ANATOMY OF A BUSKER: CAP-A-PIE BODY PARTS

BARON BUSKING AT THE RIDER GAME

Flaunting my busking alterity when solitarily street performing, I actual make a buck or two for what I do.  I am not a brutto-tempo busker -- I am a faux busker.  Only when my world is windless and when the sun is shining and the air is summery am I a busker.  And the physical features I convey whilst I thrum on my 12-string, drone on my didge, or draw portraits are always the same.

Never do I don a cap or any other form of headgear.  I’ve a shock of steel-grey hair and so the sun on my noggin is not an issue.  Factoids:  By design my hair is always messy.  My fashioned look is in line with my notion of the quintessential Bobby Dylan busker.  For more bean information I should also write that I wear black sunglasses, and usually sport a five o’clock shadow.  I love this look and believe that I exhibit and connote emprise, adventure, discovery, and romance for my consumers and other passers-by.

Over my upper torso I always don a white tight T-shirt, and I shall explain why.  I am ruggedly handsome and reside within a ripped body of just nine percent body-fat.  I guess it is rather needless to say that in my busker alterity I am vain and narcissistic.  (These very well could be my principal traits in my auxiliary counselor life, but any breath I take beyond busking such idiosyncrasies certainly are not as apparent.)  I love the testosteronic display of bulging biceps when I slap my guitar strings (I’ve not slapped any leather to date).  I’ve no tattoos -- I’ve ringless fingers and callused fingertips. Furthermore to brag, I do not have a pot for a belly.  This, dear reader, is the skinny why white T’s are my standard upper stock.

Worn and faded Levi blue jeans are my standard lower body stock.  Since the 1800’s Levis have epitomized the American West.  Supporting my rodeo look, looped around my 31 inch waste I cinch a wide leather belt complete with a shiny cowboy buckle to accessorize my buskaroo persona.  Factoid:  I’ve over a thousand busks under my belt and have yet to shoot someone in the back! 

Continuing my deceit and conceit, I have a delusional fancy as being a hatless and horseless cowboy.  I have real roots in Clay County Missouri, and I was shot off a horse while galloping over a bridge on Notekeu Creek.  And so far, this cowpoke misapprehension has served me very well.  (Read more of my cowboy credentials in the margin of this blog.) 

I am a real cowboy just as I am a real busker – I’m not!  

My cap-a-pie base is always size 12, steel-toe, black or brown, high leather work boots.  When busking, rather than pound leather, I pound pavement.  If wishes were horses all beggars would ride, but the side benefit of busking is the walking.  Walking keeps me willowy.  Factoid:  I used to bedeck cowboys boots but it was always a painful experience.  Work boots have become my signature foundation when walking tall in both my cowboy and counselor lives.

To close, Pilgrim, here are my sidekicks riding in this week’s CHAUCERIAN PARADE:

MY NEW COLLEAGUE, JORDAN

MY NEIGHBOR, MOHAMED

CHARLIE AND HIS DOG SHARING MY BUSKSPOT!

JOSEPH AND HIS RAT SHARING MY BUSKSPOT!

THE CHILD FAMILY PORTRAIT:  L-R SELF, NATIKA, EDEN, BARON, CAROL, TRAVERS