barfly night of fighting.  Fact is, now I never fight, and never would unless it was truly a matter of life or death.  And even if that were the scenario, I'm pretty sure that I could outrun any bully about to clobber me.

The idea of might-is -right has been prevalent since our societal ways of hunting and gathering.  There is a rather boorish phase in our archetypal development when each of us believes in the power of might-is-right. Some of us move through this phase; some of us do not.  Assigning this imaginary power into a proper perspective demands a certain maturity.  Clinging to might-is-right is immature and idiotic.

Even so, might-is-right continues to be a significant bully-pulpit of our times. The benighted notion of might-is-right is in practice everywhere on the planet, the Far East, the Middle East, and yes, the West. I've witnessed bully behaviors in workplaces, at recreational facilities, and in peoples' homes. Fortunately, among the enlightened, powers opposite the might-is-right attitude are enacted. The majority of people, being gregarious and community minded, really do want to get along with one another. Most of us employ the power of retreat, the power of speech, the power of turning the other cheek; though expressing such positive powers can be oftentimes very, very tough.

While busking today I had the opportunity to meet two real tough guys, August and Hank, both of whom being octogenarians, and both marching in my Chaucerian Parade at Value Village.

August (Call me Gus) was out and about celebrating his 88th birthday today.  He was shopping at Value Village and stopped to chat. I play guitar, he said, but I've never played a twelve-string.  Is it hard to play?
In a rare moment of generosity, I handed Gus the reins. Fifteen minutes later when his friends arrived to take him for a beer, I finally got my guitar back!  Happy birthday, Gus!

Eighty year old Hank was delivering potatoes. Hank said that he and his friends, one of them a busker, gather at his house once a week, to jam and drink whiskey. Today he was delivering potatoes to over a dozen restaurants and this was his last stop. Hank handed me his Hank Potatoes business card.

Being a blogger, I am obviously of the putative belief that the pen is mightier than the sword.

Hey, Rodney Wedge, I am no longer the victim and I just want you to know that ...

Ya, I write dirty, whaddya gonna do about it!

       

RIDE ME HIGH: AN ESSAY ON MY BUSKER MANIFESTO AND MY NEW MHT 3X BEAVER BLEND

University exams are over.  I’ve completed my marking.  I’m ready (again) to straddle the sward and sidewalk beneath the western sky, and write.

However, I must admit there are days I would just love to roll out of bed and present my scruffy unkempt self for the entire world to see.  There are days I would just love to snarl back at those passers-by who snarl at me.  There are days I would just love to state, uncensored and exactly, what is on my mind.  There are days I would love to present my Shadow.

The Shadow, according to Carl Jung, is the unknown dark side of our personality.  The theory of the Shadow is a metaphorical means of conveying a prominent role played by our unconscious. Too bad (sometimes) that expressing the dark side of our personality while busking is not a way to make coin, nor is it ever a positive way to serve ourselves (and others), as we suffer through our existence.

Especially whilst on a busk, we really need to be on the bright side of our personality.  For example, busking in my cowboy persona conveys a prominent and positive role because of my conscious design; meanwhile back at the ranch, my unconscious darker shadow is kept out of sight and mind in the corral.

Do you sometimes feel you are just running in place and not moving forward? Run down and exhausted? Frustrated from your regular sidewalk routine?  Do you sometimes decide that this whole romantic notion of being a busker is really meaningless, save for the money?  Me too!  And so to combat such negativity, I’ve decided to ride the high trail by creating a busker manifesto.

No, I’m not thinking of sorts like The Communist Manifesto (by Karl Marx), or the Bible and the Ten Commandments (by God).  I am thinking, simply, of a public declaration of busking policy, intention, opinion, and motive.  My manifesto shall consist of only three foci: Focus on Delivery, Focus on Quality, and Focus on the Sunny Side.

Focus on Delivery:

Busking, really, is all about artifice.  Present the busker you want to be.  If you want to be a folk singer, deliberately mess your hair, keep some whiskers.  Rather than button down, hang loose.  Wear white T’s and faded jeans.  Me and Bobby McGee and other dulcet tunes will fare better than the dreary Eve of Destruction types. 

Focus on Quality:

Practice, practice, practice makes perfect.  Present only your perfect songs.  Fewer quality songs will embigger your performance, compared to no matter how many songs in progress.  People recognize quality (Robert Pirsig).  Playing just a few songs that are well rehearsed, of which the tempos can be changed at random, of which you can look about and appreciate your consumers while thrumming, is far better and much cleaner than galumphing through a clunky and cluttered display of several songs clipped to a musical stand.

Focus on the Sunny Side:

When busking, we are, in a real sense, brigands of the buskerhood.  No, we’re not highwaymen; we are simply sidewalk minstrels, street light people, representing all those following our songsteps.  Generally, if we present happiness, our consumers will respond in kind.  Nobody likes grumpiness.  Grumpy people give nothing.

If I’ve the discipline to follow my three-foci qualitative manifesto, I know that my buskapades shall be quantitatively enhanced (clink, clinkety clink).

And now for my Chaucerian Parade of characters for this past week:

             
The ladies who work at Shoppers.  I love you.  I’ve established my presence to the point that I just have to tap on the window glass, to grab your attention and approving nods for me to busk.  And you brighten my day with your comments and chuckles when you visit me on your smoke breaks!

           
 Mick.  Noticing my sign in support of the Schizpophrenia Society, Mick told me his brother had schizophrenia and committed suicide at 23 years of age.  Mick donated five dollars to the cause. 

Anita and Jackie of the Schizophrenia Society of Saskatchewan, and Peter, their chief cook and bottle washer.  You’ve accomplished yet another fun and money successful (annual) Scavenger Hunt, of which I was honored to be the parking lot banjitar player.  You really do make a difference.

             
Mister middle-aged cowpoke.  He just grinned and tossed a ten dollar bill into my guitar case!  This was within a minute of my setting up – proof that my cowboy creds are convincing!

            
The silver-haired lady with the silver glasses who told me one of her childhood memories. This is her story:  I remember singing when I was little.  I would sit along near the top of the staircase in the evenings, while my mom served the men who were downstairs at the supper table – they had finished threshing for the day.  (I was much too shy to go down and join them.) ‘Get that girl to sing,’ one of the men would always say, and then I would sing a song or two from the stairs.  After my songs and when the men were gone, there would always be a coin at every plate.  After she told me this story, the silver lady tossed a couple toonies into my guitar case.

   
My new best friend, Tyler.  Tyler gave me a brand new MHT 3X BEAVER BLEND COWBOY HAT!  This hat certainly confirms my aforementioned cowboy credentials, and helps me suppress my Shadow self.

When your busking routine has become perfunctory, this is the time for growth, time for development.  Rather than let the daily grind of busking get you down, attempt to keep each busk joyful, a personal commitment to maintaining performance growth.  Doing so, will add energy and flow to your busking day – to your life, in fact.    And remember that presenting your unconscious dark-sided self is always easier than presenting your positive conscious self. Hard work beats talent not working hard – every time.

Back to the hat – my new MHT 3XS BEAVER BLEND.  My cowboy persona is now positively complete, and my notion to don such a studly Stetson is, do I daresay -- JUSTIFIED.

    

THE CHINESE MASON: AN ESSAY ON MS. FORTUNE COOKIES

It was warm and windless and not a cloud in the smalty sky. It seemed the perfect day for a busk. With manager Shawn’s permission, early Saturday afternoon my favorite bongocero, (Baron) and myself, set up at the glass entrance to Value Village. We decided upon an hour of musical variance, alternating tempos, sometimes led by the unique Baron beats, other times led by my thrums. The moods of our pieces varied from accelerando to allargando, from blue tones to boogie-woogies.

As a soi-distant buskologist, while on a busk I take special interest in each of my consumers, and feel compelled to describe some of the more interesting marchers-by in our weekly Chaucerian Parade:

Tattoo Brian and zaftig, Chris: Tattoo Brian rode his skate board, while Chris trotted alongside. Brian had his cap on sideways, continually flexed his biceps wearing a muscle shirt, baggy jeans, and skate shoes. Zaftig Chris was quite scantily clad, wearing a very revealing halter top (I didn't notice the color) and short, short, tight, tight cut-off jeans, and green crocs.

We’re looking for a preacher to marry us. Do you know one? Brian asked.

The security officer: One week ago this same pale and chain-smoking, lanky security officer attempted to move me to no avail (I had permission) from another buskspot. Today he was off duty, but still in his Metro gray and grungy uniform. He smiled at us.

Hello again, he said.

The wasted loud-mouth lady: An unkempt wobbling lady almost hit us while riding her bicycle.

Watch my bike, please, she said as she leaned it against the glass! On her return she yelled, Where’s my bike! You were supposed to watch my f#%*ing bike!

Right where you left it, ma’am, I replied as I pointed, with my guitar, to where her bicycle was still leaning against the glass.

The Chinese Mason: A tall Chinese with a certain duende, wearing a beige-vanilla three piece suit stopped to chat. I couldn't help but notice his navy blue, gold trim Masonic tie tack, the square, compass, and letter G. (I thought at first it to be a brummagem; now I know better!)

I very much like your music, he said while extending his arm for a hand-shake. I have no money on me but I do have some gift coupons for my restaurant. Is four enough? he asked as he tossed them into my guitar case.

That same Saturday evening Baron and I decided to treat our ever supportive friends, Brad and Hollis, for some Chinese take-out. We, of course, would use the coupons given by the Chinese Mason.

Seated in the outdoor garden patio of Ms. Fortune’s Flowers of China, we dined on Jill Yim Ha, Gee Gee Gai, Ma Po Bean Cake, and Squid. (All agreed our small banquet to be exotically delicious!)

But then came the Fortune Cookies, brought directly to our table by the Chinese Mason. He introduced himself as Mr. Chang!

I have a fortune cookie for each of you, he said as he passed one to each of us in turn. Our cookies represent the four famous flowers of China. Sometimes these are called “the flowers of the four seasons”, he explained. Each of the cookies was wrapped in a motif representing each of the flowers.

The Orchid, the symbol of Spring, he presented to Baron. The Lotus, symbol of Summer, he presented to Hollis. To Brad he presented the Chrysanthemum, the symbol of Autumn, and the symbol of Winter, the Plum Blossom, he presented to me.

Thank-you so very much for dining at my restaurant. It was such a joy to have served you, said Mr. Chang. Enjoy your fortunes!

We each read our fortunes aloud in the same order Mr. Chang had given them. Baron’s Orchid Spring was first: Beware the girls in Bloom—They burst to seduce you.

Hollis read his Summer Lotus: Beware the blue dragonflies, yellow butterflies and bumble bees—They swirl in summer wine.

Then Brad read his Chrysanthemum Autumn: Beware the many colors in the breeze--The hunter seeks its prey.

And last, I read my Plum Blossom Winter: Beware those clad in fake fur—They come to chill the night.

To close, fellow buskers, keep in mind that:

Each of us inherits a culture, with all its written and unwritten rules, and lives in a story written for a fortune cookie.

The Bildungsroman of Busking: An Argy-Bargy on Meritocracy

Dear readers,

Allow me some phatic confessions. Yesterday it was drizzmal; today it is snow. I am at my laptop thinking it is time for another argy-bargy on the art of busking.

I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, (not) a pirate, a poet, a pawn and (not) a king. I’ve been a painter, a packer, a pool cleaner, a prison guard, a pump jockey, and a professor – for all of which I’ve been paid. And now I’m a part-time busker. Other jobs, but not beginning with the letter P, for which I’ve been paid have included: swamper, surveyor, apprentice lineman, customer service representative, framer, swimming instructor, and one that is most memorable, working on the green chain. All of these occupations I have loved, and all have added joy to my life. You might say I am a textbook study in Psychology and in Literature when I profess that I am the sum, rather than the prisoner, of my occupational experiences.

My love of busking is but a continuation of my bildungsroman.

Rick Lewis (BREAK A RULE. Com) has stated that busking is the most honorable form of business because … the product and service is generously given to any passer-by, and the customer is free to give back exactly what has been received in value.

I like this. Lewis is one who knows that the art of busking requires a demanding skill base. Fellow buskers, this we know. To be successful buskers we must be proficient in marketing (some of us are strummers, some of us are statues, some of us don duck costumes); we must be proficient in branding (I’ve decided to be a cowboy as of late and my pun is intended); and we must be proficient in theatre (to dare act in public the way we do).

Fellow buskers, we also know that there are some passers-by who consider us beggars, rather than as professional street entertainers. I suppose the alterity of busking could be compared to some sense of beggarhood, but I doubt these particular sidewalk pedestrians give thought that, unlike beggars and cadges and panners, those of us who lack the skills don’t last. These potential consumers do not give thought that we can neither hide nor fake what we do. These pedestrians do not give thought that if we do not show up for work and provide our direct values to others, we do not get paid. I doubt that most of our passers-by are subject to these same tangibly built-in work ethics. I doubt that most of these passers-by are not even close to operating at the scrutiny and the meritocracy that we buskers present at each of our street corner and sidewalk buskingdoms. It is as simple as that.

As buskers we also provide a slew of cultural intangibles. I’m thinking the sunshine spontaneity of the vis-à-vis interactions among strangers, the laughter and the moments of respect that regularly occur between busker and consumer.

Factoid: 130 countries are represented by the readership of this blog. To date this includes four countries significant to the recent Arab Spring: Egypt, Bahrain, Libya, and Syria.

Coincidence?

Buskers, we are at once both culturally anachronistic and avant-garde. We will always represent the times of economic past, present, and future. Literally, we are Aesopian characters portraying a certain mercantile innocence, whilst secretly demonstrating the changing economical ethics of the planet!

GOLDEN RULES: An Essay on Behaviors in the Buskerhood

'Tis drizzmal again today and rather than weather the strum in the flesh, I shall present my martinet buskologist view of how we ought to be behave, whether we are or not, actually strumming in the rain.

For us to flourish as beings, some Golden Rules of behavior have been established: What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others (Confucianism, 500 B.C.), Regard your neighbor’s gain as your own gain and your neighbor’s loss as your own loss (Taoism, 4^th Century B.C.), Do unto others what you would have them do unto you (Christianity, 1^st Century), As you think of yourself, so think of others (Sikhism, 15^th Century).

For us to flourish as buskers, we must model and exhibit such positive behaviors. We must rule our buskingdoms with grace and wisdom! We must royally abide by these so golden inspired unofficial proclamations:

LAVE AND BE LICIT.

I’ve been thrumming on the streets long enough to know that being an ambassador for the buskerhood means being clean and licit. Check out the local bylaws. If an official paper permit or pin is necessary to strum on the sidewalk, then get it. Permits usually cost around 10 dollars a season, and can always be obtained through city hall. Also, with permit or not, be sure to seek permission/blessing from the vendors within the closest proximity of your chose busk spot. That vendor is to be your neighbor, not your adversary. Last, steer clear of buskers that are dirty and disorderly. I am not dissing other buskers when I state that on every one of my buskingdoms, I’ve been witness to others professing to be buskers who are really cadges and dregs and drunken scoundrels. Not in any regard is there ever a need to be bracketed among them.

RESPECT SPACE.

Keep a respectful distance from other buskers on the same street. A good rule of thrum is to have no more than two buskers on any particular block. A glut of buskers on a block is madedoine of musical misery for both pedestrians and merchants. Also be respectful of the space directly in the pedestrian flow of traffic. Be conspicuous only by tune or by costume, not by being a roadblock. One ought to be respectful of audible space, too. Avoid amplification – Always go unplugged. Both your pedestrian consumers and your friendly vendorhood will appreciate this.

BE APPRECIATIVE.

No matter the size or type of donation, make sure your consumer knows that you are grateful. Most of the times, it is money, gift certificates, coupons. Sometimes it is only chit-chat and smiles. Whatever treasures your consumers offer, realize them to be gifts, and cherish each of those joyful moments accordingly.

Fellow buskers, by nature we are not members of any formal caucus. We do, however, display distinctly caucus-like chevrons with our guitars, our harpoons, our fiddles, and our banjitars. Whenever we are on a busk, we are always representative of the bigger entity, our buskerhood, and each of us is an ambassador for the goodwill and preservation of that buskerhood.